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Chapter Text

"The city has been emptied, my Lord," the young Gondorian soldier spoke with an anxious timbre as he walked a respectful few steps behind the Prince of Dol Amroth. Directly following the Prince, nearly in step with the lad, were his two sons, their stature and presence a near mirror of their father.

"Where then is Lord Denethor?" The Prince inquired, rounding on the soldier with a concerned visage. "I had hoped to greet him here."

"I… I do not know, my Lord," the young man answered meekly, with a glance at the shadow cast down from the Citadel high above them. "He has not been seen of late."

Imrahil gave a sound of consternation, a frown set on his fair features as he followed the soldier's glance upward. The Citadel rose up from their vantage to block their view, the mountain beyond claiming the rest of the western sky. Removing his gloves, the Prince of Dol Amroth returned his gaze to the men processing from the entrance at the Great Gate, their numbers fanning out along the Othram as men and beast filed in and greeted their countrymen.

"Perhaps our cousin Faramir will meet us and give direction," the younger son mused, scanning the Gondorian men for a familiar face.

"Or the wizard, newly arrived this morning," the soldier put in with a lengthy pause to gauge the reaction of the Prince, whose brows rose and bade him continue.

"Wizard?"

"Aye. Mithrandir and his small companion arrived in the early hours," he answered with more confidence, leading them toward the gate of the next level. "He has given command in the like of our Lord Steward."

Following the soldier the Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons were accompanied by their retinue's high-ranking officials and heralds as the remainder of the host awaited instruction.

The young Gondorian led them through the city, commenting here and there on the state of the inhabitants and the direction of their leader. The Prince and his sons said little, nodding and putting the lad at ease as they went but finding little to remark on. Their group of twenty-some ascended the levels of Minas Tirith until at last they reached the upper most level, the White Tower of Ecthelion rising proudly against the mountainside and casting a lengthy shadow across the courtyard. They were brought to the wide protected vestibule, beyond which the feast hall lay, seemingly empty.

"This already feels foreboding," the younger son remarked to his kin after the soldier departed, grey eyes scanning the marble hallway for signs of life. The Tower guards were stationed in their illustrious kits, but none paid mind to the company, their faces set in grim determination.

"We come to face evil, brother," Erchirion replied darkly, with a glance in the direction of Mordor. "You're not likely to feel much joy here."

"No," Amrothos agreed. "But why would our uncle not receive us at the gate?"

"Your uncle is devoted to his grief of late," came a gravely commanding voice from the interior of the feast hall. "Hail, Prince Imrahil. Your presence is most welcome, I assure you."

The tall elderly man joined them with a bow, his staff clicking on the marble as he set it down. Imrahil bowed, followed in suit by his sons as the wizard surveyed their small group.

"Mithrandir, your coming is a blessing to us," the Prince noted with a smile, which was received warmly. "We bring seven hundred Swan Knights to aid Minas Tirith and picked up a contingency of men from the southern lords. Lords Hirluin and Forlong will join within the hour I suspect."

"A mighty defense," the wizard agreed with a curt nod. "The citizens have been remitted west for protection, so the city is prepared for this great host. Lodging and stabling of the horses will be processed in short order."

"Thank you," the Prince replied, turning as Gandalf welcomed him further into the citadel. "I should like to hear more on the troubles befallen my sister's husband and see my nephew."

"Father?" a female voice called from the back of the retinue as the Prince and wizard turned, the latter's eyebrows raised in surprise. The women and children had been evacuated within an hour of his coming that morning – had one lingered in the city? No, this was no lady of Minas Tirith.

Like her kinsfolk, the woman who emerged from the parting of soldiers was tall, fair skinned and dark haired, her grey eyes so alike to the Prince's it was no query that she was his daughter. A respectful bow was given to Gandalf as well as her father before she drew up straight. She was dressed for travel, a simple spun gown bore mud and dust from the road and her hair was braided in a coronet about her head, unkempt from riding.

"Ah, forgive me, Mithrandir. My daughter, Lothíriel."

"A lady come to fight?" the Istari murmured with the hint of a grin. The young woman responded with a small smile.

"Not I, my Lord. I have come to assist the Healers."

"Lothíriel has made her life's work in healing," her brother explained with a frown. "Though her presence here is some fine work."

"Nonetheless," the Princess cut him off with barely a glance. "I should only need direction to the House of Healing and I shall install myself there. I need not take more of your time."

"Ah, well yes," Gandalf answered with a lingering gaze at the woman. "A guard will bring you hence. The lady Ioreth will be glad of your presence I suspect."

"I can take her, if it pleases my Lords and Lady," a voice called from behind the wizard. All attention turned to a small fellow clad in the regalia of the Citadel Guard. He bore the countenance of a man, though his stature was that of a child. He bowed before the lords and Princess, his tawny hair catching the light.

"Peregrin Took," Gandalf announced, by way of introduction, "of the Shire. And newly decorated Guard of the Citadel - of only an hour. Yes. Escort the Lady to the Houses of Healing and acquaint her with the Warden."

Accepting his charge with a dutiful nod and extending of his hand toward the exit, the Hobbit smiled at Lothíriel, who returned it before addressing her father.

"Pass my regards to cousin Faramir, for I suspect I'll not see him for a time."

