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Chapter Text

Dol Amroth
Spring 3009 

The first vision came when Lothíriel was only a child. She walked through the corridors of her home to join her older brothers for a ride along the beach. The air outside had only just begun to warm, evidence that spring was upon the southern land of Dol Amroth. Salt wafted along the breeze through the open windows. Then, as if she had suddenly been struck, she fell to the ground. She never felt the impact of the fall nor heard the sounds of alarm from the guards who were stationed in that very corridor. Her eyes clouded over and she saw the future.

She knew immediately that she was no longer in her own body. Everything felt foreign - from the leaves on the ground to the distance she stood from the ground. Yet somehow, she knew she was in the body of a man, though how she knew was beyond her. Perhaps it was his large, calloused hands. Perhaps it was the way he moved, so like how she’d seen her father and brothers move when they trained with the soldiers. Perhaps it was pure instinct.

She saw everything through his eyes. As she adjusted to being inside this man, she realized he felt oddly familiar, as if she had met him before, but like a word on the tip of her tongue, his identity escaped her. He was standing in a forest, sword drawn, cutting down every foe in his path. As she focused on his adversaries, she saw they were orcs, though they seemed to be taller and stronger than the ones she’d seen pictures of in Erchirion’s books. Behind him were two small beings, protected only by the skill and ferocity of his sword - children, she thought.

With a proficiency that she had only ever seen in her eldest brother, the man moved through his enemies as easily as steel cuts through water. He continued on his path until a single arrow pierced his chest.

She felt the impact and was entirely helpless as the orc drew his bow again and shot once more. She heard the two children behind him scream, though their shrieks were unintelligible through the pain. After a final arrow, she returned to her own body, shaking, screaming, crying from the pain of each arrow. She looked down and saw nothing. There were no arrows, no blood on her dress. Tears poured down her face as she heard one of the guards trying to calm her gently as she had to fight herself from shoving them away and backing against the wall for safety.

“Lothíriel!” Her father called from the end of the hall, rushing towards her. Her three brothers were not far behind and they expressed similar noises of alarm. Her father, Prince Imrahil, knelt and studied her face as he carefully pulled her into his arms after seeing she had not been hurt. “What happened?”

She blinked her eyes to dry the tears. The pain she had experienced was disappearing quickly, though the memory of it still lingered. She shook her head, “I-I don’t know. They shot…shot so many a-arrows and he died.” She couldn’t fight the trembling in her voice or body.

“Who died?” Elphir, her oldest brother questioned. He looked out the window with his raptor-like gaze. “No one here is injured.”

“I-it didn’t happen here. I don’t…don’t know who it was. He felt like someone I knew though.” She hardly noticed the suspicious whispering that she was either insane or had hit her head too hard from some of the maids who were drawn to the commotion. “He-he was protecting children.” Her teeth were beginning to chatter. “They were screaming.” She shut her eyes, but her mind wouldn’t expel the images or sounds.

Her father looked to her second oldest brother, Erchirion, for an answer. “Have you ever found anything like this in your reading?”

Erchirion shook his head solemnly. “No, but I will begin to search for an answer.” Lothíriel couldn’t miss the worry in her brother’s expression as he turned on his heel and headed for the library. As it was his favorite place in the entire palace, there was little doubt that if anyone could find information about what was happening, it was him. 

“Amrothos,” her father’s voice commanded silence as he directed his youngest son. “Go fetch Master Hëmond from the House of Healing. I will have him inspect your sister.” He waited for Amrothos to nod before turning back to Lothíriel and scooping her up in his arms.

He walked back to her chamber at a smooth, measured pace, offering the occasional soothing word. When he arrived at the door, it was opened at his knock by Lothíriel’s maid, Kilfreth. The woman looked so taken aback to see her in her father’s arms she forgot to curtsy to her prince, but instead rushed to the other side of the room and filled a silver basin with water.

Just as Lothíriel was settled on the bed and a cool cloth was pressed against her cheeks, there was a sharp rap on the door. Kilfreth went to answer it. Both Amrothos and Master Hëmond, head healer of Dol Amroth, stepped into the room. Hanging across his chest was the familiar satchel that he never seemed to forget. It contained things that would be necessary if there was ever an emergency. Instruments and herbs meant for healing the sick, elderly and injured. Lothíriel didn’t feel at all sick or injured - at least not anymore - but her teeth still chattered and her breath was ragged. Hëmond came towards her bed and knelt, studying her face with care, considering her red-rimmed eyes.

“I want you to tell me precisely what happened.” His voice was sharp and to the point, like the rest of him. Lothíriel quickly recounted each of the details she could remember and finally concluded with how the pain had disappeared entirely though she could clearly remember it all as if it had happened to her.

The healer nodded as he stroked his chin. “I believe that this is a supernatural malady rather than that of the flesh. As I have known your daughter through all of her scrapes and bruises, I have found her to be an honest child and of sound mind.” He turned his eyes away from Lothíriel and stood, turning to Prince Imrahil. “If my conclusion is correct, then I can only prescribe caution and relaxation.” He reached into his bag and drew out a vial of liquid. “This is an extract of lavender. Whenever she has an…umm,” he paused, “episode, give her a few drops in water. Besides that, it is out of my hands.” With that he bowed to Lothíriel and her father and left. Amrothos teetered between the doorway, unsure if he should stay or go before finally following Hëmond. Lothíriel watched the door close with a click and knew that everything would change from that moment on.

oOo

Dol Amroth
Summer 3009

Lothíriel looked down at her plate of food. So much had happened over the past few months. Now she couldn’t go anywhere without being accompanied by a pair of guards. They were there for mainly one purpose. To make sure she didn’t hurt herself when a vision came upon her.

She couldn’t look out onto the sea from her favorite spot on the cliffs, nor could she swim into the oceans for fear that she would have a vision and drown.

Once, she fell while walking down a rocky path and hit her head. Master Hëmond had treated the cut on the side of her temple without much effort, but although the healer was very skilled, it had left a tiny, white scar. Her father had pointed out that unless someone was really looking they wouldn’t see the scar. What made it so much worse was the feet she had always trusted in, no longer listened to her all the time. She was constantly on the lookout for places she could safely fall.

Then there were those outside her family. She remembered how she had been shunned by the children outside the palace when she had gone down only one day after her vision. Any children who had been outside were quickly ushered back to their homes, their mothers clearly wary of what Lothíriel’s gift would do to their children. She shouldn’t have been surprised. The common folk were suspicious of anyone who was different from them. And just as things were beginning to return to normal, she had a vision in the middle of the town square, on market day no less! 

She’d only had those two other visions, and although one of the visions had been good, the result on her physical body had been the same. She would faint and seize up like a person possessed.

She thought back on the visions. The first one had been a time when she experienced joy, though it had been very brief. She was again in the body of a man who again felt familiar, though he seemed younger than the one in her first vision.

He was in the House of Healing, but although they were similar to the ones in Dol Amroth, they were clearly not the same. There was much more stone everywhere. The air was cold but the sun brought in a pale-yellow light. In the courtyard herb garden, staring out of the windows, stood a woman with her back to him. She was in a white dss, as pale as a noon cloud, and her long, golden hair tumbled down her back with abandon, moving in the slight breeze. The man moved up to the golden-haired woman, and without looking at her, took her hand quietly. The love and affection she had felt from them was as real and tangible as the pain of those arrows. When she had returned to herself, she had thought of them several times, wishing every so often she could find love like that someday.

The second vision had been like something out of a nightmare. She heard, more than saw, a massive army on plains far below her, and in the distance she could hear a shrill cry from a creature as it flew over that army. Huge pieces of rock hurtled towards where Lothíriel stood and she began to run only to come out of the vision just as one of those rocks came straight for her. Even thinking back on it, the fear of death coming for her in that way, intruded every sense, long after she awoke, screaming and saw the people in the market staring and whispering. 

After a few more weeks, another vision came. She sat at the high table with her father, brothers and Lady Meira, the woman he was wooing. Lothíriel could tell from their meeting that they were meant for each other. She was the only one who could persuade Elphir to take time away from the training fields. And his expression would always soften when she passed by him, the familiar scent of lilac following her.

Just as her brother announced their betrothal, Lothíriel fell into another one of her visions, dragging a bowl of soup and several hard biscuits along with her to the floor.

In the vision, she felt painful pressure in her stomach and between her legs. As the rest of the vision came into focus, she realized Elphir was beside her and she was surrounded by several women as well as Master Hëmond who was settled between her bare feet.

“One more push, my lady. You’re nearly there.” Hëmond ordered. Lothíriel didn’t know if she or simply the body she was within followed the command, but she felt a scream tear through her. That scream harmonized with another, coming from where Hëmond was sitting.

He stood while one of the women joined him, bringing a bowl of water and linens with her.

“You have a son, my lord Elphir.”

Hearing this, Elphir left the woman’s side. He had been sitting in front of a mirror and as Lothíriel looked over, she saw who the woman was. It was Meira. Elphir returned to Meira’s side soon enough and kissed his wife’s head fondly and deposited the babe in her arms before straightening and speaking to all in the room.

“I present Alphros, Prince and Heir of Dol Amroth!” Lothíriel felt Meira’s pride running through her chest as the room was heralded with joy and congratulations. The baby howled for several moments and just as the vision faded, he began to settle, sensing the familiar scent and touch of his mother.

She returned to herself and found the whole of her family hovering over her. She was no longer in the dining hall, but instead was situated in a small alcove down one of the corridors. The entire front of her dress was soaked and stained - those stains were on her father’s tunic as well, evidence that he had been the one to carry her away from prying eyes.

When she gathered herself enough to tell them of her latest vision, her brother and Meira looked at each other with great fondness. She was very happy for them both and congratulated them even though she knew from how Meia looked now it would be many years in the future.

Lothíriel was pleased that two of her visions had been strange and wonderful, and each with someone she knew, or at least felt she had known at some point in time. Looking down at her ruined dress, she figured it would be better to let her family enjoy the rest of the banquet without her. Just as she stood up to leave, the door swung open. The sudden noise caused Elphir and Imrahil to turn on their heel, their hands already reaching for their swords only to stop when they noticed who it was. Lothíriel peeked out from behind their figures only to see Erchirion carrying various scrolls in his arms. As he arrived before them, he moved a large jug off a nearby console table before depositing the scrolls onto it.

“I’ve found it!” His voice was clear, and he wore a bright smile on his face. He came over to Lothíriel’s side before giving her a quick kiss on the top of her head and turning back to the table. “I was looking in all the wrong places. I searched throughout Father’s line to see if there was any record of someone else having visions as Lothíriel had, but I never ever thought until last night to look into Mother’s line!” He was nearly shouting, and the noise from the banquet hall past the open door was silent, no doubt everyone there was paying rapt attention. 

He pointed to one of the records that their mother had brought with her when she married Prince Imrahil. “This is it! Lady Wilwara, of whom it is known, was granted visions of the future by Iluvatar.” He rolled up that scroll and unrolled another. “And here is an excerpt from the epic poem of the elven lady, Leifónal, who had the same gift during the first age.

Leifónal was fair in both mind and body,
Her eyes saw many things.
Iluvatar visited with her through visions of the future,
And through them, she saw the world’s fate.

“Don’t you see?” Erchirion pulled out several more scrolls that were a continuation of the epic poem beside others that told of Lady Wilwara’s sight. “It is something that is descended from the elves. In fact, in my studies, I have found that among the elven lords there is one named Lord Elrond Halfelven who dwells in Rivendell who also has the gift of foresight. Perhaps he knows something that can help our dear sister!”

Lothíriel no longer cared about her ruined dress or how the noise in the hall picked back up after Erchirion’s statement. She ran and hugged her brother. He returned the embrace and she felt the rest of her family join in. Finally they knew what had happened - at least in part. As the embrace loosened, she looked up at her father. Imrahil smiled at her when their eyes met.

“I will send word to Lord Elrond this very night,” he said quietly, giving them one final squeeze before departing. Lothíriel felt such a sense of relief that she didn’t notice one of the guards exiting the castle in haste.

Chapter Text

Dol Amroth
Autumn 3009

Imrahil stared down at the envelope with nearly scrawled letters spelling out his name. The other side was sealed in the bright silver symbol of Rivendell. While Imrahil had never met the elf, he did not doubt that flowing script befit the writer well. He had only sent his letter a few months before, and while he was grateful that Elrond had not tarried in responding to his message, he couldn’t dismiss the surprise at how quickly the letter had arrived.

Imladris,
August 20th, 3009

Prince Imrahil - 

I wish peace be upon you with the arrival of this letter. I must open with my tidings of surprise at the contents of your letter. I find that I am both curious and alarmed at the existence of this gift among those of your race. While it is somewhat common for my people to gain the Sight, it is unusual to say the least that one within the race of Men has indeed gained this ability and remained sane. I can only conclude that this is due to your daughter’s strength of will, mind and heart. 

That strength however, will do nothing but diminish the discomfort without at least some training to aid her. And while I doubt she will have to face such a harrowing sensation as she did in her first vision, I cannot be certain without some time to observe the princess. If she were to come to Imladris, I can promise that Princess Lothíriel’s abilities are certainly something that she could be taught to control with ease. Though, while I would not normally hesitate to come to you and teach her myself, I fear that with the growing shadow in the east, my place must remain steadfastly here.

I give you my word that if she were to come and live here among my people we would accept her into my house as one of my own, teaching her not only how to master her gifts, but in the ways of our own children. In the end, the decision lies with you. My last words to persuade you in this matter are these: I believe that if you bring her to Imladris, she will not only live in peace, but flourish under our tutelage. But as a father myself, I can only defer this matter to you.

I await your reply,
Lord Elrond Peredhel of Imladris

Imrahil let the letter lay open on his desk as he leaned back into his chair and stared at the ceiling. The familiar scene of the sons of Numenor steering their ships towards the Bay of Belfalas was painted overhead. He lost himself in his own thoughts as he had done years before when he ascended to the princedom of Dol Amroth. He hated the idea of sending his only daughter away. Even at her tender age, she so resembled his late wife and it made him dote on her without parallel.

From the open window beside his desk, he heard laughter. Standing, he approached the window and looked down to see all of his children together, walking along the white sands. Lothíriel and Amrothos played in the surf, reminding him of his own youth where he had been entirely carefree, unaware of the darkness the world could hold. Elphir and Erchirion watched from a fair distance away from the surf but he could tell from their stance, they were ready to launch forward and catch Lothíriel if she were to faint once again. He was proud of his sons, but he knew the days to come would not be made any easier if they approached them with worry for their sister’s every step.

Turning away, he reread the letter, thinking of the people in the lower city. Although he had publicly acknowledged Lothíriel’s gift as part of her birthright as a daughter of Numenor, worries still circulated as people wondered at what manner of magic it was. Rumors had no doubt made their way around the whole of Gondor.

The fact that he had yet to receive any word from his brother-in-law, Denethor, bothered him. The Steward was someone who put a great deal of stock in gossip and it was well known how much he hated when he or his family was ever spoken about in any but the best light. Perhaps with that in mind, it would be best to send Lothíriel north, away from any schemes or rumors that might hurt her and instead be welcomed among the elves.

He nodded to himself and returned to his seat as he pulled out paper to pen his response to Elrond. The elves would help Lothíriel master her gift and learn how to act as a lady befitting a descendent of Numenor and the elves themselves. He couldn’t help the hint of bitterness within himself that he had to part with his daughter under these circumstances, but he had no doubt that she would return in only a few years, properly educated enough to lay any misgivings from any in the Gondorian high courts to rest.

oOo

A stranger studied the young princess of Dol Amroth from the shadow of the trees. To his people she was not called a princess, but the Oracle. One whose gift was not meant to be squandered and allowed to freely come and go from palace walls without great need. All the more reason for his lord and king to have her gifts for himself. Even at her tender age, he could tell that she would grow into a beauty. That, along with her gift, would make her a treasure for his lord’s court, signifying his right to rule all the more over the various peoples of Harad.

