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The portrait beckoned to her as she finished dressing, snapping the ornate bracelet round her wrist gingerly. She knew it was an heirloom stretching back centuries and she really did not want to break it. She checked her hair, making sure that no stray strands were flying out and she stepped over to the painting. She looked at him, the Prince of Dol Amroth, standing tall with his aquiline nose and his strong cheekbones, his square jaw, and she recognised her face within his, his face within hers. She smiled.
“Greetings Papa,” she whispered. “It’s me. It’s been five and twenty days since you rode out to the aid of Minas Tirith, and I have, so far, handled everything… admirably. But I am unsure about what to do with the expenses for the cooks. It seems to be that with war everything is going up and the Secretary of the Purse is warbling about costs and…. “ she took a deep breath. “And I know you will expect me to handle it, Papa. I will.”
She turned to look out of the window for a moment, hearing the cry of the seagulls out in the harbour. “Your birds visited, Papa,” she said. “They tarried for a while around the roof of the Great Hall and their cawing almost drowned out the petitions. But then they left again. It has been some days since, but I hope for their return. I think they miss you.”
She looked back at the painting, hungrily seeking out the features that showed the man who loved her so much. He loomed large, turning towards her, smiling back at her in his gentle way. “I miss you, too,” she said. She curtseyed to him. “My Lord.” She fancied that he nodded as she looked up carefully through her lashes.
Now attend to your duties, daughter, she heard. I am proud of you.
She smiled as she left the bright room behind, her silk skirts rustling as she went.
***
Her advisor looked at her critically as they walked swiftly to the Hall of Petitions, his bushy eyebrows meeting together in a frown. “You should wear louder shoes, my lady,” he said. Lothíriel looked at him for a moment, not sure if she should be puzzled or amused. “Louder shoes? What on earth do you mean?”
“Well,” he began, “You are the Lady Protector of the City. People need to hear you coming before they see you. It is part of the overall image, if you will, Lady,” he said. “They hear you walking and they scramble to make sure everything is complete. And then when you arrive you already have your audience. You see?”
Lothíriel laughed. “But I do not require the household to jump at my presence, Daeron. I am but the Princess.”
Daeron looked at her seriously. “I beg your pardon Lady,” he said, “But no, you are not. While your Lord Father and brothers are in the city you are indeed a princess. But at present you are the Lady Protector and you must step into those shoes.”
She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “As ever, Daeron, you are right. I need louder shoes.”
Daeron bowed very slightly to her, his head lowered. “I will make it happen, Lady,” he said reverently.
The hall was in front of them and she took a deep breath in as she entered. She may not have loud shoes but she would fill her fathers shoes anyway, she thought bravely. “I can do this.”
Her advisor looked at her sharply and she realized she had spoken out loud. She nodded to him. “Shall we?”
***
She was exhausted. Stretching out on the seat she groaned as she wriggled her toes. "How can it be harder doing this job than standing around looking ornamental?"
Her friend laughed from over by the bookcases. "Perhaps it takes more work to be a politically adept ornament rather than just an ornament?" She plucked a well-worn book from the shelves and sauntered over, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She took a seat in a chair next to Lothíriel, curling up in the vast depths of it. "But I think you are doing very well as the political ornament, if you wanted to know. Everyone seems to be very proud of you."
Lothíriel sighed. "I hope so. There seems to be so much that I do not know. There is always a place that I am expected to be, always another scroll to read. I'm beginning to wonder if it would have been easier to be born a boy and go into battle!"
Her friend looked thoughtful. "But would you not be left behind anyway, if you were the youngest, boy or not?"
She laughed. "Ah, but, you miss the biggest thing, Vérie. I wouldn’t have to look ornamental too!"
Ainavérie raised her eyebrow and brandished the book at her in mock annoyance. "You have a good point, Princeling to be," she said. "I will allow it, just this once."
Lothíriel snorted and reached down to massage her aching feet. "Ouch," she murmured. "Daeron was right about the loud shoes, the clip clopping makes a real entrance. But I do wish he had chosen a tailor who prioritised comfort. My feet feel like sausages."