"I will, Daughter. Go then. One of us will pay you a visit before nightfall to see you are well settled ere we ride out to battle."

With a nod the Princess departed, following the Hobbit from the Citadel to the sixth level and the House of Healing. Gandalf allowed them time to distance from the group, leading the men of Dol Amroth into Merethrond.

"It is not often a Prince of the realm permits his daughter to join a war," the wizard observed as they walked. Imrahil smiled as his younger son snorted quietly behind them.

"No. But one so stubborn and adamant in her commission is hardly dissuaded."

"She would likely take the dress of a man and come regardless," Erichirion remarked, evoking a thoughtful "hmm" from Gandalf.

"As it stands, another healer in the city would scarcely be turned away," Gandalf remarked as they came to a standstill in the empty hall. "Now then. We have much to discuss, Prince Imrahil, on the topic of Denethor. Your arrival brings sound council as we prepare for an assault from the enemy. The city's steward is ill prepared, I fear, for what is to come."

TTTT

"A Hobbit," the Princess repeated as they descended the stairs beyond the tunnel built into the hillside. "I confess I have not met a Hobbit before."

"And I have not yet met a Princess of Dol Amroth," Pippin replied as they walked, their footsteps echoing in the tunnel. In his short tenure as Guard of the Citadel he had learned the layout of the city, though this was his first order that relied on said studying. But the House of Healing encompassed most of the sixth level of the Minas Tirith and he was hoping the Lady did not ask him for specific detail once they arrived. "But they are bound to say neither a Princess nor a Hobbit have a place in war."

"They may well be correct," Lothíriel murmured as the tunnel gave way to a wider corridor, marble pillars flanking them as light filtered through the arched eastern windows. "What brings you to war, Master Took?"

"Pippin, if you please," he interjected with a grin up at her. "And… well. It's a storied tale. But I am here as much for my friends who are scattered about, though we started this journey together. And, I suppose, my own foolishness."

"Foolishness concealing courage, I wonder." Pippin looked at her for a moment, curiosity getting the better of him as they rounded a corner.

"Do the Princesses of Dol Amroth join their menfolk on the battlefield or traditionally tend the wounded?"

"No," she laughed quietly, grey eyes shining with mirth. They walked past hedges marking the outline of the gardens, famed and beautiful in their artistry. The Healing House arose before them, an archway designating the entrance. "My skill with a blade would serve no one, myself least. I accompanied my kin despite their entreaties to remain at home. Though home is hardly safe now either." She paused to make way for a lad carrying towels and linens, though Pippin could not tell if she hesitated to consider her statement before continuing.

"But men are risking their lives to combat the darkness moving across the land. What little I might do to repair bodies and stave off death feels paltry to the sacrifices made on a field of battle. Perhaps, like you, I am here by way of my own foolishness. But I may be of service if the Warden will have me."

"I'll have you if your hands may be put to work and you have a strong stomach, my Lady," the Warden himself intoned as they arrived. He was standing in the courtyard, beyond which the House of Healing proper stood, a buzz of quiet activity from young men and boys. He was older than Pippin expected, though he stood erect with a sharp, appraising gaze, surveying the woman and Hobbit.

"I possess both," Lothíriel answered with a cant of her head. He stared at her for a moment, his quill poised above the parchment as he gauged her.

"I can hardly turn you away now," he grumbled after what felt like several minutes of silence. "Not at this hour, at least. I am Derufin, Warden of the Houses of Healing. You may attend the Lady Ioreth in a bay just there," he indicated with his quill, "and she will see you are dressed and ready to receive patients."

"Thank you," the Princess replied as the Warden turned from the pair. Facing Pippin the woman bent forward to place a hand on his shoulder. "I take my leave then. I do not know what is to come. But I hope you will find me should you have need. We oddities must stick together."

"Yes, my Lady," he replied with a Tookish smile, bowing his head as her hand fell from his shoulder. "Should we survive this, I shall look for you and pray find you well."

With a smile and an encouraging wink, the Princess departed in the direction Derufin signaled, leaving the Hobbit to return to his post with the burrowing fear in his heart that he might lose yet another friend in this war.

Chapter Text

“Here, my Lady, allow me,” Ioreth of Lossarnach quipped, giving Lothíriel no opportunity to decline as she took hold of the laces at the Princess’ back. The newly donned kirtle that replaced Lothíriel’s riding habit was slate grey and rough against her skin, the laces made from an unpliable waxy leather that did not lend itself to being fastened behind the wearer.

“It’s an inconvenience, I grant you, having these tied in the back.” She tightened the stiff sinew causing Lothíriel to square her shoulders and straighten her back against the tension. “But it’ll save you frustration when you are tending to patients to not have loops and knots in your way. I’ll fasten them tight as I can, my Lady. And what fortune we found one long enough for you. Have you some Elven heritage? I’ve set your apron and hood there on the table. You’ll excuse me to finish inventory. Find me and I’ll give you a tour. Brief, no doubt. But it’ll suffice. I’m off!”

Lothíriel was not certain Ioreth drew new breath from start to finish. As quickly as she’d met the Princess, so too did she dash from the room, speaking as she went. Their introduction was a regaling of Ioreth’s flight to the city when it became clear Healers were needed and her insistence that her forty-some years of experience would out match any “lad apprentice” in the Citadel. Ioreth was of the opinion her skills were equal only to the Warden himself, though she let it be known to Lothíriel that her talents might well surpass him. “But let us not damage his delicate sense of achievement.”