His gaze flitted from her to her elder brothers who attended her, and then towards the two large guards following at a discreet distance. He sunk further into the shadows, wary of being spotted and alerting the group to his presence. The more his target was at ease, the more likely his success would be. He watched them for a long time, studying the way the guards moved. The way their eyes panned left to right and left again. Their body language was clearly at ease, certain that their very presence was enough to dissuade anyone from approaching unduly. They didn’t even bother to wear their full armor, instead settling for mere leather jerkins - no doubt deciding it was easier to exist in the head without the metal acting as an oven. He couldn’t help but scoff at the weakness of the northern men in comparison to those in Harad who could handle head many times worse than these mild summers.

Finally satisfied with his appraisal of the group, he left them behind, letting the moss covered ground hide his footsteps. While he was confident in his capabilities, he did not delude himself into thinking he could handle five trained warriors and manage to capture the Oracle who no doubt would hasten back to her palace and send out search parties to have him caught, captured, and ultimately killed.

Upon arriving at his hidden campsite, he pulled out some bread and gnawed on it while he rested against a tree. He would bide his time and rest for a while. He needed to be ready and alert when the time came to enact his plan and sleepy warriors tended to end up with a sword in their gut.

oOo

Lothíriel, dressed for supper after her day on the beach, stared out at the horizon. As always, the way that the sea and sky met each other in a blaze of color was beautiful. This day had been one of the first in months that she had begun to feel normal again as she’d played with Amrothos, indulging her in the cool waves under the head of the summer sun. Kilfreth stood behind her, binding her hair carefully. Her father had summoned the family to attend their meal in his private dining chamber - a rare occurrence usually set aside for birthdays, private counseling sessions - though she’d never been invited to one of those before - or other special occasions. 

As Kilfreth stepped back, Lothíriel’s attention shifted from the sunset to the full-length mirror a few feet away. While some of her long, black hair had been pulled back in order to show off her stormy gray eyes, the sides had been left to hang in order to frame her face. The dress Kilfreth had picked out was silky and the color of a ripe peach. She had noted that the color was in style lately, though on several skin tones it looked dull and insipid, but it suited Lothíriel’s coloring well. 

Though Kilfreth nothing, instead she watched Lothíriel with an expression best described as a mix of pride and grief. She wondered, not for the first time, how much she actually resembled her mother. Kilfreth had served as her mother’s maid and in many ways had acted as a surrogate mother.

Years before, she had begged Kilfreth to tell her about her mother after her father had fallen into a depression around Lothíriel’s fifth birthday, marking another anniversary of her mother’s death. The night felt as though it was without end as Kilfreth shared story after story of the woman who had not only captured the heart of the prince of Dol Amroth, but every person she came into contact with, noble or common. Careful not to ruin her outfit or hair, Lothíriel stepped into Kilfreth’s ready arms. 

“I don’t know what Father has planned for tonight,” her anxiety bubbling to the surface as she buried her face against Kilfreth’s round stomach. “The fact that his invitation is unrelated to any holidays or the like makes me more uncertain…”

“Whatever the occasion, you look ready to receive a king.” Kilfreth gave Lothíriel a light kiss on her cheek before opening the door to the hall. The corridor was the same one where she had first encountered the Sight. Shuddering as she always did leaving this room to traipse down that corridor, she hurried on her way, eager to avoid lingering there.

Minutes later she stood in front of the door to her father’s solar. As the heavy door opened, she noted that she was the last to arrive and the food had already been served, though her family was obviously waiting for her arrival to begin.  The various men in her family stood at her entrance while Elphir took it upon himself to pull out her chair for her. As she settled into her place at the table, her eyes panned over to her father, watching her silently. She paid little attention to the plate set in front of her as she noted the expressions her family members wore.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her earlier anxiety bubbling up as her voice cracked.

“My darling,” her father said slowly, “I have made a decision regarding you and your future. A letter arrived from Lord Elrond.” Lothíriel’s heartbeat grew quicker as she recognized the name. “He has invited you to stay with him in his home for a few years. He offered to personally teach you how to use your gift. I have accepted his invitation.”

“You’re sending me away?” Lothíriel’s fear shifted into hurt. She was being sent away from her home and family. “Of course you’re sending me away.” She stood, shoving the plate away from her and backing away. “I’m not normal. I bring shame to the Dol Amroth line because of this gift . I can’t make people stop talking about me and it’s hurting your reputation as a prince.”

“Lothíriel, that’s not-” Imrahil reached out to take Lothíriel’s hand, but like the plate, she shoved it away from her and rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

She ran without thought. With each servant, guard, or advisor she passed, she couldn’t look at them in the face. Their expressions were always pity, disdain, or shame. Those thoughts spurred her onwards until everyone had been left behind. She’d made it all the way to the edge of the small forest off the coastline before she stopped, falling to her knees as the tears escaped. She could hear her ever present guards trailing her, though they must have sensed her mood as neither of them attempted to approach her.

She laid on her side, the last rays of sunlight where the ocean met the sky were blurry through her teary eyes. As she closed them, listening to the ever present waves crash against the shore, another vision overcame her senses.

She was once again within a man. Looking down she saw he was on a dapple-gray stallion and the area looked nothing like any part of Gondor she’d seen before. The lands around them were empty plains with nothing but a village of tents. Orcs and men were all around him as he swung his sword with a deft grace, and though it wasn’t wholly-evident in his demeanor, she felt such intense anger burning within him building as he encountered orc after orc. His ever-present desire to turn every orc into carnage as payment for the suffering they had caused in their lives pushed him forward, feeding his strength.

He grunted as he was stabbed in the leg, but his mind was too far gone in the battle fury to heed the pain. He only turned and in a swift, efficient motion, beheaded the creature. It fell, and the rider removed the knife from his calf, throwing it until it lodged in the throat of another orc running towards him with a wicked looking sword raised above its head. 

Minutes passed as the battle raged on until peace finally reigned once each orc lay dead. Various men threw the dead bodies of the orcs into a heap, while others collected their own badly injured and fallen - fewer in number than Lothíriel would have expected after the viciousness of the orcs they faced. The man called out in a language she didn’t understand, various soldiers turning away from their task to listen. The man removed his helmet. Lothíriel studied the details creating patterns of horses and a long white horsetail coming from the top.

The pain in Lothíriel’s leg faded. She felt frustration build inside her that she’d had yet another vision and again none of it made any sense to her. The frustration dimmed as she realized she was no longer lying on the grassy hill just outside the forest, but was instead in it. 

She was laying on her back and as she tried to move her hands, she found them and her ankles tightly bound. She was laying on a gnarled tree root, and as she shifted, she saw a shadow in front of her move. As she opened her mouth to scream, the shadow materialized into a man who put his hand over her mouth, muffling off the shrill sound.

“Good evening, Oracle. I’m glad to see you’ve finally awoken. Please don’t shout. I would hate to have to gag you and risk damaging your face. Not to mention that if anyone were to come and I killed them, it would be your fault. I’m certain you wouldn’t want more blood on your hands.”

Lothíriel felt sick as she stilled. After a moment, the man slowly removed his hand before pulling out a torch. As he lit it, she saw the man more clearly. His roughspun tunic was red and a tattoo of a snake winding itself around his arm peeked through the bottom of his shortened sleeve.

“What do you mean, more blood?” She couldn’t stop herself from asking. Her voice was rough and quiet. The man’s expression was triumphant as he gave her a wide grin, so similar to the snake on his arm.

“You have the deaths of your two guards. They never would have died if you hadn’t been run outside of the palace as if you were some peasant child no one would ever seek to take for themselves.” He took out a small curved knife and began to pick his fingernails with the tip. “I’m going to tell you this only once, so you had best listen well. You will behave yourself on the way to my master or else I will make sure you watch as I end someone else’s life. I’m sure a lady such as yourself wouldn’t want to see that. Am I understood?” Lothíriel’s eyes burned as she forced herself not to cry as she nodded.

He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Though it was nearly pitch black, the man weaved through the forest with ease. Lothíriel’s head began to pound after only a minute as the blood seemed to rush to her head. With nothing else to do, she couldn’t help but think of her guards who had always been so respectful of her space, only close enough to intervene if necessary. Had they been left to die painfully, or had it been quick? She knew from her visions how much it hurt to be stabbed or shot. Why wasn’t she able to save them? What good was having the ability to see into the future if she couldn’t even warn them? After what must have been an hour, she couldn’t keep her tears at bay.

In the distance, Lothíriel spotted several lights, and not long after spotting them, the sounds of several hounds echoed from behind them. Her captor cursed quietly and began to run through the forest. The seconds dragged on as the hounds came ever closer until one of them reached the two of them. She watched as Huan, her father’s favorite dog, was a mere ten feet from them just before she was thrown away into a bramble. She cried out as the thorns cut into her skin, though it was cut short as the pounding of dozens of hoofbeats resonated in the earth as the company drew near her.

“My lord, the princess!” someone called out as three more hounds approached her, sniffing and licking her exposed skin. Several horses circled around her, the light of the moon bright enough for Lothíriel to recognize the faces of several swan knights, Commander Gallíon, and her father.

“Lothig!” Imrahil said, dismounting swiftly before pulling her gently upright, using his dagger to cut away her binds. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, all her words lodged in her throat. Deeper in the forest, a yelp sounded. Gallíon gave sharp commands to four of the knights in their party before they bolted off towards the sound. Her father placed Lothíriel on top of his mount before pulling up behind her and securing her in the seat with an arm.

“I will make my return to the palace,” he said to Gallíon. “Inform me the moment you discover who was responsible for this.” Imrahil didn’t wait for Gallíon’s nod before leading his horse out of the forest. With the moon overhead, Lothíriel watched the sea and the shock began to fade. She shook, and her teeth began to chatter as though the night was as cold as winter and nothing could warm her. If she had taken anything from the supper table hours earlier, she didn’t doubt she would have emptied her stomach of its contents, but as it was, she was reduced to dry heaving. 

Her father was silent as they made their way home. His face, normally so expressive and easy for her to read, was now stoney and somber. As she finally calmed herself enough to cease heaving, he handed her his handkerchief. She focused on the emblem of the swan of Dol Amroth stitched into each corner, rather than the people openly gawking at her as they rode through the city. By the time they passed through the castle gates, she had collected herself and was ready for the onslaught of questions.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, Erchirion rushed forward. “Are you alright? What happened?” Before she could answer, Elphir spoke.

“When you didn’t return after sunset, Father sent out some guards to retrieve you, but your guards had been killed, pierced with black arrows. We thought it might have been orcs?”

Imrahil knelt down next to Lothíriel, his hand pressed into her shoulder as he asked gently, “How were you captured?”

“I had another vision,” Lothíriel said flatly. “I don’t know anything else about how I was taken or how my guards were killed, but when I woke up there was only a man with a red tunic and a snake tattoo.” Her voice cracked and tears began to descend. “I couldn’t even run away, all because of this magic.” Her eyes fell to her wrists, the evidence of scratches and bruises beginning to form in the torchlight. Without another word, she buried her face in her father’s handkerchief, hiding her tears and shame.

“This situation has removed any doubts I already had about my decision,” her father said, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. “I am convinced it is for the best that you leave for Rivendell in all haste. Lord Elrond is the only person I know and would trust to take care of you as you learn to control this magic. Perhaps you will even find a way to stop it from happening altogether.”

Lothíriel wanted to protest, but as she finally lifted her gaze from the handkerchief, the words lodged in her throat. She couldn’t argue with her father anymore. If she hadn’t run off in the first place, her two guards would still be alive that night. The shame of her participation in their deaths settled on her like a cloak. Imrahil began to lead her away from the group as Erchirion reached out, grasping Imrahil’s arm, halting him.

“Do you think she should leave for Rivendell and stay there alone? Perhaps it would be best for one of us to go with and look after Lothíriel.” He paused as he looked at Lothíriel, giving her a soft smile. “Elphir cannot leave with her. He is your heir and commander of your navy. Amrothos cannot go as he is still training to be a warrior and would not be suited to help guide Lothíriel according to our customs. That leaves me. My service to you and our country can be done from far afield and it would ease my heart to know that Lothíriel is not the only one missing home from Rivendell.”

“Of course you would want to go,” Amrothos scoffed, giving Erchirion a playful shove. “Think of all the books the elves have.” For a few moments, silence hung in the air before Erchirion’s calm was stripped away as he began to protest.

“While I do acknowledge that the things the elves have to offer - among them are indeed books - that is not the only reason I have for offering my company for this lengthy…holiday.” His statement shifted the tension in the air to a more common conversation within the family as Elphir and Erchirion went back and forth over how he held books on such a lofty pedestal. In her peripheral vision, Lothíriel spotted Amrothos’ good-natured smile as he gave her a small wink.

oOo

Over the next few weeks, plans were made and letters sent to prepare for Lothíriel and Erchirion’s journey. They settled on traveling on horseback after receiving various reports of recent corsair activities. Erchirion produced atlases and showed her the route, pointing at the country marked as Rohan as the largest leg of their voyage. Imrahil selected thirty Swan-Knights to join them for the entire length of their stay in Rivendell, as well as send out a second messenger with gifts and a request to the rohirric king for permission to travel through his lands.

Kilfreth spent much of her time packing everything Lothíriel might need in the north. Seamstresses were commissioned to make warmer gowns for the northern winters, while her normal dresses were repurposed for cooler summers. Included in her packs was cloth of the same material of each gown to account for any growth she might have over the course of her journey as they could be easily added to the bottom as a new hem.

Lothíriel’s tutors added elvish etiquette and history into her curriculum. In what little time she had to herself, she let her mind wander to the last vision she’d had. There was something different about the person she’d experienced within that vision. The others had included people or places she could at least sense were familiar to her, but the man with the horsetail helm was a stranger.

Her mind turned over question after question. Why had she seen him? Did he have some part to play in her future? Did she have some part to play in his? Was she supposed to do something about these visions in the first place? As each question brought on a new variety of branching questions, she began to feel some relief that she was indeed traveling to Lord Elrond’s home where she would be able to learn about her magic and why it was happening to her specifically.

On the last night of the summer, she sat and stared out once more to the sea. She didn’t know when she would see it again and swore to commit the sight to memory. Behind her, Kilfreth finished brushing and braiding her hair.

“You should go to bed soon. Tomorrow will be an early day, and it wouldn’t do to face it with tired eyes.”

“Will you sit with me for a few more minutes Kilfreth?” She patted the cushioned window seat. The older woman did as asked and after a few moments, she pulled Lothíriel into her arms, cradling her just as she had when she’d been a toddler. With the sight, smell, and sound of the ocean outside her window, Lothíriel drifted off to sleep, listening to Kilfreth shift between singing, humming and telling her the old stories she’d always asked for on difficult nights.

Chapter Text

Dol Amroth
Autumn 3009

The morning of Lothíriel and Erchirion’s departure was a busy affair as a multitude of items along with their horses were loaded onto a vessel, all directed by Elphir. Imrahil had decided a week before their departure to have Elphir escort Lothíriel and Erchirion up the river Anduin before making a stop to see their uncle and cousins in Minas Tirith. Her father wished to know the truth from Elphir if the shadow growing in the east could be seen from the walls of the White City, as the rumors suggested. Those same rumors mentioned that that growing shadow had haunted Lothíriel’s aunt, Finduilas, to her dying day, leaving Denethor a widower and her cousins, Boromir and Faramir motherless like her own family.