She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Opposite her friend opened her book and studied it, twirling her dark hair absently. Silence fell for a moment and Lothíriel enjoyed the peace, thinking about her day. Had she advised her subjects properly? Was she right to send a contingent of knights to reinforce Lamedon? Would the Corsairs attempt a blockade as the reports suggest or would they focus on the battle in Gondor?
Her thoughts skittered past the worries and landed on her biggest fear, of her menfolk fighting in Gondor. She had received no messages yet from her father and she was worried. The horizon over the South had darkened menacingly and the cloud had not lifted of late. Evil stood lurking over Gondor, she was sure. She uttered a tiny prayer to the Valar for their safety and blew them all a tiny kiss. Even for Amrothos, she thought with amusement. She settled back further in her chair feeling comfortable and at peace. Within a moment she was snoring quietly in the chair, in a deep sleep.
***
The chair was much too big for her, she thought, as she sat at her father’s desk reading through the reports that her advisors had brought. They were men that her father had appointed of course, and at times she could see their thinly veiled impatience when she asked questions that her father would have known. But she was determined to get this right and so she squared her shoulders and sat a little straighter. The latest report dealt with a missive from spies in Umbar who reported a great fleet of corsairs about to depart from the harbour. She felt a stab of fear as she read it: this was very real.
She looked up from the report and met the grey eyes of the Minister of War. “Do we know how many ships?”
“We can count on a good many, Lady Protector,” he replied formally. “I have no doubt that they intend to unleash chaos on the forces of Gondor and Dol Amroth. I think they intend to launch a blockade at Pelargir, cutting us off from our allies and stopping the forces at Minas Tirith from being able to escape to sea. It is certainly what I would do.”
She nodded, thinking about what he said. “And how can we stop this happening, Lord Bercalion?”
He winced slightly. “We can minimise the disruption by sending supplies overland and I would recommend evacuating the children from Pelargir as a matter of urgency. We have much of the royal fleet stationed already at Pelargir so they will be able to give battle.”
This was good logic, she thought and she agreed with it. “Yes, we must evacuate the children into the mountains,” she said. “They have some chance of being safe there, or as much as any of us does. Can you arrange that, or?”
He cleared his throat slightly and with embarrassment she realized that she had made a mistake. Another of her advisors leaned forward, a rather plump man with a finely tailored waistcoat and smooth hair. “That would be, Princess, er, My Lady,” he said. “I am the Secretary for Domestic Affairs and I would be glad to arrange that.”
She nodded briefly, resolving to study more thoroughly the duties of each Advisor within her father’s kingdom. “Very good,” she said. “And is Dol Amroth itself at risk?”
Lord Bercalion shook his head. “I think not, Lady,” he replied. “It is further out of the way and well fortified: they could certainly blockade us but it would not do them much good and the Anduin would still be a free route for anyone choosing to escape. The Corsairs are a vicious bunch but they are ruled by clever minds. I think they will attack Pelargir.”
“Very well,” murmured Lothíriel. “And is there anything else that we need to discuss today?”
Daeron stepped forward with an apologetic smile, bearing a large pile of parchment papers in his arms. “Lady if you could just read and action these…”
She sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache throb in her temples. But she smiled and nodded gracefully. So. Much. Paperwork. She grumbled inwardly.
***
It was cold up on the cliffs that day and it was dark, with the sky being blackened by the evil hand of the Dark Lord, so they said. But she did not need the Sun as she could see the fires in Pelargir, even from her position on the other side of the bay. Ships with black and red sails had crawled past like insects thronging the Anduin and stopped in the harbour to pillage and destroy it. The city burned. Around her figures stood in a silent vigil and to her right she heard someone choke back a sob.
Tears fell from her own eyes but this time she let them fall. Her rage and grief boiled inside her as she watched Pelargir burn. She felt a hand rest on her shoulder and she turned to see the lined face of Daeron smiling gently at her. His eyes too were wet with tears. “At least the children and the old were moved, Lady,” he said. “You did all you could.”