For all her verbosity Lothíriel was relieved to have another woman in residence. It was hard enough to convince her brothers and father to accompany their party. To know she was not the only female would lend to their begrudging acceptance of this undertaking.

The room was unnervingly quiet after the cacophony of Ioreth, and a sense of dread nestled in her heart as she unpinned the braid from her head. Although she was eager to acquaint herself with the various rooms and locations in the House of Healing, the Princess found herself carefully re-braiding her hair, removing errant debris from the nearly a fortnight on the road as she patiently wound the dark strands into a plait.

There had been no question in her mind she would serve her calling as a Healer here at the epicenter of the conflict. Dol Amroth would send their seven hundred men, led by Imrahil and two of her three brothers, to support Minas Tirth – of that there was no doubt. When she’d pointed out there were few places in Middle Earth that were safe, her brothers were silent, though they’d made their feelings on the matter well known. But Lothíriel would not be quieted by reproachful glares from her siblings. Her fingers threaded through waves of obsidian hair, the rhythm soothing her as she recalled the conversation that solidified her path to Minas Tirith.

TTTT

“Have you not instilled in us from childhood that we are stewards of duty, Father?”

“I have certainly tried,” Imrahil replied as they walked down the aisle in the stables of Dol Amroth. Around them was a flurry of activity as the city prepared for an impending assault from the sea. The Corsairs of Umbar would undoubtedly harry the coast and assist the Dark Lord in his war theater across the continent.

“Then permit me join you. I am skilled enough to be useful in Minas Tirith,” she maintained as her Father cast a sidelong glance in her direction. She paused in her determination to look at him in turn, catching the shadow of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Amrothos believes you will be just as effective here, tending to our city.”

“Amrothos believes I am still ten,” Lothíriel muttered with an unbidden eyeroll as she set her expression in resolve. “Dol Amroth will not face the worst of it, Father. We will recover, I am sure. Minas Tirith needs support. Your own sister’s husband has called for our aid.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly as they halted before his horse’s stall. She held his gaze, conviction in her request giving him pause before responding. “I sometimes wonder if I haven’t raised four sons instead of three.”

Lothíriel swallowed a derisive response, instead clasping her hands behind her back as she awaited his judgment. With a sigh of acceptance, the Prince of Dol Amroth rested his arm on the half door of the stall, regarding her for a moment more.

“We are at war, Lothíriel,” he began with careful words and a measured tone. “You will see the utter undoing of men before you. And you will not be able to save all who come for aid – a certainty that damages the strongest of minds. I cannot protect you from this, neither can your brothers. I cannot even pledge you own safety in the White City.”

“I accept this risk.”

“I know you do,” he replied softly with a raised hand, settling her before he continued. “And I know your heart, Daughter. I suspect you would find a way to join our dispatch whether I gave you leave or not. And for that reason, and the certainty of your oath to duty, I would have you join us. Where we might at least protect you on the road and see you safely secured in House of Healing.”

TTTT

Three hours had elapsed since the arrival of Southern Fiefs’ troops in the city yet it felt like an age. Lothíriel kept busy assisting the Warden and Ioreth in stocking bandages, herbs and instruments of healing, the supply seemingly endless compared to the stores in Dol Amroth. It was in this moment, arms full of linens that her brother found her in the inner courtyard, pausing to take heed of the darkening sky.

 Erchirion emerged from the doorway of the interior garden with the hope of finding his sister diligent in her tasks and thus without a moment to receive the news he came to bear. Disappointment flashed across his face when he beheld the Princess in her moment of rest. Even in the plain garb of a Gondorian healer she was the very likeness of their lineage, the Elven blood in their veins strong in the children of Imrahil – her most of all. Pressing his lips together the middle son of the Prince released a sigh through his nostrils and closed the distance between them as his sister turned to see him, grey eyes alight with recognition.

“If you’ve come to pester me I haven’t the time, Chir,” she began, shifting the bedsheets in her arms. Her next words dissolved before she could lend them a voice, the expression on her brother’s face arresting further amusement. “What is it?”

“Loth,” he intoned as he indicated to a stone bench beneath the wide windows. Against her better judgement the Princess allowed him to guide her to the seat, brows furrowed as she waited. “Our Lord Uncle has been largely absent since our arrival. We have learned the nature of his… condition.”

“Out with it, Erchirion. What has happened?”

“Boromir has died.”

She was at a loss for words, gaze cast down as her visage bore the passage of shock to sorrow. Erchirion shifted his weight on the stone beside her as he gave her time to process the news.

“When?”

“A fortnight, perhaps. I am not sure,” he conceded, placing a hand on her knee as she lifted her gaze, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Denethor is stricken in grief and takes little council. From anyone, it seems.”

“And Faramir?”

“He has been afoot with his Rangers in Ithilien. I cannot imagine he knows yet.”

“I question if I want to know what happened.”

“It is not known to me,” Erchirion replied with a squeeze to her knee. “Father wanted to ensure you heard from us before anyone else of his passing.”

“Elphir will mourn his loss the hardest,” Lothíriel surmised with a shaky sigh. Boromir was twenty years her senior and she knew little of the man beyond their occasional interactions through the years. She’d always considered him a member of the older generation, far from the raucous clamor of youth she shared with her brothers and even Faramir.