The sun beat down on them as they finally mounted the ship and in minutes, the sail was out and they drifted away from her family and city. Lothíriel took a deep breath, tasting the salty air for the last time. Already she missed her home. On her left was Erchirion, his expression also holding a bit of sadness, however alongside it was clearly excitement. She couldn’t help but smile at him as she recognized his desire to explore and understand the world around him. She had no doubt that, if the world had been a safer place, he would have left Dol Amroth years ago to seek out books on all sorts of subjects, both rare and common alike. As his eyes met hers, his expression warmed with a smile.

“Just think,” he gestured to the north, “in a few short weeks, we will arrive in Rivendell and be in the company of elves. Think of the possibilities. Think of the books!” He laughed, running his fingers through his hair as he always did when excited by the prospect of a new research topic. Lothíriel turned at the sound of Elphir chuckling behind them. He was watching Erchirion, clear amusement on his face at his brother’s enthusiasm, before shifting his focus back to scanning both shores of the river for any potential threats to their party. Lothíriel approached him, and as she drew closer, he gently rested a hand on her head.

“What am I going to do with myself when I am not chasing your steps, little sister?”

Lothíriel blinked furiously to fight the tears that pricked her eyes. She was determined not to fall apart when her time with her eldest brother was waning away so quickly. Without a word, she hugged him tightly before pulling away. She felt drained, both physically and emotionally, and knew it would be best to rest while the sun was high, baking the deck. As she made her way to her cabin, she turned her gaze toward Minas Tirith. In just two or three days, she would leave the ship, only to begin a nearly two-month journey on horseback. Though she was a decent rider, she knew such a long journey would wear on her in one way or another. Taking a deep breath, she noticed the salty scent of the sea fading quickly and sighed as she stepped into the cool shade of the cabin.

oOo

Minas Tirith
Autumn 3009

The white walls loomed above her as they approached the city. Passing under the gates, Lothíriel - determined to look every bit the princess she was - had to focus on keeping her mouth shut despite her awe. The craftsmanship of the Princes of Númenor was evident in the stonework, each block fitting perfectly into the next, as if the walls were not a collection of stones but a seamless, impenetrable barrier. In the lower levels, people bustled about their business, while shops and stalls stood open, beckoning to potential customers. The rich smells of food filled Lothíriel’s nose, and her stomach gave a rogue rumble in response.

As they rode, people moved aside but didn’t bother to hide their curious stares at the city’s newest arrivals. Lothíriel felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she noticed children her age pointing and laughing, silently inviting her to join their games. For a moment, she was tempted to dismount and lose herself in their carefree fun, but Erchirion, sensing her thoughts, steered his horse beside hers, blocking her view of the children and guiding her onward through the next levels.

Lothíriel had only visited Minas Tirith once, six years ago, and barely remembered it. Everything had seemed brighter and more joyful back then. She recalled playing with her cousins and Amrothos in the palace gardens while her father and uncle discussed Gondor’s needs. Now, though the city still bustled with life, she could feel that some of its spirit had dimmed since those days.

Her bay gelding’s gait was smooth and steady. He had been a parting gift from her father as preparations for her departure were underway. Lothíriel had spent every spare moment with him, eventually settling on what she felt was a fitting name for such a proud creature—Hazelfal. As she shifted in her saddle, she was grateful that her aunt, Ivriniel, had argued for her right to ride astride on the journey to Rivendell. Her father had begun insisting that Lothíriel ride "properly," like a true lady of Gondor, before her aunt intervened. Lothíriel could only imagine how uncomfortable the journey would have been if she had been forced to ride side-saddle.

They continued deeper into the city, passing through one level after another. By the time they reached the sixth level, Lothíriel noticed the streets growing quieter, the number of people dwindling until the steady hum of conversation was replaced by the rhythmic clopping of their horses' hooves on the stone roads.

When they finally dismounted, Lothíriel declined to hand Hazelfal's reins to the stable boy, preferring to tend to her horse herself. She believed that a horse bonded best with the one who cared for it most, and in this quiet, lonely place, Lothíriel felt the need for a friend.

Once she had finished tending to Hazelfal, Lothíriel went up to her chamber, where a housemaid assisted her with a bath and dressed her for the evening meal with her uncle and cousins. Feeling refreshed and properly attired, she made her way down the stairs, already able to hear her extended family’s voices from the parlor. As she rounded the corner, she was greeted enthusiastically by Boromir and Faramir, who rushed forward, commenting on how much she had grown since they last saw her.

She beamed with pride when Boromir remarked that she looked every bit like her mother, as he kindly escorted her to the dining room. Before she could take her seat, however, she had to be formally presented to her uncle. Lord Denethor, ever solemn in appearance even at the best of times, regarded her with a calm but intense gaze. Lothíriel couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of what he might be like when displeased. After a moment of silent study, he gave her a measured nod of approval.

“Good evening, Princess of Dol Amroth.” Denethor greeted her, his voice was deeper than she remembered. The formal use of her title surprised her, but she quickly responded as her tutors had taught her. 

“My Lord Steward,” she curtsied deeply, eyes lowered to the floor until she felt his fingers gently lift her chin, guiding her face upward.

“Rise, daughter of Gondor,” he said with a smile, taking his seat in front of her, allowing their eyes to meet. “I have something for you, Lothíriel.” From within the folds of his robes, he produced a large silver circlet. The design was simple yet elegant, featuring a thin, twisted braid that met in the center to hold a white jewel in place. The metal dipped slightly where the jewel was set, so that when worn, it would rest directly in the middle of her forehead. The back remained open for adjustment. Lothíriel glanced away from the circlet and back to her uncle, who was watching her expectantly.

“It’s beautiful, Uncle,” Lothíriel said, momentarily forgetting her formal tone. “Why are you showing it to me?”

“It is for you to wear, Lothíriel. From now on, while you're in Minas Tirith, you’ll wear this circlet. It will ensure that those unfamiliar with your status show you proper deference. Here, let me help you put it on.”

At his gesture, Lothíriel dipped her head, allowing him to place the circlet around her brow with ease. It was heavier than it looked, and the gemstone at the center felt as cold as ice against her skin. When she lifted her head, her uncle gave a nod of approval and signaled for Faramir to escort her to her seat beside him.

After she was seated, Lothíriel glanced at her brothers. Both wore the same uneasy expression, though she couldn’t understand why. She reached up, touching the gemstone on her forehead, only to find it still as cold as ice, even after several minutes of wearing it. It felt like a frozen circle against her skin. Before she could hide her reaction, her uncle caught sight of her expression and regarded her with a cooler, more scrutinizing gaze for a few moments. Summoning her courage, she finally spoke.

“Uncle, where did you find this circlet? It’s strange that the stone remains so cold,” Lothíriel said, forcing herself to eat despite the hollow feeling growing in her stomach. Lord Denethor quickly stuffed some strips of meat into his mouth, swallowing before answering her.

“I had it made for you, my dear, when I first learned of your... condition. The stone is quartz, and the metal is pure silver. I’ve been told that many fortune tellers use quartz to help them see into the future. Since you are to be of service to our country, I thought it only fitting that you have a tool to aid you. As for why it stays cool, I’m not entirely certain. I requested that the Wizard Gandalf bless it, but was ultimately directed to Saruman, who was eager to assist once I told him of your foresight. In his letter, he mentioned that the jewel should help to clarify your visions, though I’m unsure exactly how.”

With that, Denethor turned away and launched into a heated discussion with Boromir about his plans for the next strike against their enemies.

After the meal concluded, Lothíriel stood to excuse herself, feeling unusually tired. She knew she needed rest for the long journey ahead. As she curtsied to her uncle one last time, he stopped her.

“I would speak with you about your trip to Rohan. You will be stopping in Edoras, will you not?”

Before Lothíriel could respond, Erchirion appeared at her side. “Our route takes us through Edoras and then the Gap of Rohan. Father has already sent messages ahead, and we've received word that we can expect an escort from a group of riders while we're in their country. After Rohan, Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond, will escort us to Rivendell. Father believes it is best for Lothíriel to stay as long as Lord Elrond deems necessary for her tutelage.”

Erchirion smiled, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. Lothíriel felt a wave of confusion and concern as she watched her brother.

“Now, I believe my little sister is quite tired from the excitement of seeing the city,” he continued smoothly. “I will see her to bed.” With a polite bow to their uncle, he quickly ushered Lothíriel out of the room and toward her chamber.

“Erchirion?” she whispered, careful not to be overheard. “What’s wrong?”

“Although you wouldn’t have noticed, Uncle is behaving strangely. I don’t know the reason, but I believe it would be wise for us to leave as early as possible tomorrow, to minimize our time in his company.” His voice was as hushed as hers, and as he spoke, his eyes scanned the shadows and corners of the halls they passed.

Lothíriel nodded, though she didn’t fully understand what had caused her brother to distrust their uncle, who had so warmly welcomed them to the city.

oOo

Lothíriel and Erchirion rose before dawn, finishing their breakfast just as Elphir arrived at the table. He seemed unsurprised that they had woken early on the day of their departure. Lothíriel stood and walked to her brother, embracing him. He quickly returned the hug, gently stroking her hair.

“Oh, little sister, I will miss you so much," Elphir said softly. "But I know you’ll be safe in the company of Lord Elrond’s house. I only wish I could be there to help guide you through your studies. Still, I’m confident you’ll surpass everyone’s expectations and return to us fully prepared, not just as a princess of Dol Amroth, but in all you need to know and beyond.” He smiled as he released her. Lothíriel nodded, though her voice caught in her throat, leaving her silent.

Erchirion stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We should be leaving soon. I’d prefer to go before Uncle wakes. You’ll make our excuses, won’t you, Brother?”

Elphir nodded, and Lothíriel was quickly guided out of the hall toward the stables. She had already chosen to wear her riding habit to breakfast, so there was no need to change. Her long hair was plaited neatly against her head to keep it out of her face. As they reached the stables, she laid eyes on Hazelfal, her beautiful gelding, already saddled and packed with her clothing and other essentials. Everything had been prepared.

Elphir helped her mount Hazelfal, holding her hand for a long moment as he gazed up at her. He said nothing, his face calm and stoic as he finally let go and turned back toward the house.

Erchirion urged his horse forward, and Lothíriel followed closely. She lifted her face to the sky, feeling a light breeze caress her cheeks. Soon she would be traveling to the land of the horselords, a thought that filled her with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She refocused on the path ahead as they rode out of the city and onto the Pelennor Fields. Before they left, she glanced back one last time at the fair white city, wondering how long it would be before she returned to her homeland.

Chapter Text

The Border of Rohan and Gondor
Autumn 3009

Éomer gazed out over the vast plains of his ancestors, the wind tugging at his hair, sending it streaming behind him. Beneath him, Firestorm shifted restlessly, clearly displeased with the forced stillness. The young stallion, born four years ago and bred from the same line as the horses Éomer's father had favored, showed great promise. Éomer hoped that both Firestorm and he would serve the Mark for many years to come.

Alongside Marshal Elfhelm and his éored, Éomer waited for the Gondorians to arrive. He wasn’t certain why they were passing through their lands, but they had been granted permission by his uncle, Théoden King, and that was enough. Éomer trusted his uncle's judgment without question. After all, it had been his uncle who had taken him and his younger sister, Éowyn, into his care eight years ago when they had been orphaned.

As Éomer heard the approach of the Gondorian riders, he turned to face them. His eyes scanned the group, noting that among the brightly armored warriors were two figures who looked out of place - unseasoned, as if they had never seen battle. One of them, clearly a man, sat on his horse in a way that suggested he was more accustomed to leisurely rides than to charging into combat. Beside him was a smaller figure, cloaked with a hood pulled low over their face, hiding their identity.

The group galloped toward them, stopping short at the ford that marked the border between their two lands. As they crossed the water, Marshal Elfhelm moved his mount closer, while Éomer kept his focus on the hooded figure, who seemed too small to be one of the men. When he caught sight of the leather-clad legs and boots, Éomer assumed it was a boy, likely accompanying his sire on a journey across Middle-earth.

Both companies of horsemen positioned themselves across from each other. The man and the hooded boy lingered behind what Éomer assumed were their guards. Elfhelm rode to the front of the éored, while the man behind his guards placed a gentle hand on the caped figure’s shoulder, nodding toward the front of the group. After a few whispered words, the pair urged their horses forward at a measured pace.

Éomer couldn’t help but admire not only the boy’s horse but also his skill in the saddle. The guards parted smoothly as the pair advanced, their mounts moving with precision until they stood in two straight columns. As soon as the caped figure passed, two guards broke formation and fell in behind, flanking them protectively.

“Good day, Riders of Rohan,” the man spoke as he retrieved a letter from his jacket, sealed with the mark of Théoden King. “We have permission to travel through your lands to the Gap of Rohan and beyond. Our lord father, Prince Imrahil informed me that you will be escorting us to Edoras, where we may personally thank King Théoden. Was he mistaken?”

Though the man’s words were polite, something in his tone irritated Éomer, though he couldn't quite place why. Perhaps it was the subtle air of superiority. He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. Marshal Elfhelm shot him a curious look before taking the letter, studying the seal. Cautiously, Elfhelm spoke, “You are most welcome in Rohan. I am Marshal Elfhelm, at your service. Your father was correct. We are to be your escort. But, as I have given you my name, it would only be courteous for you to do the same.”

The man smiled at Elfhelm before nodding. “I am Prince Erchirion of Dol Amroth, and this is my sister, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

At the mention of the second name, the cloaked figure threw back their hood, revealing not a boy, as Éomer had assumed, but a young girl. Éomer's jaw dropped, momentarily stunned by the unexpected revelation.

oOo

Lothíriel met the gazes of the horselords, doing her best to appear confident and composed, though she could sense their surprise at her presence. One of them, a young man around Erchirion’s age, seemed particularly stunned. She let her eyes travel over each face before settling once more on the Marshal, who was now instructing their group on the riding formation they would take across the grasslands. Lothíriel noticed that he had switched to his native tongue when speaking to his men.

Afterward, the Marshal approached Erchirion again, clasping hands with him briefly before offering a more casual greeting. His fellow riders followed his lead, mingling among the guards who had been traveling with the Gondorians. Only one rider remained by the Marshal’s side as they began their slow journey westward toward Edoras—the same rider who had looked so stunned upon discovering her identity.

As their horses moved in tandem, he glanced at her and, after a brief hesitation, began making polite conversation.

“Good day, princess,” he began. Lothíriel found herself liking the sound of his voice. It was deep, with a raspy edge that was so different from the smooth tones she was accustomed to in Gondor. His long blond hair caught the breeze, and his dark blue eyes reminded her of the sea on a stormy day.

“Good day, rider. I am Princess Lothíriel, though I believe my brother has already introduced me. May I have your name?”

“I am Éomer, son of Éomund and Théodwyn,” he replied. His eyes briefly met hers before he turned to focus on the path ahead, his gaze intense. The two rode in silence for several minutes before Éomer returned his attention to Lothíriel. 

“If I may ask, why are you going to the elves? Are you ill? I’ve heard that Lord Elrond is a master healer. When my mother was sick, we tried to get her to him, but we didn’t make it in time.” He glanced at her again, his eyes scrutinizing her closely, as though searching for any signs of illness. His gaze was so piercing that Lothíriel felt her cheeks warm under the intensity. She dropped her eyes to her reins, studying them as if they might offer her an escape from his scrutiny.

Just as she was about to answer, Erchirion, likely sensing her discomfort, moved his horse alongside Éomer’s, effectively shielding her from the question.

“Marshal Elfhelm tells me you are the king’s nephew. What is your uncle like? And what about Edoras?” Erchirion's tone was casual, almost friendly, as he asked question after question. He seemed genuinely curious, at times interrupting Éomer to pursue new lines of inquiry. From the layout of Rohan’s cities to their architecture and the way they passed on knowledge, Erchirion sought to gather as much information as possible.