Lothíriel shook her head. “I did not do enough. If I had the body of a man I could be there fighting the enemy, protecting my people. I wish -”
Daeron interrupted with a passion that was unlike his normal mild manner. “You may not have the body of a man, Lady, but you have the heart of a Warrior. And we would be lost without you at our helm. We can rebuild Pelargir but we cannot replace you, Lady Protector. Please, take comfort in that.”
She patted him gently on the hand and turned back, her tears falling hot down her face as she watched Pelargir burn.
***
A messenger came that morning with a communication for her, his horse sweating and gasping with exhaustion. She clutched it to her chest and ran to the portrait before she opened it. She stood there and looked at her father’s face for a moment. “I wanted to be with you when I read this message, Papa,” she said. “It’s probably foolish but I felt that then I could hear you writing them.”
She knelt down in front of the painting, feverishly undoing the wrappings and unfurling the letters. One seemed to be a list so she set it to one side and lifted the other to the light.
My dearest Daughter
I hope that you are well when you receive this and that the city is bearing up. Know that I and your brothers are unharmed.
“Thank the Valar,” she whispered, holding the letter to her chest. “Thank you.”
We rode hard to Gondor and barely reached it before the city was besieged
by the Fell Nazgul that issued forth from Minas Morgul.
Captain Faramir has been wounded and lies in the Houses of Healing,
but they are troubled by his plight. A smoke and a despair lies on the city.
Yesterday we fought in a great battle against the Enemy and with aid
from our friends in Rohan and some riders from the North, we prevailed but barely.
We had many casualties. The Lady Éowyn is near death and Théoden fell at the battle.
Rohan has a new King, Éomer his nephew. Denethor too has perished.
I wish I could give you better news, but I can not.
I have enclosed a list of the fallen Knights -
She gasped, taking up the discarded parchment, scanning it quickly. There were so many names! She read it again, eyes brimming with tears as she read names that she knew, faces that she had laughed with and ridden with. So many had fallen.
As part of your duty as Lady Protector you will need to visit the families of the fallen
to tell them what has happened and offer our condolences.
They died bravely and carry our honour and respect for as long as we live.
I trust that you will fulfil this duty with dignity and compassion.
I will write again when I can
Ever yours
Papa
She put the letter down and put her hand to her mouth, her head spinning. She blinked away her tears fiercely. If they could live through this horror then so could she. She moved closer to the portrait, still kneeling, and stroked the list of the fallen reverently.
“Papa,” she said, “I have your letter here. We are all well and unharmed here, Pelargir was besieged by the Corsairs but there were relatively few lives lost. Dol Amroth is still unscathed.”
She looked at the letter, her eyes full of emotion as she scanned it again.
"I am so grateful that you sent word, it sounds as if there is much upheaval there. And so much death! Steward Denethor, my uncle, and King Théoden fallen! Faramir is near death and… the Lady Éowyn! How came a woman to be there at the battle! What a brave, brave woman. My heart breaks for them, Papa.”
She struggled to her feet, breathing hard. “I will go on the morrow to the families on this list and discharge my duty as Lady Protector. I will honour the Swan Knights. I give you my oath.”
She stooped to pick up the parchments and looked again at the list, feeling anguish. So many had fallen. She turned to leave the room. She had work to do.
***
She wore black from head to toe and eschewed all ornamentation bar her official necklace of office. At her behest her maid had dressed her hair more severely, pinning it back in plaits that sat at the nape of her neck. She buckled a sword and scabbard at her waist and donned the emblem of the Swan Knights on her arm. Her advisor raised his eyebrow when he saw her approach and she responded defensively. “I am going to see the families of the fallen and I go in my capacity as Head of the Swan Knights. I must show them respect.” She nearly said, Papa told me so, but she stopped just in time.
The advisor’s face softened. “I understand entirely, Lady,” he murmured. “I think you look very appropriate for the occasion. As you are, erm, wearing a sword, would you prefer to ride on horseback with your knights rather than take the carriage?”
“Yes, the horse, I think, Daeron,” she said. He bowed low in response, deferentially. “Of course, Lady,” he said. He hesitated for a moment and then continued. “This might not be my place to say,” he said, “But I am very proud of you. I imagine your Lord Father would be very proud, too.”