“Aye. His death already influences our fates, for Denethor retreats to his private chambers and will scarce look upon Father.”

“It does not help that Father is so alike in visage to his sister.”

“No, it doesn’t. Which is a valuable reminder for you to keep your distance. Of all of us you bear the closest resemblance to Finduilas.”

“Poor Faramir,” Lothíriel murmured at length.

Erchirion said nothing and they sat in doleful silence, barely aware of the quiet bustle in the halls beyond. Although she knew it would be unwise to linger despite her grief the Princess found it difficult to motivate herself to resume her tasks with the burden of this loss. Before she could remark on the need to continue her work Imrahil’s middle son craned his neck to look at the tall narrow windows behind them.

“Is it not unsettling how dark it has become?”

“Hmm?” Lothíriel was moved from her reverie by this unexpected deviation in conversation, following her brother’s gaze to the sky. Standing and setting the laundered cloths on the bench the woman tilted her head, bemusement matching Erchirion. The siblings quit the courtyard and moved to the narrow northeastern balcony, watching the blackening sky.

“This is no darkness of night,” Erchirion murmured, expression troubled, forearms resting on the balcony as he leaned forward.

“Sorcery of Mordor?” Lothíriel queried with a glance his way. Torches and candles began illuminating the levels of the city below them, creating a warm light amidst the gloom. It was clear more troops had arrived to serve the city, the movement both inside and outside the city punctuated by the firelight and sounds of men and beast.

“I reckon,” he replied with a frown.

He was nearly ten years her elder but at times appeared no more than a lad playacting as a soldier. There were softer lines to his face than his brothers and the hint of a boyish smirk lurking just under the surface. Lothíriel had to remind herself he was not only a Swan Knight of their father’s elite company but a man near thirty.

“It is not my place to challenge Father.” He murmured, eyes cast downward as he leaned against his arms, hands interlocked. Lothíriel pivoted her body to watch him, awaiting the likely chastisement or admonishment. Her brother paused a beat too long, the woman tilting her head with furrowed brows ready to prod him on before he continued.

“You have proven your worth as a healer in Dol Amroth and Uinen knows those skills will be needed in the coming days. But I cannot pretend the outcome of this war is known. To any of us.”

“I understand.”

“No, Lothíriel, you don’t.” She stared at him, startled by his retort. It was usually Elphir who fortified his advisement with sharpness. Hearing it from Erchirion felt out of place and disquieting. He stood up straight and placed his hands on the balcony’s marble edge, intentionally avoiding her gaze.

“If the city falls you must flee. Faramir and Boromir oft spoke of the secret passage cut into the sixth or seventh level leading through the mountain. I will discover its location and bear it to you.” He finally looked at her, a sheen of sorrow reflected in his grey eyes. “You cannot remain here if we aren’t able to hold the gate.”

Now it was Lothíriel’s turn to drop her gaze, feeling the immenseness of his anguish in having her present in Minas Tirith. The sharpness of regret caught in her lungs as she drew a breath, realizing it wasn’t the over-protectiveness of older brothers discouraging her from joining. They (or Erchirion at least) feared not only the outcome of the battle in Minas Tirith but the consequence for Lothíriel, who was no longer safe in Dol Amroth. Swallowing the remorse, the Princess pulled her brother close. He embraced her at once as she released a sigh.

“You have my word,” she whispered, to which he nodded once. Releasing one another the siblings turned back to the shadowed sky, their expressions mirrored. The inky darkness spreading from Mordor bled across the sky, extracting even the illumination of the stars, absorbing light with malice. Turning his face from the dismal sight, Erchirion placed a brief hand on her shoulder.

“There is a chamber for you in the Citadel – Father saw to it once you departed.”

“I have a room and cot here,” she answered, eliciting a raised brow from the man. “I should probably familiarize myself with these arrangements while it is quiet and I might be afforded respite.”

“The Lady of Dol Amroth sleeping on a pallet. Elphir will not believe it.”

“Then you’ll have to vouch that such strangeness came to pass.”

“I can manage that. Right then. I must return to Father. One of us will call on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Sleep well on your peasant’s bed, little swan.”

Chapter Text

Darkness lingered strangely in the narrow room as though it were still the depths of night despite Lothíriel’s body assuring her it was morning. The narrow window bore no trace of light and uncertainty clouded her thoughts as she stirred. Had she woken from a dream and there were still hours yet until dawn? The tendrils of sleep were loosening as she sat up on the cot, muscles stiff from the bed’s thin mattress. The space was tiny, barely enough room for the bed and a side table, more of a storeroom than a bedchamber. But she was fortunate to have such privacy – the male healers were bunked together in dormitories on the other side of the sixth level and Ioreth was lodged elsewhere. Lothíriel had a moment of regret for not taking her brother up on the room in the Citadel, which was likely far warmer and abundant with amenities.

 She’d slept her beige shift, expecting the room to start to warm with the morning light. But it remained a strange shade of dark; not quite night but shadowed, nonetheless. Standing, the Princess felt a shiver along her spine, the chill from the stone floor absorbed through her feet socks notwithstanding. But the shiver was not entirely borne of the climate in the room but felt, instead, a foreboding of malevolence and expectation.