Lothíriel let her mind drift, tuning out her brother’s questioning. She wondered what Éomer would have said if she had told him about her gift of sight. How did the people of Rohan regard such abilities? Would they see her as a witch, like the tales Kilfreth had told her when she was younger, or regard her with suspicion, as the common folk in Dol Amroth did? And worst of all, would anyone in Rohan try to use her for their own purposes, as the man who had abducted her just months ago had tried?

The memory of that time still unsettled her - the way he had called her the Oracle and sought to exploit her visions. The title still felt foreign, and thinking about being bound and helpless filled her with unease. She shivered at the thought, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as a chill ran through her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Éomer watching her again. His gaze was steady, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was concern or curiosity that lingered in his expression.

They rode on for a few more hours, alternating between cantering and walking to maintain a steady pace. When they finally made camp, Marshal Elfhelm informed them that they would reach Edoras in just over a week. The sky above darkened quickly as the Rohirrim efficiently set up their tents and tended to their horses with practiced ease. The speed and precision with which they worked spoke volumes about their experience, more than any book could convey. Lothíriel noticed her brother standing at the entrance of his tent, quietly observing the scene.

She considered joining him but still held Hazelfal’s reins in her hand. The horse needed to be tended to before she could sit with her brother for supper. Leading Hazelfal away from the tents but staying within the light of the fires, she began to remove his saddle and blanket. From her smallest saddlebag, she pulled out a few dried carrot slices and offered them to him. Hazelfal ate them quickly, then nuzzled her hand, searching for more.

Gently releasing his reins, she whispered in Sindarin for him to stay close, watching as he dipped his head and began grazing on the grass. She smiled softly before taking out her brush and beginning to stroke his coat in slow, gentle motions. As she worked, she sang a quiet lullaby, the soft melody blending with the crackling of the campfires, a moment of calm amidst the long journey ahead.

I see the stars, the stars see me,
Glimmering through the leaves of the ancient tree.
Oh, let the light that sails above the sea,
Shine on the one I love.

Beyond the mountains, beyond the sky,
Where my heart yearns and dreams to lie.
Oh, let the light that touches me,
Touch the one I love.

I hear the wind, the wind hears me,
Whispering through the branches of the silver tree.
Oh, let the breeze that speaks to me,
Carry words to the one I love.

Beyond the forest, beyond the plains,
Where my heart roams free of chains.
Oh, let the wind that whispers to me,
Sing to the one I love.

oOo

Éomer found himself drawn to the sound of Lothíriel’s song from the far side of the camp. Her voice carried a haunting quality, as if it came from beyond, like someone calling back from the grave to comfort their loved ones with the promise of peace. When her song ended, she continued the soft rhythm with a gentle hum, keeping the melody alive. Éomer couldn’t help but approve as he realized her purpose - she was soothing her horse, ensuring it knew her presence to avoid startling it, and teaching it the sound of her voice in the process. It was clever, and he smiled at the sight of her.

Lothíriel’s hands, delicate and small, carefully held the little brush as she stroked Hazelfal’s coat with a gentle touch. Her long hair, braided neatly down her back, was a practical choice for such a long journey. Éomer’s thoughts drifted to his sister, Éowyn, and how she always refused to pin her hair up, preferring the feel of the wind tangling it behind her as she rode at breakneck speed across the plains. A hint of amusement flickered across his face - he pitied Éowyn’s maid every time his sister returned from her wild rides through the countryside around Edoras.

Éomer was pulled from his thoughts by the sudden silence of Lothíriel’s song, followed by a worried nicker from her horse. His eyes snapped to her, just in time to see her collapse beside Hazelfal, the brush still clutched in her hand. Alarmed, he quickly called for aid, his voice urgent as he rushed to her side. He carefully pulled her away from the horse, whose ears were pinned back in distress. Out of habit, Éomer spoke softly in Rohirric to calm the animal, though his focus was fully on the girl now lying unconscious in his arms.

He scanned her for injuries, but saw none. Cursing himself for not paying closer attention earlier, he struggled to understand what could have caused her sudden collapse. Around him, riders from his éored and the royal guard of Dol Amroth gathered, their eyes all on the fallen princess. Éomer was relieved to see one of the men step forward and lead Hazelfal away, ensuring the horse wouldn't panic or cause further harm to its unconscious rider.

“Lothíriel!” Her brother rushed to her side, dropping to his knees beside Éomer. “Not again,” he murmured quietly, before clearing his throat. “Please, take her to my tent. She’ll need some food when she wakes.” One of the knights stepped forward, ready to take Lothíriel from Éomer, but before he could, Éomer stood, lifting her gently into his arms and heading toward her tent himself.

As he walked, Éomer couldn’t help but notice the darkened expressions of the knights of Dol Amroth. The sight triggered a memory of his own mother, who had wasted away as they prepared to take her to Rivendell all those years ago. He wondered if Lothíriel’s condition was as dire, but quickly shook his head to dispel the thought. She had looked strong and well on their ride; there had been no need for her to be carried in a wagon.

Arriving at the tent, Éomer bent his head beneath the flap as he carried her inside. As his face neared hers, he noticed a small, faint scar on her temple—so subtle that he doubted he would have seen it if they hadn’t been so close. He gently laid her down on the cot just as Erchirion entered the tent behind him.

Erchirion pulled up a stool and murmured his thanks to Éomer, his full attention returning to his sister. Éomer was about to leave when he saw Lothíriel’s eyes flutter open. She smiled weakly at her brother, who immediately took her hands in his own, relief washing over his face.

Watching the closeness between the siblings, Éomer’s thoughts drifted to his own sister, Éowyn. He loved being a rider, defending his homeland from the king’s enemies, but the duties that came with it often kept him away from her. It was a bittersweet regret that settled in his chest—his duty, though noble, left him separated from the family he cherished most.

Éomer exited the tent, walking slowly toward one of the campfires. As he passed by the other riders, he reassured them that the princess was awake and seemed well enough. The news spread quickly, rippling through the camp, and within minutes the atmosphere lightened. By the time he had seated himself at one of the fires, the mood around camp had lifted considerably. Laughter and chatter filled the air as Gondorian and Rohirric warriors exchanged stories and discussed fighting techniques, their banter good-natured and easy.

Éomer ate his simple supper of travel bread, dried meat, and fruit, letting the noise of conversation wash over him. The camaraderie of the two groups, despite their different backgrounds, was a testament to the strong bonds between their lands. As the night wore on, the men gradually made their way to their tents, leaving only four—two Rohirrim and two Gondorians—standing watch over the quiet camp.

Satisfied that all was well, Éomer rose and walked to his own tent. Laying down, he allowed himself to relax for the first time that evening, his mind still lingering on the day’s events as sleep began to claim him.

Chapter Text

Rohan
Autumn 3009

Almost as soon as he had drifted off, Éomer woke with a start to the sound of chaos and the clash of weapons. Instinct and years of experience kicked in as he quickly donned his gear, grabbed his sword, and charged out of the tent. The camp was in disarray, a group of ten orcs having launched a sudden attack. Éomer barely had time to raise his sword and parry an incoming blow before his eyes caught sight of Lothíriel.

She stood outside her tent, dressed in nothing but a white nightgown, her long braid hanging down her back. Around her, several Swan-knights and a few Riders had formed a protective circle. His mind raced, but he forced himself to stay focused, quickly dispatching the orc in front of him. Once the immediate threat was gone, Éomer scanned the camp for Erchirion, finally spotting him as he darted out of his tent—carrying a bundle of books.

Éomer's eyes widened in disbelief. Books? In the midst of an orc attack, Erchirion was risking his life to save a stack of books? His irritation quickly turned to anger as he watched Erchirion stumble in his attempt to dodge an oncoming orc, the volumes spilling from his arms. Furious, Éomer charged forward, his sword cutting through the air in a powerful arc, severing the orc's head before its blade could touch the prince.

"Fool," Éomer muttered under his breath, expecting some kind of acknowledgement or thanks. But Erchirion didn’t even look at him. Instead, without a word he hurriedly gathered his scattered books and rushed to his sister’s side.

Éomer’s grip tightened on his sword as he watched the prince retreat. Risking his life for books while others fought to defend him. He shook his head, exasperated, but there was no time for frustration now. The camp still needed defending, and the orcs had yet to be fully driven off.

Éomer launched himself back into the fray, and within minutes, the remaining orcs lay dead in the grass around the camp. To his relief, only one man had been wounded, and none of their people had died in the attack. As his mind eased, seeing the injured Rider being tended to with needle and thread, his attention turned sharply toward Erchirion, anger still simmering beneath the surface.

“That was unexpected,” Erchirion said with a smile as Éomer approached, but his expression quickly faltered as he saw the stormy expression on Éomer’s face.

"Are you daft?" Éomer bellowed, his voice so loud that the entire camp fell silent, turning to watch the confrontation. "Perhaps you only have half a brain? What were you thinking, running around the camp with a pile of books in the middle of a battle?"

"I didn’t think—" Erchirion began, his voice low and uncertain, but Éomer cut him off.

"Ah! You didn’t think. That explains it!" The adrenaline still coursing through Éomer fueled his words, overriding any sense of propriety toward the foreign prince. "Running around with your precious tomes while others were fighting to defend you! What if you or your sister had been wounded or killed?"

"I knew my sister would have been fine, but—" Erchirion's voice began to rise, his frustration evident, but Éomer interrupted again.

"If either of you had died while in our charge, every warrior here would be shamed! And what then? You would leave your sister alone and defenseless on her journey?" Éomer’s voice rang with fury, his words biting as the reality of what had just happened sank in.

Before Erchirion could respond, Lothíriel stepped forward hesitantly, placing herself beside her brother. “It’s alright. Erchirion needs his books,” she said quietly, her voice soft but steady.

Éomer, still blinded by the rage coursing through him, snapped, “Stay out of it!” The words came out like a snarl, and the moment they left his mouth, he regretted them. Lothíriel recoiled, her expression shifting instantly from trust and openness to fear. The shift felt like a bucket of ice water thrown over him, instantly quenching the righteous fury that had consumed him moments before. The anger drained from him, leaving him cold and hollow.

He turned back to face Erchirion, but now it was the prince’s turn to be angry. “My actions aside,” Erchirion began, his voice tight with controlled fury, “you have no right to speak to my sister that way!” He straightened, standing as tall as he could, and though he was shorter than Éomer, the force of his words made him seem to tower over the entire camp. His gaze pinned everyone around them, making the silence even more palpable.

“I shouldn’t have to explain the worth of my books,” Erchirion continued, his tone sharp. “The need to protect them with my life is something you can’t understand, because all you see is the world through the hilt of your sword. You know nothing beyond that.”

Without waiting for a reply, Erchirion turned away, grasping Lothíriel’s hand and pulling her toward their tent. “You will stay away from me and my sister,” he called over his shoulder. “You may apologize if you wish, but that is the only contact I want between us!”

With that, the pair disappeared into their tent, cutting off any chance of a response from Éomer. The camp remained still, the weight of the confrontation hanging heavy in the air as the other riders and guards watched in silence.

oOo

During the battle, after being roused by her guards so they could surround her for protection, everything had felt surreal. The blood, the stink of the orcs, the chaos—it had all swept her into a strange, detached state, almost like slipping into one of her visions, only this time she was fully conscious. Her stomach churned at the violence around her, but her mind drifted, overwhelmed by the intensity of the scene. When she finally regained focus, the battle had ended, and Éomer’s furious shouting about Erchirion's books had yanked her back into the present. She hadn’t expected Éomer’s anger to turn on her, especially after she had simply tried to defend her brother’s actions. She knew how much those books meant to Erchirion - the destruction of even one would have wounded him deeply.

Lothíriel had never seen her brother so angry before. In their family, Elphir was always the hothead, wearing his emotions openly, while Erchirion kept a calm, logical facade. Now, inside the tent, Lothíriel looked up at him. He was still holding her hand, but his grip had tightened, his eyes staring off into nothing, as though he were lost in his own thoughts, unable to process everything that had just happened.

“Erchirion,” she said softly, using her free hand to try and pry his fingers open. “You’re hurting me.”

He blinked down at her, as though realizing her presence for the first time, and quickly released her hand with a murmured apology. He sat heavily on his cot, burying his face in his hands.

Lothíriel sat beside him and gently rubbed his back. “Which book was it?” she asked softly.

Without a word, Erchirion handed her a small blue book with silver binding. She recognized it immediately - their mother’s favorite. The pages were filled with poems and songs, each margin scribbled with personal notes about the meaning and feelings the texts had stirred in their mother. Erchirion always carried it with him. She had often caught glimpses of him reading it during difficult moments, searching for guidance or comfort in the familiar pages.

Lothíriel held the book tenderly, knowing what it represented. For Erchirion, it wasn’t just a book - it was a connection to their mother, and the thought of losing it would have been like losing another part of her all over again.

After a few quiet moments, Erchirion sat up, his eyes red with unshed tears. His hands rested limply in his lap, and Lothíriel could feel it, a heaviness that matched the one she had carried for so long, even though she had never truly known her mother. 

“I couldn’t risk it,” Erchirion’s voice was thick with emotion. “If I had done nothing, and something had happened to this,” he took the book from Lothíriel’s hands, “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. And then I saw others that held information we might need, and before I knew it, I’d picked up half a dozen.” His gaze lingered on their mother’s book, his fingers tracing its silver binding. “I have so little left of her, you know. Every day, it feels like my memories of her fade, becoming less and less real. This book… it’s the only thing I have left of her that I can truly hold onto.”

Lothíriel fought the familiar pang of jealousy. While her brothers had memories of their mother, all she had were stories—secondhand recollections shared by them, her father, or close servants like Kilfreth. She longed for the same connection Erchirion had, but it was always just out of reach.

“I understand,” she whispered, placing her hand gently on top of the book. Tears finally spilled down Erchirion’s cheeks, landing on her hand. “I understand,” she repeated, her voice trembling as her own tears welled up. Without hesitation, she pulled her brother into a tight embrace, and they held each other, the shared weight of grief and love binding them in that moment of quiet vulnerability.

oOo

Éomer could smell the rain on the wind as his eyes drifted skyward. Dark clouds rolled ominously toward them, promising a storm. Around him, the riders and guards worked efficiently to break down their camp, moving with practiced speed. At the camp’s outskirts, Elfhelm stood still, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back, his attention fixed on the approaching weather. He didn’t turn as Éomer approached.

“Do you have anything to report?” Elfhelm’s tone was heavy, his eyes still on the horizon.

“Most of the supplies made it through unscathed,” Éomer replied, slipping naturally into the role he knew so well. “The biggest issue is the salted meat the Gondorians brought—it’s been spoiled. But we have enough dried meat to make it to Edoras, so long as the weather doesn’t delay us.”

“That’s a decision for our guests,” Elfhelm said, finally turning to face Éomer. “But if things get especially dire, we can send a few riders ahead of the éored to hunt. For now, let’s focus on getting the camp packed and mounting up before the rain starts coming in sheets.”

Éomer nodded, the urgency of Elfhelm’s words matching the tension in the air as the storm crept closer. He moved swiftly to oversee the final preparations, knowing they had little time before the downpour began.

Éomer moved swiftly toward one of the larger tents, joining his fellow riders in taking it down as the wind began to pick up. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Lothíriel emerging from her tent. The Swan-knights were already packing up around her, some glancing warily at the sky, likely trying to estimate how soon the rain would begin. Two guards followed closely behind the princess, their eyes trained on her as she made her way toward her horse, a brush in hand once more.

Though he focused on his work, Éomer couldn’t help but angle himself slightly, keeping her in his peripheral vision. He still felt uneasy after the previous night’s events, his concern lingering in case she fainted again. As Lothíriel reached her horse, she produced a few apple slices from her pocket, offering them to the animal before circling to its side and brushing its coat with gentle, practiced strokes.