A lump came into Lothíriel's throat and her eyes burned so she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She simply pursed her lips and blinked to keep the tears away and then turned to her knights who waited in silence. At her movement they flowed in formation to escort her out of the castle.
***
The door shut behind her with a soft click and she rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. Memories of families greeting her with friendly smiles until she gave the reason why she was there flew through her mind. Some knew straight away, seeing her stricken face and black garb and their hearts crumpled right there in the doorway. She had used the same words with each family, that they had fallen in great honour on the fields of Gondor, and to each family she offered a silver swan brooch and a furled standard. It was not enough, she knew, but she could not bring their children or husbands back.
One of her knights stepped closer when she did not move, his face etched with pity. He stretched out a gloved hand and asked, “Can I help, milady? Are you ill?”
She shook her head and sniffed a few times. She rummaged about for her handkerchief and then remembered that she had given it to the mother of the young Knight, Sadron. She sighed. I wonder if that’s first on the list for briefings for actual Lords and Kings, she thought. Either bring a supply of handkerchiefs or hold on to your own!
She realized the knight was still looking concerned and she forced a wobbly smile. “It’s alright, Aradan,” she said. “It’s just hard, telling these people. I had never thought of it before. Does that make me a terrible person?”
He shook his head thoughtfully, directing her gently towards her horse. “I don’t think so, Milady,” he said. “We have been in dark times but not outright war for a long time, since before you were born in fact. I fancy that the Prince himself would find this task difficult, whether he was practised or not. Have some faith,” he said, and he smiled at her. She smiled back, grateful for the support.
“Well,” she said. “How many more do we have to visit?”
***
It was quiet in the library, with the fire blazing merrily in the hearth. She curled up in what was now her customary chair with tea cooling on the table. The servants had taken to adding biscuits and fresh flowers in the morning which brightened up the place no end. More and more she found herself gravitating there for some peace. Vérie was not there yet, but she had promised to visit that evening.
She looked around, enjoying how the library now looked. She had added some maps of the country so she could understand the war strategy better, and had rearranged some of the chairs. The servants had kindly moved out the drinks cabinet and set out footstools for herself and for her guests. It looked very homely, she thought.
The door opened and Vérie bustled in, her cheeks aglow from the fresh air outside. “Ah this is a sight for sore eyes,” she said. Her eyes landed on the table and she whooped in delight.
“Did the kitchens make you biscuits? Oh I’m in heaven. Tell me you’re wasting away from exhaustion and don’t plan to eat a thing, my darling! I’m starved. I’ve been stuck in etiquette classes all day and I’m ready to eat a horse. Or many biscuits…”
She smiled slyly as she removed her scarf and unpinned her hair, letting it fall over her shoulder. “Ah that’s better,” she said. “I do miss being able to leave my hair flowing free whenever I wish! But I must keep up appearances now I am a betrothed woman, I suppose.”
She leaned forward, scooping up the tray of treats with one hand, balancing it precariously on the arm of the chair and pouring a cup of steaming hot tea with the other. She brought the tea to her lips, sipping it carefully. Her grey eyes studied Lothiriel for a moment.
“You seem so suited to this place now, Lothíriel,” she mused. “To this role, to this room. You’ve become a fine Lady Protector. You’re just what the city needed, you know.”
Lothíriel blushed and looked down, glad of her friend’s praise. “Well I had my father to emulate and the Advisors have been so kind. But Valar willing, this will be over soon!”
She nodded, her eyes serious. “And then?” she said.
“And then what?”
“And then?” she repeated. “When your father comes riding back in glory with your brothers, you will go back to being Princess. Will you miss it? Being in charge of the city?”
That was a question Lothíriel hadn’t expected and she took a moment to think, listening to the crackle of the embers in the fire. Vérie waited, nursing her tea as she settled back and carefully selected a biscuit from the tray.
She sighed. “I do not know, in truth. I have come to enjoy running my own household and learning about accounts and strategy and war. I know that this is not the place for a woman, but I have found that I have appetite for it. As dear Daeron said up on the ridge, I may not have the body of a man, but I have the heart of a warrior. I did not know that before but now….”