Pulling the grey kirtle over her head the Princess shook the final vestiges of sleep from her mind, wondering if this was the quiet before the storm that was due. She tied the stays at her back the best she could and smoothed the ash hued fabric. After donning the dark brown boots, the woman unbound the thick braid and quickly re-plaited it before wrapping it to a loose chignon at the back of her neck and fastened it with the pins she’d taken from home. To protect her hair and keep errant strands from her face the woman had requested a thin hood of cloth from Ioreth, the eggshell rectangular fabric fitted just above her hairline and secured behind her head with thin ties.

Emerging from the tiny room she was surprised to see the vestibule lit with candles. She’d been afforded a room across the hall from the smaller sick bay to allow easier access to patients and she’d only yesterday marveled at the tall windows flanking the gallery. Today she fully expected the sunlight to stream through the arched panes, but only murky shadows lay beyond the windows. Following the sounds of healers moving through the bays, Lothíriel took a few deep breaths to quiet the trepidation in her heart.

“Hail, Lady,” Ioreth’s voice came before the woman herself, the Princess having just opened the door to the nearest hall. The thin woman greeted her with a smile as she folded a sheet and lay it upon one of a dozen pallets lining the wall.

“Good morning,” Lothíriel replied, with a wary glance to the windows. “At least I think it is morning.”

“Yes. But you wouldn’t know it from the sky. The darkness of the enemy has tarnished the very sky, my Lady. An ill omen if I’ve ever seen one. There are victuals in the kitchen yonder. Not what you’re used to, I wager, but they’ll keep you full. Tea too, if you’re inclined.”

“Thank you.”

“Derufin’ll have you start on the poultices and salves in the main bay once you have your meal. Don’t let him harry you into starting ‘til you eat. Can’t tend wounded men on an empty stomach. He can be a ruffian, can Derufin. But you set him – Caradoc! No, my lad, don’t leave the steaming cauldrons there. Pardon me, Lady.”

Ioreth turned to assist the boy, Caradoc, in whose hands was carried a large pot of hot water for cleaning tools of their craft. She left Lothíriel standing in the doorway, talking as she departed and throwing a wave in the direction of the kitchen for the Princess.

The day, if it could indeed be called such, saw the Lady of Dol Amroth hurrying from place to place in the House of Healing preparing for horrors of war. Beyond the tinctures and ointments amassed in the storerooms and in carts in each bay were instruments of far greater injury: suturing needles, knives ready for the brazier to cauterize wounds, hooks, trocars, trepans, trephines and drills. Most she’d used before but the long saw necessary for amputation felt alien in her hand as she affixed it to the cart in the bay closest to her room. She steeled herself against the quailing in her breast that she might have need to use the tool in the coming days.

TTTT

She was taking a short respite in the windowless stockroom, nibbling on a small leek and onion pie, though her appetite was faint, when the door opened with a creak. The face of young Bergil, son of Beregond, appeared before her, eyes wide with amazement and fright.

“Oh! Forgive me, Lady, I was looking for Findegil! But… Lady, come see! The clouds are moving and the very earth rumbles!”

The lad held the door open as Lothíriel stood, interest piqued by his enthrallment. Following Bergil from the halls of Healing to the balcony the air in her lungs caught in her throat as a great crimson light shot out of the distant landscape, racing to the dark clouds. It was a flash of red on the eastern horizon, the crash of thunder that followed causing both to jump. Lothíriel and Bergil were joined on the balcony by others, and she could see the folk in levels below flocking to catch sight beyond.

A moment of uneasy silence passed when an abrupt crackle of lightening, as blue as death, erupted from the tower of Minas Morgul, far closer to the city than the red flare. Dread gripped her as Bergil stepped back from the balcony edge, her hands finding his shoulders instinctively to steady and reassure him. He looked up at her, their eyes filled the same distress.

“I must find my father,” he whispered, blinking slowly as they looked east once more. A shadowy sapphire hue painted the clouds above the Dead City, although the flash of light had disappeared, and the mountains seemed to groan under the weight of what was to come. Lothíriel nodded silently to the boy, giving his shoulders a comforting squeeze before he darted off.

She returned to the halls, listening to the murmurs of other healers positing what the two flashes could have been and steadying her own beating heart with slow breaths. She reminded herself she insisted on attending the city, whether for glory or ruin.

“Courage,” she muttered to herself as a means of calming and convincing herself to stay composed. She turned from the direction of Mordor, back to the entrance of the smaller sick bay as she forced her hands to arrange the various liniments on the shelves.

“What light have I found in this dark hour?” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Lothíriel turned to see her cousin, Faramir, silhouetted against the dark sky in his ranging attire. A grin quelled the previous anxiety on her face as she flew to him, a bottle of salve still in her hand. He received her embrace and smiled slowly as she pulled back.

“Hello, littlest swan.”

“Cousin!” she stepped back to take him in, a shadow crossing her face as she recalled the conversation with Erchirion yesterday. “It seems foolish to ask if you are well with the tidings of the day.”

“I am well that I’ve seen you,” he replied. A weighted silence followed as she studied him, unsure of what he did or did not know and fearing to let slip a secret. His face bore traces of fatigue and something… deeper. Sorrow but it was heavier, like a lament. “But I am not long for the city.”

“But haven’t you only arrived? Erchirion believed you were out ranging.”