Éomer noted how close her guards remained, their protective stance a clear sign they too were anticipating the possibility of her collapsing again. Though she moved with steady purpose, his eyes remained on her, the unease still gnawing at him as the storm clouds loomed overhead.

Whether by chance or because she sensed his gaze, Lothíriel suddenly turned her head toward Éomer, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. She offered a small, wary smile and began to raise her hand in a tentative wave, just as her brother approached. Erchirion followed her gaze, his expression darkening when he spotted Éomer. Without acknowledging him further, Erchirion turned back to Lothíriel, speaking quietly to her, though Éomer couldn’t make out the words over the rising wind.

Lothíriel’s guards helped her saddle her horse, their movements efficient in the face of the impending storm. A few moments of uneasy silence passed between the siblings before Lothíriel mounted her horse with ease, though a frown was now fixed on her face. She pulled her hood over her head, protecting herself from the gusts as the wind tugged at her cloak.

Not long after, the camp was packed up, just as the first thick droplets of rain began to fall. They splashed heavily against the ground, quickly turning into a deluge. Éomer strode purposefully toward Firestorm, mounting the stallion as he secured his own hood in place, grateful for the heavy wool that shielded him from the worst of the downpour. The rain came faster, more like a waterfall than a typical autumn storm, drenching the company as they prepared to depart.

As they rode out into the storm, Éomer’s thoughts turned inward. He prayed the journey to Edoras would be uneventful, that they might reach his homeland without further trouble. 

oOo

Lothíriel’s muscles ached more than she had ever thought possible after ten grueling days of nonstop riding. The intermittent rain had only worsened their journey, making each day as miserable as the last. But now, as the final remnants of clouds drifted away, revealing a bright blue sky, she felt a surge of energy. The view before her made it all worth it.

Less than a few hours’ ride ahead stood the Golden Hall of Edoras. Erchirion had tried to describe it to her in vivid detail from his readings before they left Dol Amroth, but nothing could compare to seeing it in person. The setting sun gleamed off the thatched roof, casting a brilliant light that made it appear as though the hall was aflame with golden fire. It was breathtaking.

To her left, Erchirion pulled a journal from one of his oiled saddlebags and began to sketch the scene, his hand moving swiftly across the page. Lothíriel caught sight of Marshal Elfhelm, who wore a knowing smile as he watched the siblings and their Swan-knights gaze in awe at the king’s residence.

After allowing them a few moments to take in the sight, Elfhelm acknowledged the eager shouts from his riders, and with a nod, they all spurred their horses into a gallop, racing toward the city and the promise of rest and warmth at last.

As they rushed toward the city, Lothíriel couldn’t help but compare it to Minas Tirith. The two cities were vastly different, yet each was uniquely beautiful to her. Where Minas Tirith stood regal, towering, and cold, Edoras felt warm, homey, and welcoming. As they slowed to pass under the gates, the group eventually halted, allowing a host of stablehands—many of whom called out to the riders with the familiarity of family or friends—to attend to them. While most of the riders dismounted and excitedly exchanged greetings, Elfhelm, Éomer, continued up the hill toward Meduseld.

Over the past ten days, Lothíriel had tried to reason with Erchirion, explaining how unreasonable it was for him to forbid any contact between them and Éomer, especially considering Éomer’s status as the nephew of the King of Rohan. Though she understood Erchirion’s lingering anger, she found it stubborn and misplaced. She herself hadn’t been offended for more than a night when Éomer had shouted at her in the heat of the moment. It was time to move on. After all, she knew if their father had been reprimanding someone for reckless behavior back in Dol Amroth and she had interrupted as she had with Éomer, he would have shouted at her, too.

Determined not to let her brother’s pride taint future relations with the king or his family, Lothíriel spurred her horse forward until she rode alongside Éomer. Erchirion was distracted, chatting with one of the Swan-knights and pointing out the intricately carved arches above the homes and smaller stables near the entrance. It was the perfect moment for her to act.

If her brother wouldn’t apologize for his haughty behavior toward their hosts, she would. Taking a deep breath, Lothíriel dismounted and hurried forward into the stable, hoping to catch Éomer before Erchirion realized she had slipped away.

Immediately, the scent of horse, sweat, and rich earth became more pronounced as Lothíriel stepped into the stable. She smiled at the familiar smell - no matter where she went, stables always had that same aroma. However, these stables were different, more ornate in their decorations. Each stall was lined with intricate carvings depicting horses, warriors, and emblems of Rohan, giving the place an unmistakable sense of pride and history. Columns and arches were bordered in vibrant shades of red, green, and gold, some painted, others adorned with braided strips of fabric. Even the horses' blankets carried the same rich colors in various patterns, bringing a sense of vibrancy to the space.

Everything felt so alive, and to her surprise, Lothíriel realized she felt more at home here than she ever had in the stables of Minas Tirith or even Dol Amroth. It was unexpected, but comforting. Spotting an empty stall, she gently led Hazelfal into it, her heart feeling lighter as she took in the warmth and color around her.

“I wouldn’t stable your horse there if I were you,” a familiar, deep voice warned from behind her. Lothíriel turned to see Éomer watching her, and she immediately curtsied deeply.

“I wanted to apologize to you, Rider Éomer, on behalf of my brother. He shouldn’t have been so discourteous to you, and he should have explained just how important the books he went back for were.” She straightened, noting the wry smile that tugged at Éomer’s lips before he shook his head.

“Even if he had, my temper was already far gone by the time I confronted him. I was in the wrong,” he admitted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “And I have no excuse for how I spoke to you.”

Before Lothíriel could respond, Éomer pointed toward Hazelfal. “I wasn’t jesting about moving your horse. That stall belongs to my sister’s steed, and neither Éowyn nor her horse take kindly to intruders.” He chuckled, then gestured toward another stall further in. “You can use that one.”

Lothíriel hastily followed his directions and was surprised when Éomer walked alongside her, his expression watchful.

“Are you happy to be home?” she asked, glancing at him.

He didn’t reply at first, but he gave a small nod.

“It’s beautiful here,” she added, catching a flicker of surprise on his face.

“I wouldn’t have thought our architecture would appeal to a Gondorian princess,” he said, his smile widening with amusement. Lothíriel quickly looked at him, unsure if he meant any offense, but Éomer continued with an ease that reassured her. “I’m sure your White City must be much more beautiful to you than this place.”

“Minas Tirith is beautiful, but in a different way altogether,” she replied thoughtfully. “It’s lovely in the way a tomb, crafted for the one you love most, is coldly beautiful. You cannot stay there too long, or you risk becoming just as cold.”

Éomer opened his mouth to respond, but they were interrupted by the sudden sound of Erchirion’s outraged voice from the entrance of the stables. His face darkened with cold anger as he approached, his eyes fixed on Éomer standing so close to his sister. Without a word, he strode forward and grabbed Lothíriel’s arm in a firm grip, his attention entirely focused on Éomer.

Lothíriel gasped as Erchirion yanked her away, not seeming to realize how tightly he was holding her. Her eyes widened in shock at the sudden harshness.

“Erchirion, stop!” she cried, trying to pull free. But her brother, too consumed by his anger, didn’t register her discomfort. His grip unconsciously tightened as he glared at Éomer with barely concealed fury, his focus entirely on the confrontation he was prepared to start.

“Did I not instruct,” Erchirion’s voice was low, but in the sudden stillness, every word carried sharply through the stable, “that you were to stay away from my sister?”

Éomer folded his arms over his chest, his gaze steady on Erchirion. For a few moments, he wrestled with his temper, struggling to keep it from matching the prince’s fury. “I was only apologizing to her, as you had made it very clear was allowed.” His voice had lost all trace of the earlier warmth. There was no smile on his lips, no amusement in his eyes.

Lothíriel finally managed to pull her arm free, and without hesitation, she stepped in front of her brother. Erchirion instinctively reached for her again, but she evaded his grip.

“And I apologized to him for you,” she said, her voice sharp. She saw the flash of surprise and hurt in Erchirion’s eyes but pressed on before he could interrupt. “Éomer has already taken responsibility for his mistake that night, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat him with such disdain. He is the nephew of the king, and we are guests in his country!”

Her voice rose with the frustration she had bottled up over the past ten days, her anger at Erchirion’s stubbornness finally surfacing. “If the situation were reversed, and he and his sister had come to Dol Amroth, do you think you - or our father - would tolerate the disrespect you’ve shown him?”

Erchirion’s expression wavered as understanding warred with his pride. He took a deep breath, his face hardening for a moment before he spoke. “I admit that I was wrong. Perhaps I overreacted.” He glanced at Éomer, the tension between them still thick. “But I still do not like you.”

“And what, pray tell, is wrong with my brother?”

Chapter Text

Edoras
Autumn 3009

Lothíriel turned toward the source of the feminine voice. Advancing toward them was a young woman leading a rather bored-looking horse. Her head was held high, long blonde hair cascading down her back, and her confident gray eyes swept over the three in front of her, lips pressed into a thin line. As the group silently watched her, she moved with purpose, guiding her horse into the very stall Éomer had instructed Lothíriel to vacate moments earlier. She made sure there was food and water available before turning back to face them.

There was something oddly familiar about her, a feeling Lothíriel couldn’t quite place. It struck her suddenly—she’d felt the same way when she first met Éomer, though she had dismissed it as travel fatigue at the time.

With barely a glance at Lothíriel or Éomer, the woman pointed a long, accusing finger at Erchirion, her gray eyes sharp and piercing, as if cutting right through him like a freshly honed blade.

“Is it your custom to gawk at someone when they ask a simple question?” The woman’s voice was quiet, but it carried an authority that made it impossible to ignore, as if even a whisper from her would demand full attention. Lothíriel glanced at Erchirion, half-expecting him to shrink away, as he often did around the ladies of Dol Amroth’s court. To her surprise, he stood tall as he responded.

“Éowyn,” Éomer said softly, running a hand through his hair, clearly uneasy.

“I was merely stating that although there may have been a misunderstanding between us initially, it no longer clouds my judgment of Rider Éomer,” Erchirion said, his voice cool but with a subtle waver that hinted at his discomfort.

Éowyn dropped her finger, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What was the misunderstanding? You still haven’t answered my question: what, exactly, is wrong with my brother?”

“He yelled at my sister when he lost his temper,” Erchirion replied, his voice steady despite the tension. Éowyn lifted her chin slightly at his response.

“And you’ve never lost your temper, I’m sure,” she said, a faint trace of sarcasm in her tone. Turning to Éomer, she asked, “Have the two of you resolved it?”

Éomer nodded, but before he could speak, Éowyn shifted her gaze back to Erchirion. “Then there is nothing left to discuss. Let your hurt pride heal with time.”

Erchirion blanched at her bluntness, but before he could protest, Lothíriel stepped forward, sensing the rising tension. She didn’t want her brother to spark another argument with Éowyn and risk further conflict between the two families.

“I am Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth,” she said, trying to project the same confidence as Éowyn. However, her voice wavered ever so slightly.

“At least one of you has some manners,” Éowyn chuckled, softening. “I am Éowyn. Welcome to Edoras. Please, allow me to escort you into my uncle’s hall.” She offered Lothíriel her arm, and without hesitation, Lothíriel took it.

Éowyn smoothly guided her toward the stairs that led to the Golden Hall, leaving Éomer and Erchirion behind in the stable, the tension between the two men lingering but unspoken.

oOo

Éomer couldn’t suppress a smile as he watched his sister lead Lothíriel away. He hadn’t seen Éowyn in nearly half a year, and though she had grown in that time, at her core, she was still the same - steadfast, protective, and always looking after those she felt needed defending, just like their mother had done before she fell ill. His gaze shifted to Erchirion, who stood at the stable doorway, glancing between Éomer and the path their sisters had taken. Éomer shrugged and motioned for the prince to follow. Without a word, Erchirion turned on his heel and stalked out of the stables.

Éomer patted Firestorm, stifling a sigh as he tended to the steed. "Sorry, old friend," he muttered, before beckoning a stablehand to take over. With a quick glance outside, Éomer saw Éowyn and Lothíriel disappear into the great doors of Meduseld.

Quickening his pace, Éomer followed the familiar path, entering the hall not long after they had. The sight of Meduseld filled him with warmth. Every carving, every tapestry was just as he remembered, solid and unchanging. This was home, the place where his heart truly belonged.

As he drew closer, Éowyn turned, clearly waiting for him to join them. He caught the expressions on both Lothíriel and Erchirion’s faces - wide-eyed awe. Lothíriel reached out, her fingers lightly brushing one of the pillars that depicted Eorl the Young’s first ride on his mighty Mearas.

Éowyn, who had moments earlier been playful and sharp, had adopted a more formal demeanor, one that surprised even Éomer. Months ago, she would have still been skipping and weaving her way through the pillars of the hall without care. She cleared her throat, her tone measured as she instructed the group to follow both her and Éomer's lead.

Éomer moved to his sister’s side, standing tall as they approached the throne with steady, purposeful strides. Meduseld had always commanded reverence, and in this moment, Éomer felt the weight of his lineage and duty settle around him once more.

As they approached the throne, Éomer was taken aback once more when, instead of stopping a few feet from the throne and bowing as he did, Éowyn walked right up to their uncle’s side and turned to face the hall from her new position. Éomer swallowed his surprise, determined not to embarrass himself or disgrace his uncle, especially in front of the visiting Gondorians. When he straightened, he spoke loudly and clearly, his voice carrying through all of Meduseld.

“Hail Théoden King, Lord and Master of the Riddermark!” Éomer’s eyes met his uncle’s, and in Théoden’s gaze, he saw the warmth and kindness he had known since the king had taken him and Éowyn in as children.

Stepping aside, Éomer allowed his uncle a clear view of their guests. “May I present Prince Erchirion and Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.” At the mention of their names, both siblings stepped forward in near-perfect sync. Erchirion bowed respectfully, while Lothíriel curtsied with grace, their movements displaying the poise and dignity of their noble lineage.

“Welcome to the Riddermark, my most honored guests!” Théoden’s jovial voice boomed through the hall as he stood and stepped down from his throne. He approached Erchirion and Lothíriel with open arms. “Please, be at ease, and let me hear of your journey. How have you enjoyed Rohan?”

Erchirion took a breath, clearly preparing to give a formal reply, but before he could speak, Lothíriel’s face lit up, her smile brimming with excitement.

“It’s so beautiful here, Your Majesty!” she exclaimed, her voice filled not with the polished tones of a dutiful princess but with the unguarded enthusiasm of a young girl. “As we rode, the way the grass moved - even during the storm when the wind and sky whipped around us - reminded me so much of the waves in the Bay of Belfalas. I would never have imagined that I’d see so much grass that it could rival the sea!”

She hardly paused for breath, and Éomer noticed the approving smile on his uncle’s face as she continued.

“And the woodwork here in Edoras! It’s truly something to marvel at. The carvings are so delicate and intricate! Gondor’s stonework is impressive, of course, with the influence of the Númenóreans and their elvish teachings. But this,” she gestured to a nearby pillar, lightly touching it, “this was made by a true master carver. It’s extraordinary.” Her voice softened with her last words, and as the realization of her rambling dawned on her, her cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

Théoden chuckled warmly, his eyes soft. “You have a keen eye. Our craftsmen will be pleased to know their work is so highly regarded by a princess of Gondor.” He then turned his attention to Erchirion. “And what are your thoughts, prince?”

Erchirion tore his gaze from his sister, forcing his face into a mask of neutrality. “I now understand why this land is called that of the Horselords. Your mastery and dedication to these creatures is unparalleled, Your Majesty.” His voice was steady and formal, as he bowed his head slightly in respect.

Some of Théoden’s warmth dimmed in the face of Erchirion’s formality, but he showed no irritation. Instead, he nodded in acknowledgment. “I am always glad to hear that my Riders conduct themselves well, both within and beyond the Mark.”