She lapsed into silence and Vérie nodded with understanding. “Once you step into those shoes, those, loud shoes,” she laughed, “you have learned to fit them. It will be difficult to step back into the shadows.”
Lothíriel nodded. “It will be difficult. But that is, I suppose, the lot of a woman, no? And if war is averted, then life will go on and my Lord Father will expect me to be married. I am sure that my future husband would not want me to be involved in matters of strategy but at least I would have my household to run. I can indulge myself in that.”
There was a silence for a moment. “Do you know where you will have to go?”
“I do not,” she said. “Uncle was keen for me to troth with Boromir of course, but that was something we were reluctant for and in any case Boromir has fallen. Perhaps I will be expected to forge an alliance with one of the countries that have aided Gondor in this war. I do not know. But I expect that I will have to leave this city, whoever it is that pledges their suit.” She smiled wanly. “At least your betrothed is both handsome and a local noble!”
She laughed and raised her teacup in a salute. “Perhaps you can dance at my wedding and catch the eye of a nice tailor or something. Then you can stay here!”
She laughed too and leaned over to snag some of the biscuits, ignoring her friend’s squawk of alarm and desperate flapping of her hands over the tray. Enjoying her hard-won spoils, she settled back in her chair to listen to her friend tell tales of the city.
***
Another letter arrived, this time from a messenger with hollow eyes that spoke of sights of war and a horse that was ready to drop. He had sent this with the greatest urgency, she realized, and thanked the messenger. She nodded to the stable-hands to provide succour to the poor horse and marched in with the unopened message. She feared to open it, wondering what dark news could be within. She ran to her room and shut the door behind her, leaning against it breathing heavily. She looked up at the portrait that looked down on her and she breathed out, a shaky exhale that showed her fear.
“Well, Papa,” she whispered. “I have your letter.”
She opened it with shaking fingers, loosening the seal eventually and dropping it to the floor.
Dearest Daughter
I am writing this swiftly to you as I must away almost this instant
Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain has taken charge
of the City of Gondor as he appears to be the rightful heir
The King has returned.
He has charged us with a dangerous task,
to go to the Black Gate itself to challenge the Dark Lord.
I fear that we may perish in the attempt.
I send my love to you, Daughter and I bid
you stay as safe as you can.
If the dark descends,
know that I will find you in the place that we Men go.
I love you
Your Papa
The paper fell from nerveless fingers and she slid to the floor, unseeing. Unbidden, visions flew before her eyes of the men marching into doom, into the death-lands, their faces grey and still as if they had already perished. At the front she saw a stranger, tall, dark and grim-faced, who wore a green gemstone on his chest. All around them she saw vultures, birds of prey that waited to feast on their flesh. Her flesh. Her kin. “No, Papa,” she breathed, and the tears began to fall.
***
She wore black again. It felt as if nothing else was appropriate, not that day. She stood flanked by her faithful knights, who wore their swords and stood to attention around her. The flag flew in the breeze but she took no joy in it today. She looked out on the square to see thousands of faces looking back at her, waiting for the announcement. The wind flew in and buffeted her, bringing the scent of seagulls and a westerly wind. She breathed it in, taking courage from it. The sky was clear, now that the Dark Lord’s hand had been ripped from the sky. But today was not a day to rejoice.
“Good people,” she started. Her voice cracked and was carried away by the wind. Part of her wanted to run away and hide but she thought of the promise she had given to her Lord Father’s portrait just that morning. We will be strong. “I will be strong,” she whispered to herself.
“Good people,” she said again, this time speaking loudly so her voice carried across the square. She could see people at the edges turning to tell the people standing further away what she had said. She had seen this happen so often when her father addressed the crowd but had never expected to be the one to give the speech one day.
The people waited, faces pale.
“I have word from Prince Imrahil, my father,” she continued. “The battle for Gondor was won, but hardly and with aid from unexpected quarters. There is a man who has returned from myth to claim the crown, and he has led our Knights in a company with the men of Gondor to assail the Dark Lord in front of his gates. They do not know if they will return.”