“Aye,” he replied with sadness clipping the end of his voice. “And I have been sent on my next errand. I regret our meeting is so brief.”

“But you are needed here, surely,” Lothíriel replied, brow furrowed with confusion and worry. Where could he possibly be going after the eruption from Morder only moments ago?

“I am a servant of the city,” he answered carefully, as if to convince himself as well as her. “I must do as her Steward commands.”

Lothíriel stared at him, grey eyes searching his face for understanding. The tactics of war were foreign to her, but she could not understand the advantage of a captain like Faramir being dispatched at this grave hour. He seemed to understand her confusion, placing his hands on her upper arms with a small smile, heavy with a burden she could only guess at.

“I heard you were in the city and wished to find you before I departed. It does my heart well to see you, Lothíriel.”

“Oh, Faramir,” she whispered, her hands resting on his arms. They gripped each other for a moment. Lothíriel had heard well enough from her brothers that Denethor treated his younger son ill and preferred Boromir over him in all things. And instead of turning to the strength of love the Steward had become even colder in the wake of Boromir’s death. Although Faramir hadn’t spelled it out for her the Princess could surmise the nature of this errand and it filled her heart with dismay and grief for her cousin.

“I’m afraid I must take my leave,” he murmured with a squeeze of his hands before releasing her. Lothíriel followed suit, willing the tears behind her eyes to stay put until he left. If he could be strong in the face of this disaster, so too could she.

“Farewell, Cousin,” she intoned as he offered another smile. She pressed her lips together as he turned away, setting her jaw to restrain from weeping. There would be time enough for tears. Their exchange lasted only a few minutes and he was gone, her arms still warm where his hands had been. She stared at the empty space he’d vacated, sending a plea to the Valar to keep him well and in their good grace amidst this impossible task.

Chapter Text

Days passed for Lothíriel with much of the same uniformity, the near endless tasks of the Healers keeping her diligent and allowing her to sleep deeply with exhaustion. Faramir’s departure the morning after he met with her was heartrending and she could not bear to stand at the balcony for fear of seeing his company return without him. The Wizard, for his part, had visited Faramir and his men in Osgiliath the day after and returned with a number of wounded soldiers, which kept Lothíriel, and healers occupied.

 The whispers amongst the city told of the army of Mordor approaching with each hour, soon to be upon Minas Tirith and their fates decided irrevocably. So too did a rumor spread that Rohan had not answered the call sent by Denethor some days prior. Despair seeped slowly into the walls, creeping along in the hearts of the people with each hushed comment and furtive glance east. Lothíriel did her best to set her mind to hope but it proved an arduous task as the days slipped by, the darkness of the sky barely registering the difference between dawn and dusk.

She’d taken to breakfast with the Hobbit, Pippin; he and the boy, Bergil, joining her in the kitchen in the morning before they parted to go about their tasks. In the evening she ate with her father and brothers in the Citadel, the Steward noticeably missing from these meals, where he might be expected to preside over. Both Imrahil and Gandalf were a source of courage and resilience in the absence of Denethor and the woman found herself hoping her uncle would remain elsewhere.

One the fifth day since their arrival in Minas Tirith Lothíriel was roused from sleep by a quick set of knocks on her door. Mumbling permittance to enter the woman pulled herself from the cot upon which she was napping. It was likely not yet after noon, the eleventh bell having peeled just before she laid her head to rest. Without waiting for a more formal beckoning, Ioreth opened the door and slid her sapling thin body into the room before shutting the door. Rubbing her eyes to discard the fetters of sleep the Princess tilted her head to the side, stretching the sore muscles in her neck.

“My Lady, forgive the intrusion. Mithrandir and your Lord Father have ridden out in aid of the Steward’s son.” Ioreth paused, uncharacteristically, to gauge Lothíriel’s response. Grasping at once for her linen pinafore the woman raised her brows, encouraging further information from the other healer. “It seems his company was besieged at the Rammas Echor and will be escorted back to the city… should they escape the enemy.”

Lothíriel was already leaving the room, Ioreth following her as they swiftly traversed the narrow hallway. Instead of stopping in the nearest sick bay the Lady of Dol Amroth made a beeline for the balcony of the sixth level, overlooking the field and wall of Rammas Echor beyond.

In the distance she could see the assembly of Swan Knights, their blue and silver banners alight with the white light produced by Mithrandir’s staff as he rode his white stallion abreast. They traveled toward the great wall of Minas Tirith, smoke, darkness and a building host ahead of them. Swallowing a painful lump in her throat Lothíriel watched tensely, hands gripping the marble rail of the balcony, wishing to glimpse further across the field. She did not need to see her brothers’ helms to know they rode with Imrahil in defense of Faramir and she felt a surge of pride and fear.

As the light of the wizard’s staff illuminated more of the wall the shadow of great beasts darted away from the light, causing Lothíriel to peer as far as she could from the balcony, brows furrowed with concentration.

“Wraiths on dragon-back,” Ioreth breathed beside her, identifying the flying creatures that peeled away from Mithrandir and his company. They were too far for the women to make out much but it wasn’t long before the sortie wheeled about, shielding a tiny band of riders from the rear and approaching the city at a faster pace than they’d left it.

“There are survivors with them?” the Lady of Dol Amroth queried into the afternoon shadow as Ioreth also leaned forward for a better vantage.