Satisfied with the Gondorians’ answers, the king shifted his gaze to Éomer. “Beloved nephew, your sister and I have greatly missed you since your departure with Marshal Elfhelm’s éored in the spring. How were your travels? What have you seen over these past six months?”

Éomer turned his full attention to his uncle, his expression growing more serious as he began to recount his observations from the realm. The hall grew quiet, everyone listening intently to his report. He described the state of the villages, the riders’ progress, and the defenses they had maintained. As he reached the events of the past month, his tone became more clipped and stern.

“We suffered a Dunlending raid and three orc attacks. Two villages were destroyed by fire during the assaults. In the plains, three black yearlings were lost to the orc scum during the raid on the breeders in the southern Westfold. The final attack came on the first night we made camp with the Gondorians.”

Éomer’s voice carried a restrained tension, his irritation having grown as he listed the raids and losses. There was, however, a glimmer of pride in his tone, especially when he noticed Marshal Elfhelm nodding in silent approval. Théoden glanced at Elfhelm as if to confirm the truth of Éomer’s report, and when the marshal affirmed it, Théoden’s face grew grave.

“You’ve faced much in your travels, my nephew,” Théoden said, his voice thoughtful. “Our enemies grow bolder, and yet, our strength remains. We will stand firm against these threats.” He glanced at the Dol Amroth siblings, including them in his words as he added, “Together, with the strength of our allies.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall before taking a deep breath. Then, with a shift in tone, he smiled.

“But today is not a day for mourning - it is one for celebration. We have had a bountiful harvest, and our brothers, sons, and nephews have returned to us healthy.” His gaze swept to Lothíriel and Erchirion, his expression warm. “For now, I will have Haróf show you to your chambers. Then, you will join us for our Harvest Feast!”

The mood in the hall lightened as Théoden's words dispelled the somber atmosphere, and the promise of celebration stirred excitement in the crowd. Lothíriel smiled, swept up by the energy around her, while Erchirion gave a small, respectful nod. Haróf stepped forward to guide them, and any lingering tension seemed to fade away, replaced by the anticipation of the upcoming feast.

oOo

The bed under Lothíriel filled her with pure pleasure after days in the saddle, followed by nights spent on a cot. She had to fight the urge to crawl under the covers and sleep for days. Forcing herself to stay upright, she walked over to her pack and began pulling out one of her dresses. Just before she could unfold it, a knock sounded at the door. Opening it, she found Éowyn, who strode in confidently when Lothíriel moved aside to let her enter.

"Are you settling in alright?" Éowyn asked, glancing around the room. Her eyes landed on the half-opened pack and the dress Lothíriel had selected, neatly folded on top. "May I?"

At Lothíriel’s nod, Éowyn opened the pack fully and carefully pulling out several dresses alongside the one Lothíriel had chosen moments before, laying them across the bed. "This material is well made - not that I’m surprised," she said with a smile. "I’m glad to see you’ve brought clothes suited for autumn and winter. Many southerners forget how much colder our winters can be."

Turning toward Lothíriel, Éowyn’s curiosity was clear. "Have you ever seen snow before?"

Lothíriel shook her head. "In Dol Amroth, the winters are cool, but not freezing. I’ve heard of snow, but we usually get constant rain. The sky and sea turn gray, and the wind whips along the coast in a frenzy."

Éowyn folded the dresses neatly, leaving Lothíriel’s choice out of the pack. “I would love to see what a winter without snow is like. One day, I’d like to travel to the south and experience it for myself,” she sighed wistfully, then cleared her throat and shook her head, snapping herself back to the present. “Here I am daydreaming instead of accomplishing my goal!”

“Your goal?” Lothíriel asked with curiosity.

“I wanted to extend an invitation to show you around Edoras tomorrow. I would ask that you join me for a ride as well, but I imagine you'd prefer to take a break from being on horseback for a day or two,” Éowyn said with a knowing smile.

“That sounds wonderful,” Lothíriel replied, her smile broadening. Éowyn began describing the places she intended to show her, from the bustling market to the quiet corners of the city, and Lothíriel listened intently. By the time they finished talking, Lothíriel’s hair was loose from its braid, but her attention shifted back to her dress with a hint of hesitation. Noticing Éowyn’s curious expression, Lothíriel sighed.

“I know we’re due for supper soon, but I don’t suppose I’d have time for a quick bath? Even if all I could do was rinse the dust off, it would be enough for tonight,” she asked hopefully.

“I should have thought of that,” Éowyn said, standing quickly. “I’ll make sure a maid comes to draw a bath for you before it gets any later. Supper will wait for you, I swear.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel called after her new friend as Éowyn hurried out of the room without another word. Minutes later, a wooden tub was brought in, followed by maids carrying steaming buckets of water. They worked quickly, pouring the hot water into the tub before most of them left as swiftly as they had entered. Only one remained, bowing at the waist.

“I am Leifa, my lady. Lady Éowyn made it clear that you required some assistance,” she said. Her accent was thick, and though her Westron was clear, it carried the unmistakable cadence of the Mark.

Rather than dwell on the maid’s accent and risk the water cooling, Lothíriel swiftly pulled off the tunic she had been wearing for days on the road. Her muscles ached from the effort, but the thought of sinking into the warm water was enough to make her push through the discomfort.

As Lothíriel slipped into the warm water, a groan - half from pain, half from pleasure - escaped her lips. Leifa gave her time to soak, quietly gathering the princess’s dirty clothes and stepping out of the room. She returned moments later with a small bag and thick woven towels, ready for the next step of Lothíriel’s brief reprieve.

“I don’t suppose I have time to wash my hair?” Lothíriel asked.

“As long as we’re quick,” Leifa nodded, already pulling a bar of soap from the bag. “I can wash it, and then braid it into a coronet around your head.” She wasted no time lathering the soap, her hands swift and efficient.

“You have beautiful hair,” Leifa remarked absently as her fingers worked through Lothíriel’s dark locks.

“I noticed it’s not a common color here,” Lothíriel replied, recalling the light-haired villagers she had passed during their journey.

“The only other person I know with your coloring is Prince Théodred.” A gentle sigh escaped Leifa as she spoke his name. Lothíriel watched the maid's expression, noticing the same dreamy look she’d seen in the younger servants who admired her brothers when they thought no one was watching.

“Is he in Edoras now? I don’t believe I saw him earlier,” Lothíriel asked.

“He’s away,” Leifa said, blinking as she refocused on her task, her tone shifting back to formality. “He has won many battles in the west and is currently guarding our borders from the threat of Dunlendings. I - I mean, Edoras - looks forward to his return.”

“He must be wonderful to inspire such dedication,” Lothíriel observed, watching as Leifa’s face lit up in response.

“He is! Not only is he one of the most handsome men in the Mark, but also incredibly knowledgeable - both as a warrior and as a scholar. When he’s in the city, he always makes time for the people, listening to their concerns. And when he’s with the children, he recounts our stories and histories from memory.” Leifa’s excitement grew with each word, her voice rising as she eagerly spoke of Théodred. Realizing how fervent she had become, she lowered her voice again and said more quietly, “He will make a fine king one day. It’s a pity you won’t get to meet him while you’re here.”

“It is a pity,” Lothíriel agreed, dipping her head into the water to rinse the soap from her hair. “I would have loved to meet someone so greatly admired by his people.”

As Lothíriel sat back up, Leifa was ready with a towel, helping her step out of the tub. Once seated, Leifa gently patted her damp hair dry with another thick towel as they exchanged stories—both women peppering each other with questions about their differing lives. By the time Lothíriel had finished describing how the endless horizon of the sea eventually met the sky in little more than a distant line, her hair had been carefully braided, and the warmth of her red dress enveloped her, keeping the soothing heat of the bath close.

Almost as if on cue, two quick knocks sounded at the door. Leifa hurried to open it, revealing Erchirion standing in the frame.

"Good, you're ready. We need to go or else we’ll be late for the banquet," he said, offering Lothíriel his arm. She quickly took it, but had to jog beside him to keep pace. Focusing on not tripping over her skirts in their haste, she barely registered Erchirion muttering something under his breath.

As they approached the great hall, Erchirion’s steps slowed slightly, his gaze landing on Éowyn and Éomer just ahead. Lothíriel noticed the way his expression immediately soured, his lips pressing into a thin line as he caught sight of the siblings. Without hesitation, she pinched his arm lightly, pulling his attention back to her. Erchirion glanced at her, his irritation clear for a brief moment before he composed himself, adjusting his expression into a polite, cool smile.

Lothíriel, on the other hand, let her own smile bloom with warmth as they neared the entrance. Releasing Erchirion’s arm, she hurried forward to take Éowyn’s hand, the two walking together confidently toward the tables laden with the bounty King Théoden had promised.

oOo

Éomer watched as Éowyn and Lothíriel walked ahead, talking and laughing together. He wasn’t surprised they had gotten along so well, but it had been a shock to see how much Éowyn had come alive in just a few hours. To those who didn’t know her well, it might seem as though she was simply playing the part of a kind host, but Éomer recognized the genuine spark in his sister. He had seen her sadness grow over the past years, slowly consuming her until it nearly snuffed out her light. He desperately wished he could set aside his duties to be there for her more, to keep that spark alive. But his responsibilities weighed heavily. His homeland - his family - needed him to protect them against the ever-growing threats of orcs and Dunlendings. And he wouldn’t trust anyone else with that burden when he knew he was capable of acting as a protector of the realm.

Beside him, Théoden nudged him gently. “Your sister seems happier than I’ve seen her in some time,” he said, his words echoing Éomer’s thoughts in a low voice, careful not to draw attention. "Aside from your report on the attacks earlier, tell me of your time away from us. How are the people faring? And what are your thoughts on our southern guests?"

Éomer turned to his uncle, appreciating the shift in conversation. Leaning back, he picked up a cup of mead and drank deeply. He stole another glance at Éowyn, her laughter ringing out through the hall, before returning his focus to Théoden. “The people are resilient, as always. The villages that were burned are being rebuilt, though it will take time to recover fully from the raids. There’s a weariness in the air—everyone feels the growing pressure of a coming war, but they endure.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Erchirion and Lothíriel. “As for our southern guests, Prince Erchirion… he’s a very dutiful brother. Too stubborn and naïve for my liking. He seems to value his books more than his own life. He’s quite the scholar, but beyond that, he might as well be a child.”

Éomer’s gaze softened as he shifted his attention to Lothíriel. “His sister, however… she’s kind and quick to smile. She reminds me a little of Éowyn, before the weight of our troubles began to crush her spirit.”

Théoden stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Do you know why they are traveling to Rivendell?”

“No,” Éomer replied, “though I believe the princess is ill. The first night we made camp, she collapsed while grooming her horse. Prince Erchirion mentioned that it had happened before.”

Théoden frowned, his brow furrowing in concern. “That is a shame. Though perhaps if she is cured…” He paused, stroking his beard once more as he considered the situation. “She does seem quite comfortable here in Rohan, and from what I’ve heard from Marshal Elfhelm, she’s gotten along well with everyone. A spirit like hers would be welcome here.”

Éomer nodded, though his thoughts drifted to how easily Lothíriel had brought a light back into Éowyn’s eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder what her future held, and if Rohan might become a part of it. 

As the evening shifted into night, Éowyn and Lothíriel continued to chat, their conversations flowing easily with those around them. When they had finished their meals, the two girls strolled lazily out of the great hall, their laughter lingering in the air as they made their way toward their chambers. Once they were out of sight, Éomer excused himself to retire for the night. While most of his éored would use their time in Edoras to rest or reconnect with their loved ones, Éomer had other duties waiting. At dawn, he would be at the training field with the newest recruits, sharpening the skills of Rohan's next generation of warriors.

His room was tidy when he entered, the familiar simplicity of it welcoming him after a long day. Without delay, Éomer shed his clothing and climbed into bed, a deep satisfaction settling over him after the day’s events and the joy of sharing a meal with his family and people. As he closed his eyes, the sounds of Éowyn and Lothíriel’s laughter echoed pleasantly in his mind, and soon, sweet dreams carried him into the night.

Chapter Text

As the sun began to reach its apex, Lothíriel watched Éowyn speak with a small group of townspeople with guild insignias on their tunics, her face animated and warm. The two had spent the entire morning together, exploring Edoras and meeting its people. Éowyn had taken great care to introduce Lothíriel to everyone they encountered, ensuring she felt like a welcomed guest in the heart of the Riddermark.

Lothíriel had been especially touched by the children’s unreserved acceptance of her. The moment Éowyn introduced her, they had pulled her into their games with infectious enthusiasm, laughing and running through the streets. She’d played alongside them, her gown billowing as she twirled and laughed with the young ones, momentarily forgetting her status as a princess. It was an experience she’d never had in Dol Amroth, where formality often governed her interactions. Here, she felt free, even if just for a little while.

Now, as Éowyn finished her conversation with the guild artisans and made her way back toward her, Lothíriel smiled at the memory of her morning spent exploring and playing with the children.

“Thank you for waiting,” Éowyn said, her tone apologetic. “The leaders of the tanners’ and weavers' guilds had an update for my uncle.”

Lothíriel nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It was no trouble at all. The people here are so warm and welcoming, and the children - they have such joyful spirits.”

Éowyn smiled broadly, her eyes bright with pride. “The children of Edoras know no strangers. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed their company.” She glanced toward the market ahead. “Shall we continue? There’s still much of the city left to see before the day is done.”

Lothíriel began to nod, but before she could speak, her stomach growled loudly. “I don’t suppose we could pause our exploration for a meal?” she chuckled.

“Of course,” Éowyn nodded, her own stomach growling in response as if the mention of food had stirred something within. The two girls exchanged a look and burst into laughter as they began walking up the steps toward Meduseld.

“I see you two are enjoying yourselves,” Éomer said as he approached from behind, pulling Éowyn into a brief hug.

“Éomer,” Éowyn smiled at her brother. “I’m surprised to see you out of training before sundown,” she teased.

“I was summoned by our uncle. Apparently, he wishes to speak with me before it gets too late.” He glanced toward the great hall of Rohan’s king. “I don’t suppose you’d know why?”

“I don’t,” Éowyn shook her head. “Lothíriel and I have been in the city since we finished breaking our fast this morning.”

Éomer nodded, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. "Well, whatever it is, I suspect it’s something of importance," he said, his tone light but edged with curiosity.

“Then we had best not keep him waiting,” Éowyn replied, slipping her arm through Éomer’s, linking them together. With her free hand, she reached down and took Lothíriel’s hand, and the trio marched up the steps to Meduseld, only letting go of Éomer once they reached the great doors.

As they entered the hall, Marshal Elfhelm called out a hearty greeting to Éomer, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. He nodded respectfully to Lothíriel and Éowyn before pulling Éomer further into the hall. Before they reached a table the sound of the king’s voice echoed through the hall.

“Éomer, it is good you are here.” Théoden stood from his seat as Éomer approached, arms open wide in welcome. Without hesitation, Éomer stepped into the embrace, allowing his uncle's affection to wash over him. After a moment, he stepped back and bowed low, his respect clear.

“You summoned me, my king?” Éomer asked, keeping his head bowed until Théoden gestured for him to rise.

“I did,” Théoden replied, his voice firm but warm, though a note of formality ran through it. “After hearing of how you conducted yourself as Marshal Elfhelm’s second in command, the time has come - perhaps it is past due - for you to take your next step.”

“You are a smart and strong rider, Éomer,” Théoden continued, “who puts nothing before the good of our country - not even your own life. You have not only become a fine man, but a rider your father would be proud to call son. It is for these reasons that I believe you are ready to take your next step as a leader among our people.”