The crowd murmured, a fear rising from them that mingled with grief. Some sobbed, both men and women. She waited, allowing them their grief. She took another breath.
“I tell you this not to ask you to fall into despair. I believe there is little hope, but yet hope remains. Our warriors faced the enemy at Gondor’s walls and they prevailed. From the shadows of our songs, a King has returned to Gondor. A woman fought the dread Nazgul and slew him there. There might be great sorrow but there are great deeds and we will not forget them. Our men ride to Mordor.”
She paused again, allowing her message to be passed to the four corners of the city. Her audience stood, transfixed. She felt her knights step closer, only slightly, but enough for her to take comfort in their presence. She stood straighter, and held her head a little higher.
“Our men ride to Mordor, and we do not know if they will return. But they ride for us, for freedom and for hope.”
A murmuring rose then, a joyous one, and she could see faces nodding. One woman with her hair covered by a cloth cap, wiped her tears and touched her heart and her forehead in the ancient gesture of fealty. She smiled back at her through her own tears.
“I ask you, my people of Dol Amroth,” she continued, “I ask you to do the same. I ask you to hold your city, for freedom and for hope. If our men fail, then we all fail. But while there is hope, I ask that we stand. Stand for your city! Stand for Dol Amroth!”
The last words flew out of her mouth in a roar and she blinked in amazement. Around her she felt her knights roar, their feet stamping and their standards beating against the ground, and she saw the crowd erupt. They roared back, smiling and crying, as they pledged their fealty. As they answered. “We will stand!” “For our Lady Protector!”
Her eyes burned as she looked on her people. And she smiled, a fierce, warrior smile. They would stand, against whatever would come.
***
It was warm that morning and she was glad to escape the confines of the city for a few hours. She sat on the sunlit grass and unbraided her hair, closing her eyes at the relief of it. For a moment she could be merely Lothíriel, not the Lady Protector, not the head of the Household. She could see the sunlight glinting from the swords of her guard who stayed nearby to watch for her safety but far away enough to give her privacy and some solitude.
She leaned back and looked out on the hills, watching how the sun lit different parts in turn. She watched the wind dance with the trees and the plants and how the wild horses ran on the plains far below. The wind caressed her face then, whipping her hair around in a playful manner. She laughed, still marvelling that they could laugh again. Ever since the Moment had happened, the world seemed so different. The very Earth shook and then a peace flew through them, bringing an air of something rich and fragrant. They had had no word from their kin, but the city was waiting with certain hope. They knew that something important had happened on that day.
She shut her eyes, thinking of her father’s portrait. “Well, Papa,” she said, smiling to herself. “I would ask if you were proud of me, but I find I do not need to anymore. I am proud of myself. I may be a woman, destined to be weaker and softer than my brothers, but I have found strength in my spirit in the last year. I have found my people. And I am proud of them, and I am proud of myself too.
We miss you though, Papa. I hear whispered blessings and prayers for you from the city, and your favourite flowers blossom through the city. Your standard flies from every window. We hope you come home.”
For a moment she rested, dreaming idly of duties and errands and finally an evening before the fire with some tea and a book. Then she felt her knights snap to attention, as if they had tugged on her mind. She sat up abruptly. “What is it -”
She did not finish her sentence.
She could see horses riding towards Dol Amroth, their coats shining in the sun, and shields bearing the Swan blazing in the morning. She scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding and she looked, straining her eyes, with her hand shielding her sight from the sun. Could it be?
She could see her men, her kinsmen, riding, and there, behind the great flag of Dol Amroth, she could see four figures riding great horses. Each was strong and tall with dark hair and each carried the swan on their armour. “Papa!” she shouted, and her legs started to move.
She ran and ran down the hill, unhindered by her dress, and her dark hair was streaming behind her, dancing in the wind. “Papa!” she shouted again, and she saw his head turn, his smile breaking his stern face into the soft expression that she knew so well. She ran, her knights flowing in formation behind her, and Prince Imrahil reined his horse in, leaping from it with an inhuman grace. As he opened his arms to greet his daughter, he smiled.