“It looks thus. And they’ve daunted the enemy smartly. Look how they are not pursued!”

Lothíriel was not so convinced, worried they would be chased once the light diminished. It seemed a small party had increased their numbers with survivors but she could not tell who among them was rescued from this distance. It felt like an age before the group reached the Great Gate. Leaning so far forward the Princess nearly lost her footing she cried out when she caught sight of her father bearing the body of a soldier, seated before him as they disappeared into the Othram.

“I must go down,” she muttered, moving toward the gate leading to the fifth level when she was arrested by her companion.

“They will bring the wounded to us. There’s nought you can do if you go down there. Remain here and we’ll be sure to see he who comes up before any other.”

With a reluctant glance down at the black wall of the city Lothíriel allowed herself to be led back into hall as her fellow healer called out orders for the others to make ready to receive more patients. The anticipation nearly got the better of her but just as she was ready to inquire, the gates from the level below opened and a stretcher bearing a soldier was borne to them at once.

To her horror and relief, the Captain of the Guard lay stricken before them, transferred to a raised pallet and attended to at once by Ioreth and the Warden. For all her insistence Lothíriel froze, studying her cousin’s face as they began removing portions of armor to access his wounds.

A black arrow protruded from the exposed gap in armor where his arm met his shoulder. His skin was ashen, greying as the moments hastened by. Shaking the paralysis from her bones the woman jumped to action, fetching the tincture and bandages requested by Ioreth. Once she’d supplied the woman with the items Lothíriel knelt beside her cousin, taking a water-soaked cloth from the table beside the pallet, wringing it out and running it across his forehead as the Warden worked on the arrow.

“He is burning,” she stated with a nervous glance at Ioreth. She caught sight of others joining them, her father among them, in her peripheral vision as they worked on the Steward’s son.

“A fever and a poisoned arrow,” Derufin muttered darkly, using forceps to discard the arrow shaft to a tray held by a boy. “We must endeavor to keep the fever down and the wound clean.”

They worked for several moments more, the sound of other patients drowned by a rush of blood in her ears as she focused on her task. Derufin and Ioreth cared for the poisoned wound and wrapped Faramir’s shoulder and torso with Lothíriel’s assistance. They departed as she began wiping blood from a small cut at his hairline. A hand on her shoulder startled her into whipping around, meeting her father’s gaze with a cross expression.

“We must bear him to the White Tower,” he murmured with a glance to Faramir.

“But he belongs here,” she protested as Guards of the Citadel arrived to move her cousin’s body from the pallet to the stretcher once more. Looking to the Warden she awaited his gruff disagreement and assertion that Faramir remain in the House of Healing. When no such objection came, she looked back to Imrahil, eyes wide.

“Denethor needs to see his son,” he replied, his tone soothing as the Guards bore him away. Lothíriel scowled, taking steps to follow when she was halted by her father’s hand on her wrist.

“No,” he whispered, eyes fixed on her. “Faramir’s state may rouse him to action. You have done your duty for the Captain. Now we bring him to his father.”

“Will he not be cared for?”

“Yes, he will. I’ll return once Denethor has seen him and escort you to the White Tower if you can be spared.”

It was an attempt at appeasement that was equally generous and woeful. With a frown the woman nodded, knowing she could not challenge the Prince of Dol Amroth’s orders. He gave her wrist a comforting squeeze before releasing her.

“The enemy will be upon the gate by nightfall. Tomorrow the siege will start in earnest, and you must be prepared.” He’d raised his voice to address the Warden, Ioreth and others but his words felt directed at her. “Get what rest you can. The city will be in your debt in the coming days.”

With that, Imrahil departed, following the Guards as they transported Faramir away from those who might heal and tend him. Wiping her hands on the already dirtied apron Lothíriel turned to her next task, placing hope that her father would fetch her when she could attend her cousin in the White Tower.

TTTT

Imrahil made good on his oath in the late hours of the evening, though it was far longer than Lothíriel had hoped. Her shift had ended some moments prior, and she was pausing for a quick cup of tea to wet a dry mouth. It was there, in the kitchen, Pippin found her.

“My Lady,” he called out with a quick bow.

“Pippin,” she received him with a smile and offered an abandoned pastry. He declined but indicated she ought to follow him away from the kitchen.

“Your Lord Father bade me fetch you,” he stated in a hushed tone.

Realization lit her eyes as she quickened her pace. They walked through a sick bay and she snatched a few items from a tray near the exit, depositing them in the deep pocket of her pinafore. They spoke no more as they departed the House of Healing, Lothíriel catching Ioreth’s gaze momentarily with a nod. Night had settled on the land but the light from torches and the cries and shouts from the enemy beyond the wall allowed for little rest or respite for anyone within the walls. She dared not look over the balcony to the sight below, just the sound of war preparations causing her stomach to twist.

“How is he?” she inquired as they entered the tunnel to the seventh level. With a furtive glance her way the Hobbit canted his head slightly.

“Much the same.” She wasn’t sure if he was referring to Denethor or Faramir but figured it didn’t matter. Although she had been expecting her father or brothers, she was glad to see the Hobbit, especially as she came to discover during the morning chats that he’d become a friend of Faramir in their brief encounters. They arrived at the White Tower, permitted by either Pippin’s station as a Guard of the Citadel or Lothíriel’s nobility, and halted at the chamber.