Théoden turned and picked up something from beside his throne, an object Lothíriel hadn’t noticed before. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized what it was - a helm with a white horsetail coming from the top.

“Éomer, son of Éomund, kneel.”

Éomer’s eyes widened, but without hesitation, he dropped to one knee before the king. The hall was silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the weighty anticipation hanging in the air. Lothíriel watched, her heart pounding in her chest, while beside her, Éowyn’s face lit up with pride and joy.

With solemnity, Théoden placed the helm onto Éomer’s head. “You are named Third Marshal of Rohan,” he declared, his voice carrying across the hall, “and granted your rightful inheritance and lordship of Aldburg!”

A wave of pride swept through the room, and Lothíriel couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene. Éomer, now newly anointed, lifted his head, the light of the hall reflecting off his helm as he stood, embodying the strength and honor of Rohan.

All around them, cheers erupted, causing the very walls of Meduseld to shudder with the force of the celebration. Men and women surged forward, offering congratulations to Éomer with hearty slaps on his shoulders and back. Éowyn rushed to her brother’s side, embracing him.

As the celebration swirled around them, a familiar voice murmured beside Lothíriel. "What’s wrong?" Erchirion asked, and Lothíriel jumped slightly, not having noticed his presence until that moment.

“I’ve seen him before,” she whispered, trying to let Erchirion hear her without drawing attention from those nearby.

Erchirion frowned, confused. "Of course you’ve seen him before. He escorted us here."

Lothíriel shook her head. "No, I’ve seen him." The weight of her words hung between them as Erchirion’s expression shifted, understanding dawning in his eyes. He looked at Éomer briefly before turning back to his sister.

“How do you know it was him specifically? Couldn’t it have been someone like him?”

“It was his helmet,” she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “I saw it in his hands after an attack. He hurt his leg in it. I felt it - the pain - when the orc plunged its blade into him.” She shuddered, the memory of her vision flickering in her mind like an unwelcome shadow. “And as soon as the king touched that helmet, I just knew. I’ve seen it before.”

Erchirion’s eyes narrowed as he considered her words, glancing back toward Éomer. Lothíriel bit her lip, wondering if she should reveal the full extent of her condition to their hosts. The urge to warn Éomer pressed heavily on her, but the fear of disbelief - of what might happen if they didn’t trust her - loomed larger. What if he thought her mad? What if revealing her visions led to more deaths, like the ones in Dol Amroth?

Swallowing her rising anxiety, she stepped forward abruptly. “I should tell him,” she declared, though her voice carried more certainty than she felt. Erchirion caught her arm, his grip firm yet gentle. She turned to him, watching as he shook his head.

"Lothíriel," he said softly, "don’t."

She shook off his hand, stubbornly lifting her chin. "I have to." But as she made her way toward Éomer once more, she saw him being led away by Théoden, the king’s arm slung proudly over his nephew’s shoulders.

She halted, torn between this new sense of duty and already present fear. Erchirion stepped beside her, his presence steady.

“It’s for the best," he said. "Even if they do believe you, he already knows the dangers of his position. And you can’t name the exact time or place of the attack.”

Lothíriel exhaled, her brother’s words hitting each of her doubts head-on. She nodded reluctantly. “Very well,” she said quietly, her voice resigned. "I won’t say anything about it." But as she watched the excited crowd, the weight of her decision lingered uneasily in her chest.

oOo

Éowyn had never felt such overwhelming pride for her brother. Éomer's promotion to Marshal was a recognition of everything he had sacrificed and worked for, but beneath her joy, a bittersweet feeling settled in her chest. She already saw so little of him, and now, with his new duties as Lord of Aldburg and Marshal, she knew he would be away from Edoras even more—just like their cousin Théodred.

She shook her head, casting away the sadness creeping into her thoughts. This was not the time for melancholy. The fact that Éomer had earned his title only three years after being assigned to serve under Marshal Elfhelm was nothing short of remarkable, and Éowyn refused to let anything - not even her own heart - diminish the significance of that achievement.

Over where she had left her, Lothíriel stood near the wall at the back of the hall, beside her brother. Éowyn noticed Erchirion saying something to Lothíriel before leaving with a pair of Swan-knights. Lothíriel’s gaze lingered in the direction Théoden and Éomer had gone, her expression thoughtful. As Éowyn made her way back toward her, stopping now and then to accept congratulations on her brother’s behalf, she noted the subtle frown pulling at the corners of Lothíriel’s mouth.

“Is something wrong?” Éowyn asked gently when she reached her.

“Not at all,” Lothíriel said, her features shifting into a calm, serene mask as she faced Éowyn. “I just was hoping I could pass on my congratulations to Éomer—or I suppose I should say Marshal Éomer.”

“When I next see my brother, I will be sure to tell him,” Éowyn promised. “But for now, we still need to attend to our midday meal, and there are still things you need to see before you leave tomorrow.” She glanced at the tables, quickly being refilled after the event, the crowd growing rowdier with excitement. “Go and wait for me outside. The day is too pleasant to waste it indoors. I’ll be right out with some food.”

Lothíriel nodded, and Éowyn turned on her heel, making her way to the kitchens. As she passed through the heavy cloth covering the entrance, the rich scents of herbs, roasting meat, and freshly baked bread filled the air. She found a sturdy basket and began filling it with fruits, rolls of bread, and some freshly carved pheasant. Satisfied with the meal she had gathered, Éowyn lifted the now heavily laden basket and strode confidently toward the doors, pausing now and then to greet the riders she passed.

Just as she reached the doors, Gríma, one of her uncle’s advisors, stepped into her path. Unlike the rest of her countrymen, who wore bright colors and carried the warmth of the sun in their skin, Gríma was pale, almost sickly, and dressed in dark clothing that made him look perpetually prepared for a funeral. His presence always set her on edge, though she couldn’t quite explain why. He reached out a hand toward her, but she sidestepped, pulling back just out of his reach.

“Good day, Gríma,” she said, her voice polite but firm. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to speak with you. Princess Lothíriel is waiting for me outside.” With a quick nod and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Éowyn hurried past him and out the door, not waiting for his response.

oOo

Lothíriel sat on the steps of the terrace in front of the large doors of Meduseld, her gaze distant as a gentle breeze wafted past. Though the sun's rays bathed the golden hall in light, it lacked the warmth she was accustomed to in Dol Amroth. A sudden pang of homesickness tugged at her heart, and her thoughts drifted to her favorite spots along the beach and in the woods. She remembered the way the ocean stayed cool, even in the height of summer, and how her hair would fan out behind her as she swam in the sea. The hustle of people moving around her faded into the background as she quietly reflected on home.

“I’ve worn that look more times than I can count,” came a familiar voice. Éomer sat down beside her, his presence grounding her from her reverie. “What are you missing?”

“Home,” Lothíriel admitted softly, turning to look at him. He was dressed in his rider's gear once again, his new helm held securely under one arm. He nodded, as though understanding her unspoken thoughts.

“There are few who truly know what it means to leave home and family behind for more than a few days,” he said. “I don’t know how often I’ll be able to come back to Edoras or see Éowyn again myself.”

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, the heaviness of his words sinking in.

“As Third Marshal, I have to oversee Aldburg, my ancestral home, and the lands of the East-Mark. There are many threats that would seek to destroy or oppress the people there. It’s my duty - and my honor - to protect them.” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “Though I regret I won’t be able to see you and your brother safely to the border. But you’re in good hands with Marshal Elfhelm. He’s as capable as they come.”

Lothíriel smiled faintly, though a pang of sadness lingered. “Thank you, Éomer. I’ve no doubt we will be safe under his watch. Still…” she hesitated, feeling the weight of the moment, “I’m sorry that duty calls you away so soon. I had hoped we all might have become better friends after sorting out all the foolishness with Erchirion.”

Éomer’s expression softened, and he gave her a reassuring nod. “It is the way of things, but perhaps our paths will cross again. In the meantime, I wish you the best, princess.” He stood, offering a quick bow before turning and walking down the steps toward the stables.

Moments later, Éowyn appeared beside Lothíriel, a basket of food still in hand, her expression curious. "What did my brother say?" she asked lightly, though concern laced her voice.

Lothíriel watched Éomer’s retreating figure for a moment before turning to Éowyn with a soft smile. "He’s leaving soon. Duty calls him to Aldburg."

Éowyn's smile faltered slightly. “Of course,” she said, her tone understanding but tinged with sadness. “He’s always been so focused on his responsibilities. I just wish he had more time.”

Lothíriel nodded. “I can see why you’re proud of him.”

Éowyn glanced toward the stables for a moment before speaking again. “Could you hold this for a moment? I’ll be right back.” She set the basket beside Lothíriel and walked briskly toward the stables.

Lothíriel watched as Éowyn approached Éomer. The siblings embraced, speaking softly to each other in their native tongue. There was a tenderness in their exchange, a closeness that transcended the words they spoke. Éomer kissed the top of Éowyn's head before placing his helmet on and mounting Firestorm. Éowyn stepped aside, giving him and a few riders room to exit the stables. Lothíriel's heart felt heavy as she watched them ride out of the city, Éowyn standing still until the riders disappeared from view.

When Éowyn returned, her expression was composed, but the sadness lingered in her eyes. “I hate whenever he goes. I don’t have much family left, and I can’t imagine losing my brother too.” Her voice caught for a moment, and she quickly cleared her throat. Taking the basket from Lothíriel’s side, she forced a small smile. “But let us not dwell on such things. We have food, and the day is too beautiful to spend in sorrow. Let’s enjoy what time we have left together before you depart.”

With that, the two women rose, determined to savor the afternoon. Despite the unspoken weight of their own impending farewells, they were intent on finding joy in the moments they still had.

As the afternoon waned and the pair began their return to Meduseld, Lothíriel’s eyes caught sight of a small, overgrown garden tucked away behind the grand hall. She veered off the path to inspect it more closely, her curiosity piqued by the tangled weeds and long-dead flowers. As she reached out to touch the remains of a wilted bloom, Éowyn’s voice came from behind her.

“This was my grandmother’s garden,” Éowyn said softly. “Uncle told me she was from Gondor and brought many of the flowers from her homeland with her. After she died, the garden fell into disrepair. I’ve tried to revive it, but haven’t had much luck.”

Lothíriel glanced at the faded plants, a wistfulness in her gaze. “I think I recognize some of these from the gardens back home.” She pointed to a withered flower, its once-vibrant color now lost to time. “I think this one would have been either a bright blue or red, with long petals that flowed outward like the bottom of a gown.”

Éowyn nodded, intrigued as Lothíriel continued. “In Dol Amroth, we have a garden filled with these. They're stunning when they bloom, especially by the sea.” Her voice grew more animated as she pointed out other flowers, describing how they had once been lush and vibrant in her homeland. She spoke of deep purples, sunny yellows, and soft pinks, their petals dancing in the salty air as they overlooked the Bay of Belfalas.

Éowyn listened intently as they wandered slowly through the overgrown path, Lothíriel’s words bringing a sense of life back to the neglected space. For a brief moment, the garden felt alive again, not with flowers but with the shared memories and stories of home.

“I wish I could see Dol Amroth’s gardens one day,” Éowyn said quietly. "Maybe I could learn how to tend this one properly."

“You’d be welcome anytime,” Lothíriel replied with a warm smile. “And we could bring some fresh flowers from Gondor to plant here.” She paused, her voice softening. “Though I can’t promise it will be anytime soon.”

Éowyn nodded, understanding the weight of that unspoken truth. “I had to leave Aldburg when I was very young, after my mother died and my uncle adopted Éomer and me. I miss it all the time. I’m sure you miss many things about Dol Amroth.”

Lothíriel’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes distant as she thought of her home. “There are so many things,” she admitted. “The salty air is always around you. I miss walking along the tide in my bare feet, feeling the surf tickling my toes. I miss my family. I find myself wondering what my brothers are doing each day.”

She felt tears sting her eyes, her homesickness overwhelming her. But before the tears could fall, she blinked them away and took a deep, steadying breath. Éowyn glanced down at the ground, the weight of Lothíriel’s words settling between them.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” Éowyn said after a moment, her voice quiet with regret. “We don’t have to talk about Gondor if it bothers you.”

Lothíriel shook her head vigorously. “No, it’s alright,” she reassured her friend, her voice firmer now. “It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. Sometimes, it helps to remember. It’s just... hard, especially when I know I won’t be seeing it again for some time.”

Éowyn offered a small, understanding smile. “I know that feeling,” she said softly. “But you’ll see it again, just as I’ll see Aldburg.”

“Will you tell me more about Rohan?” Lothíriel asked, changing the subject. “I’ve read some of the tales recorded by merchants and travelers, but I doubt they hold a candle to hearing it from you or one of your countryfolk.”

Éowyn nodded eagerly, and with a bright smile, she began to recount stories of warriors—both men and women—who had fought valiantly for Rohan against wild men and orcs. As she spoke of the shieldmaidens, her excitement became palpable, her eyes sparkling with pride. Each time she described one of the fierce women, Éowyn’s face would light up, and her voice would quicken with passion.

Occasionally, she would spring to her feet, acting out the battles with enthusiasm, mimicking the clash of swords and the strength of the warriors. At the conclusion of each mock fight, she would collapse dramatically to her knees, declaring her undying devotion to a lost love or reciting the words of a victorious warrior. Lothíriel laughed, swept up in the vividness of the stories.

Éowyn continued, jumping from one tale to the next, her energy seemingly boundless. The two girls became so immersed in the legends of Rohan that neither noticed the sky darkening as the day slipped away. Lothíriel felt as though she were being transported into the very heart of the Riddermark, experiencing each battle and triumph through Éowyn’s eyes.

“-and Uncle Théoden says that I can learn the art of swordplay and marksmanship!” Éowyn exclaimed excitedly, her voice brimming with pride.

Lothíriel’s eyes widened. “Truly? You’ll be a warrior like the shieldmaidens in your stories.”

“I hope so,” Éowyn said, grinning. “I’ve already begun practicing. One day, I’ll be as skilled as any of them.”

Lothíriel smiled warmly. “I have no doubt. You already have the heart of a warrior.”

Éowyn’s grin softened at the compliment, and she sat back down beside Lothíriel. “And perhaps one day, I’ll have my own stories to tell - of battles fought and won, and of the shieldmaiden I hope to become.”

“You will,” Lothíriel said confidently. “And when you do, I’ll be right there to hear every word.”

oOo

Lothíriel sprawled out onto her bed, her stomach full and her eyes heavy from the long, yet wonderfully pleasant day spent with Éowyn. A smile crept across her lips as she thought about the fact that she finally had a friend. It was a small but meaningful revelation. Sitting up, she looked around the room, her smile fading slowly. She would miss this place. Though it was not truly home - the absence of her personal knick-knacks or cherished treasures made that clear - she felt more at peace here in Edoras than she had in months. Pulling her knees to her chest, she buried her face in her arms, letting the feeling wash over her.

A soft knock at the door startled her. With a sigh, Lothíriel stood and opened it to find Erchirion standing there. The moment he saw her forlorn expression, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him before pulling her into a comforting embrace. She didn’t resist the tears as they spilled over, sobbing into her brother’s shirt as he stroked her hair, whispering soft words of reassurance. His presence was steady, and she clung to it, letting the weight of her emotions finally settle. When her tears subsided, she looked up at him, seeing only compassion in his eyes.

“I hate that Father sent me away,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Erchirion’s face shifted slightly, as though he was fighting his own sadness. He led her to one of the chairs by the fireplace, guiding her to sit as he took the one beside her.

“It was for your good and safety,” he said quietly, his tone filled with the weight of responsibility. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “And it won’t be forever. Think of this as a long vacation - an adventure, where you get to make new friends and see wondrous places. Even Elphir and Amrothos couldn’t dream of the beautiful places and people we’ve encountered these past days.”

Lothíriel nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You and I are the dreamers in our family,” she said with a light chuckle.

Erchirion returned the smile and laughed softly. “That we are.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out their mother’s book. “Now,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “shall I read you a story?”

Lothíriel curled up in her chair, nodding. Erchirion opened the book and began reading, his voice soothing and steady.

The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering…

As his words filled the room, Lothíriel felt her worries slip away, carried off by the familiar rhythm of her brother’s storytelling. For a little while, she wasn’t a princess far from home, but a child again, comforted by her brother’s presence and the magic of a good story.

Chapter Text

The Border of Rohan and Tharbad
Autumn 3009

Lothíriel stretched in her saddle, hoping to ease some of the stiffness in her muscles as she noticed two riders approaching from the north. She had no doubt they were the elf twins she’d heard about, Elladan and Elrohir. The sight of their graceful approach filled her with anticipation. Marshal Elfhelm, spotting the distant figures, called out for the company to halt and begin preparations to set up camp.

"How soon do you suppose they will arrive?" Lothíriel asked, her gaze fixed on the approaching riders.

Marshal Elfhelm took a moment, studying the speed of the elves before answering, "I expect they’ll be among us before the sun sets."

Lothíriel watched the distant figures for a moment longer before turning her attention to Erchirion, prepared to help her dismount from Hazelfal. Once on the ground, she immediately set about her routine of grooming her horse. Over the course of the journey, the Riders of Rohan had shared tips on how best to handle the evening task. What had once been a chore had become a calming ritual for both her and Hazelfal. She understood now how deeply the riders connected with their horses, each movement speaking a quiet language of trust between horse and rider.

As she finished grooming Hazelfal, one of her guards lifted the heavy saddle, carrying it to her tent. She smiled gratefully at him before making her way toward one of the fires where supper was already being prepared. Taking a seat beside Erchirion, she stretched her hands toward the warmth of the flames, grateful for the heat after a long day of travel.

“I wouldn’t have thought it would be so cold this early in October,” Erchirion remarked quietly, his voice carrying a hint of concern. He gazed up at the darkening sky, his expression pensive. “I do hope we continue to experience dry weather. I can’t imagine how unpleasant it would be if it rained like it did during our tenday journey to Edoras.”

Lothíriel shivered slightly at the memory, the thought of those miserable days lingering in her mind. The relentless rain, the way the clouds had only parted briefly, offering mere hours of respite before drenching them again—it had been a challenge just to keep warm. The damp had seeped into everything, leaving her clothes heavy and the roads treacherous. She shook her head slightly, not wanting to dwell on the discomforts of that journey.

“Let’s hope for clear skies then,” she said, her voice light as she glanced at her brother. “I’m not eager to repeat that experience either.”

As they finished their meal, the distant thunder of hooves filled the camp, growing louder by the second. Lothíriel’s gaze shifted toward the approaching riders, and within moments, the dark-haired elves entered their camp. Their movements were so fluid and graceful that it seemed as though they barely touched the ground. The air itself seemed to hum with a quiet energy, making their presence all the more striking.

Their long, raven-black hair flowed down their backs, partially braided in intricate designs that seemed to reflect the timelessness of their kind. Only the pointed tips of their ears broke the sleek fall of their hair. Many of the Rohirrim openly stared at them, awe and curiosity clear in their expressions. Others, trying to maintain a sense of propriety, feigned disinterest, though they too cast frequent glances in the direction of the elven twins. Regardless of the approach, everyone gave the newcomers a respectful berth, creating a space around them.

Erchirion and Lothíriel rose to greet the elves, catching their attention. Erchirion, unable to contain his excitement, stepped forward with a broad smile.

"Good evening, my lords. I trust that you have journeyed well?" His voice brimmed with enthusiasm, his smile wide. Lothíriel could tell he wasn’t even attempting to mask his excitement. "I must confess, I have never had the pleasure of making an elf’s acquaintance before," he continued, "and to meet two at once is quite the honor."

The twins, Elladan and Elrohir, exchanged a glance, their expressions softened with amusement. The one on the left inclined his head gracefully.

“The honor is ours, Prince Erchirion,” said one of the elves in a smooth, melodic voice. “It is not often we encounter the kin of our friends from Gondor.”

“We traveled safely under the watch of Eru Ilúvatar,” added the other, clasping his hands together in a gesture of respect. “I am Elladan, and this is my brother, Elrohir. We are the sons of Elrond Peredhel, here to guide you through Rohan and into our father’s homeland.”

Elrohir then turned his gaze to Erchirion, his expression warm but expectant. “If we are to call each other acquaintances, might we be graced with your name, Lord of Gondor?”

Caught off guard, Erchirion’s face flushed a deep red. The quiet sound of snickers rippled through some of the Rohirrim behind them as he stumbled over his introduction.

“I-I am Prince Er-Erchirion of Dol A-Amroth,” he managed, his voice shaky, the color in his cheeks only deepening with each stuttered word.

“The pleasure is all ours,” Elrohir said graciously, bowing slightly in unison with his brother before their attention turned to Lothíriel. “And you must be the princess our father spoke of.”

For a moment, Lothíriel hesitated, still rattled by her brother’s nervous display. Gathering herself, she nodded.

“ A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, ” Elrohir said, this time in Sindarin, his smile encouraging. The familiar sound of her native tongue spoken so fluidly put Lothíriel at ease. Taking a deep breath, she responded in kind.

“ I am Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, ” she said, her voice steady now.

“ Well met, my lady, ” Elrohir replied, taking her hand with gentle grace before switching back to Westron. “You speak Sindarin well for someone who has not been tutored by elves.”

Lothíriel smiled, glancing back at Erchirion, who was slowly regaining his composure. “I learned from my brother’s studies. Many of the poems and songs he translated for me in Dol Amroth are beautiful in their original language.”

“We would be honored if you might share some of those poems with us during the long ride to Imladris,” Elrohir said. “If you are a scholar, our libraries will certainly interest you. I would be glad to give you a tour when we arrive.”

Erchirion’s face brightened, the embarrassment fading as a broad smile spread across his features. “I would be honored beyond words, my lord,” he said earnestly. Gesturing toward his tent, he added, “Would you care to see some of the volumes I’ve brought with me?”

Elrohir nodded, and Erchirion eagerly led him away, leaving Lothíriel standing with Elladan.

“I have a feeling my brother has found a friend in yours,” Lothíriel said with a soft smile.

Elladan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It seems so. Elrohir has always taken a keen interest in stories, histories, and all scholarly pursuits.”

Lothíriel chuckled. “I suppose they’ll have no shortage of things to discuss.”

Elladan’s gaze shifted to study her more closely. “You mentioned songs and poems earlier. Are you musical by nature?”

Lothíriel hesitated, her fingers brushing the fabric of her gown. “I sing sometimes,” she admitted softly, “but based on the way my father speaks of my mother, I doubt I will ever measure up to her. He often says he fell in love with her all over again every time she took up her harp and sang. But I feel that music helps me feel closer to her.”

Elladan’s smile, though small, carried a warmth that reassured her. “I feel the same way,” he replied gently. “And for that reason, do not dismiss your own talents simply because you measure them against those who can no longer share their music. Each voice, each song, carries its own beauty.”

His words settled over Lothíriel like a balm, easing the ache of her uncertainties. She smiled gratefully, feeling a sense of peace knowing that her own music, though different from her mother’s, had its place.

Elladan straightened, glancing around the camp. “I must prepare my tent,” he said, his voice kind. “And no doubt you are weary from the ride. I would not keep you longer. Until tomorrow, sweet dreams, Princess.”

“Until tomorrow,” Lothíriel echoed, her voice filled with gratitude.

As soon as he left, Lothíriel felt the weight of her exhaustion settle over her. A deep yawn escaped her lips as she made her way toward her own tent. Nearby, she could hear Erchirion and Elrohir discussing the finer points of one of her brother's books, their voices low but animated. Ignoring the murmur of their conversation, she pulled the heavy fur blanket over herself, sinking into its warmth. Within moments, she drifted into a deep and peaceful slumber, her dreams filled with a golden-haired elf singing softly in the dawn light.

oOo

Lothíriel fastened her cloak tightly around her shoulders as she stepped out of her tent, the early morning air biting at her skin. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a soft red-golden hue across the plains. The frost that coated the grass sparkled like diamonds where the sunlight touched it, catching the light in a way that made the landscape feel almost ethereal. Each breath she exhaled sent small puffs of mist into the cool air, confirming just how cold the morning had become.

As Lothíriel made her way toward the heart of the camp, which was still slowly coming to life in the early morning light, she spotted Erchirion seated beside his horse. His breakfast—a simple traveler’s meal of hard bread, dried fruit, and a small portion of cheese—was laid out on a cloth beside him. He absentmindedly nibbled on a piece of bread as his attention remained fixed on the book in his hands. His brow furrowed slightly as he read, fully immersed in whatever text he was studying, while occasionally pausing to take a sip from his cup. 

“Is that Tharbad over there?” Lothíriel asked, stepping closer to where Erchirion sat. She squinted through the early morning mist, barely able to make out the distant, crumbling ruins.

Erchirion, startled by her voice, looked up from his book. Following her gaze, he nodded toward the forlorn remnants of the ancient town. “It’s been abandoned for nearly a century. Only the occasional traveler or wild animal visits now.”

Lothíriel tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the chill in the air cutting through her. "It’s strange, seeing a place that was once alive now so silent, as if time itself has forgotten it.”

Erchirion’s voice was flat, almost emotionless as he responded. “Tharbad’s fall was inevitable. Over the course of centuries, numerous floods washed away much of the city, and those who stayed behind eventually had no choice but to leave. There was no future left for it.” 

Lothíriel took a seat beside her brother, savoring the warmth of the steaming bowl of porridge handed to her by one of the guards. Topped with mixed nuts and dried fruit, the bowl not only warmed her fingers but filled the air with the comforting scent of cinnamon. As she ate, the heat spread through her, a welcome relief from the morning chill that lingered in the air.

As she finished her meal, she noticed two figures approaching from the edge of the camp—Elladan and Elrohir, the famed elf twins she had heard much about. Their movements were graceful and purposeful as they strode toward Lothíriel and Erchirion, a quiet intensity in their expressions.

Elladan spoke first, his voice calm but serious. "The recent rain has caused the river to swell, and the ford is impassable for now."

Erchirion set aside his bowl, concern crossing his features. “How did you and your brother manage to cross if the river is so high?”

Before Elladan could answer, Elrohir chimed in, taking a seat beside his brother. “We found a shallower part of the river upstream. It was a dangerous path, and I doubt we could lead a group of this size through it without serious risk.”

Lothíriel frowned, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as she considered their options. “What do we do then?”

Elrohir stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We could circle back south to a safer crossing, but that would add several days to the journey.”

“How much longer will it take to reach Rivendell once we’ve crossed?” Lothíriel asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“If we cross here, once the ford clears, it will take another three weeks to reach Imladris,” Elladan replied. “We should arrive just before winter sets in.”

At this point, several Swan-knights approached, overhearing the mention of the river. The silver-haired leader of the group stepped forward, joining the conversation with a serious expression. “What are our options, my lords?” he asked, directing his question to the twins.

Elladan exchanged a glance with his brother before answering. “Waiting for the river to recede is one option, and likely the safest. If the weather holds, the water should lower in the next day or two, and we can cross without delay.”

Elrohir nodded in agreement. “The southern path is safer but slower. If we go that way, we risk encountering more bad weather or additional delays, and it will add days to our journey.”

The Swan-knight folded his arms, looking between the twins and Erchirion. “Then it sounds like our best course is to wait and hope the river lowers soon. We don’t want to risk splitting the company or encountering further danger.”

Erchirion nodded thoughtfully. “Waiting seems like the wiser choice. We’ll give the river another day or two. If it doesn’t lower, we’ll take the southern route.”

The Swan-knights nodded in agreement, and the group began to settle into their preparations for the evening. As the others discussed plans for the night, Lothíriel stood her mind elsewhere, and began to wander toward the crumbling remains of some nearby Númenórean buildings. Behind her, two guards followed at a respectful distance, giving her the illusion of solitude.

The ruins were eerily quiet, standing as solemn reminders of a long-gone era. Lothíriel's fingers brushed against the intricate carvings in the stonework, their patterns both familiar and foreign. The craftsmanship echoed the Númenórean influence she had seen back home in Dol Amroth, though these were much older and worn by time. Vines crept up the walls, intertwining with the stone as if nature had slowly reclaimed what had once been grand and bustling.

Her gaze shifted to the scattered remnants of daily life—shards of broken pottery, a rusted piece of metal that might have once been part of a tool or weapon, the faint outline of where a door had once stood. She could almost imagine the people who had once lived here, bustling through these streets, unaware that one day their homes would be left to the elements, their lives reduced to mere traces.

In her wanderings, Lothíriel turned a corner and found herself in what must have once been a bustling market, now reduced to a grassy lane reclaimed by time. Several feet ahead, a doe and her fawn grazed peacefully, unaware of her presence. Lothíriel held her breath, watching them with quiet awe, not wanting to disturb their serenity. But behind her, the clink of her guards' armor broke the silence.

The doe's ears stood straight up, swiveling toward the sound as her fawn, still carefree, continued to nibble on the grass. When the doe finally noticed Lothíriel standing there, it froze. They remained locked in a mutual moment of stillness until another clank of armor startled the doe. Its tail shot up in alarm, and the fawn quickly followed its mother's lead, lifting its head just in time to bound off after her. Loose rocks clattered loudly as they dashed away, knocking some debris onto the path in their hasty escape.

By the time her guards caught up, the doe and her fawn had vanished. Lothíriel sighed softly, grateful she had unwittingly helped the creatures avoid becoming a meal. One of the guards surveyed the area cautiously. "What was that noise?" he asked, eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger.

"Nothing," Lothíriel lied with a shrug. "I was just throwing stones."

The second guard frowned slightly, his voice hushed. "I think it’s best we leave this place be," he said, glancing warily at the ruins. "These old cities…they say disturbing them can wake the dead." He reached out to Lothíriel, gently guiding her away from the ancient market. "Come, let’s return to the fire, where it’s warm and full of life."

Lothíriel hesitated, her curiosity not yet sated, but when she caught sight of the unease in the guards’ expressions, she relented. With one last glance toward the overgrown ruins, she turned back toward the camp. It was probably for the best. Any further exploration might lead the guards to the traces of the doe and fawn, and she had no desire to see a hunt begin.

oOo

After two days, Elladan and Elrohir deemed the river safe enough to cross. The party, eager to continue their journey, prepared for departure with a quiet sense of urgency. One by one, they bid their farewells to the Rohirrim, crossing the border out of Rohan with the ford of the river in sight.

Within an hour, the party began the crossing. Elladan led from the front, guiding them in a single line, with Elrohir keeping a vigilant eye at the rear. The ford lay in the shadow of a once-great bridge, its remains towering above them in jagged, crumbling ruins. Huge pieces of stone, some as large as buildings, jutted from the water like ancient sentinels, remnants of a time long past.

As they passed the debris, Lothíriel's mind wandered to the bridge in its prime. She imagined knights and elves riding across its grand arches, the city below bustling with life. She could almost see the mills turning and fishermen casting nets along the riverbanks, the hum of life filling the air. Her thoughts turned somber as she imagined the despair of the last remaining citizens when the first stone fell from the bridge, signaling the city's inevitable decay. She wondered if Tharbad would ever be restored, or if it would remain as it was, a ghost of history fading into obscurity.

By the time her attention returned to the steady gait of her horse beneath her, they had nearly reached the other side of the river. Lothíriel looked ahead, and as the old world of Tharbad slipped behind them, her thoughts turned to Rivendell, to the unknown future awaiting her in the hidden valley of the elves.