“I think the Steward has departed further into the Tower so he is alone,” Pippin murmured as she opened the door. Faramir lay within and she was at his bedside, bringing forth items from her pocket. A vacated seat sat beside the wounded Captain and the fabric beside the man appeared disheveled, as though someone had laid their upper body upon it.

“The fever lingers still,” she informed Pippin, the back of her hand resting on Faramir’s forehead. She made quick work of reapplying the salve to his cuts and checked the bandage on his shoulder. A frown deepened the lines of her face as she inspected it, causing a worried look from her companion.

“What’s the matter?”

“There should be fresh blood and more of it,” she mumbled as she felt the skin near the wound. “Still warm. That is good. But I am not sure why he does not wake yet.”

“I wish he might” the Hobbit replied to which she nodded. After a moment, Pippin glanced at the door and moved away from the bed. “We’d best go now, my Lady. Neither of us should be discovered here by the Steward.”

Swallowing a snide comment the woman nodded. This poison was beyond her ability, and she’d successfully tended to his other wounds now. The pair slipped from the room and closed the door as footsteps echoed from an adjacent stairwell. The Steward of Gondor emerged from the steps, bright eyes catching them with a glazed look, his face wan. With a flick from Pippin to Lothíriel the man froze abruptly. A word fell from his lips, too soft for either of them to hear but recognition turned his expression from vacant to confused, dark brows furrowed before a wash of fury replaced it.

“Be gone from me, specter,” he rumbled violently, taking a staggering step forward. Lothíriel instinctively backed away a pace as Pippin positioned himself between them. “Torment me no more. Be gone from my son’s side!”

Denethor’s eyes beheld her as if in a dream, his body shaking as he moved closer, dark robes quivering in the sconce-light. Pippin raised his hands in placation to his Lord as he held his ground between the two.

“Your son lies in his chamber,” the Hobbit reminded him with motion of his head sideways. “Let no ghosts trouble you this night, my Lord. Be with him.”

At once, like a candle snuffed in the dark, the wrathful expression became troubled, the hollows of his cheeks deepened, and sorrow crept across his face.

“My son,” he repeated, turning his gaze to the door.

Pippin nodded encouragingly and reached for the doorknob. Denethor no longer saw Lothíriel, his focus on the chamber and his son within as the Halfling bade him enter. With a quick glance to the woman, Pippin indicated that she might leave while the Lord was distracted. Turning quickly the Lady of Dol Amroth departed with the sound of her heartbeat thudding in her ears and the apparition haunting the Steward of Gondor following her from the Tower.

Chapter Text

In the years that followed it would be difficult for Lothíriel to recall the exact details of March 14^th for it felt, both then and in the future, that time was distorted. But the siege began, as her father surmised, the day after Faramir was brought to the White Tower. It was fortunate she and the other healers could remain in the interior of their level tending the wounded and need not witness the army of Mordor crowd the walls and begin hostilities. But none in the city could escape the sounds of the Dark Lord’s war machines, siege towers, orc-cries and catapults. Even when a number of servants and apprentices were called to the level above the Othram to assist with the quelling of fire laden missiles, Lothíriel and Ioreth were expected to stay in the inner halls of the sixth level and continue their labors.

Men trickled in gradually at first, joining the wounded from the flight of Faramir’s company the day prior, of whom about half were too incapacitated to join their compatriots. As the day wore on so too did the stories of terror from the front lines. As a healer Lothíriel learned early she must steel her heart against the shock of a patient’s experience, but a war of this magnitude was entirely new as the men came to their halls with tales of horror, shock and suffering. She learned not only was the host of Mordor catapulting incendiary matter into the first level of the city but eventually the heads and limbs of their compatriots, some so badly deformed they scarce looked human.

Minor scrapes, bruises and injury gave way to wails from men losing limbs, bodies and souls damaged, some beyond repair, as Lothíriel and the healers struggled to keep pace with the patients. Her hands were stained a sheen of pink despite regularly plunging them into water buckets and by the evening she had lost count of the number of dead that had to be removed by pushcarts from the House of Healing to open beds for new occupants.

“Hold him steady,” she instructed Halgeir, the young man who’d become her shadow from the afternoon on, assisting her with the soldiers she could not attend on her own. The Princess of Dol Amroth was near elbow deep in a man’s abdomen, attempting to keep his viscera in his body. It wasn’t clear how the patient had received a gash to his torso that all but eviscerated him, his innards kept from spilling out only by the breastplate that was removed once he was laid on the pallet. A wheezing painful whine came from his throat as he tried to curl away from the woman, her gaze flicking back to Halgeir as he responded with firmer grip on the man’s upper body.

“Estë help me,” she muttered as her hands, slick with blood, passed across organs and muscle as she nodded to Halgeir to hand over the suture kit sitting by his knees. Realizing they’d need another pair of hands for this work she called out for a passing soldier who was clearly doing his best to leave the hall.

“You there, Sir,” she called, grey eyes catching his with a sharp glare. “Hold this man’s shoulders.” A pained expression passed over the fellow’s face as he glanced guardedly at the exit, which prompted Lothíriel to add another plea. “We cannot repair this wound without another body. Please.”

The soldier acquiesced, though visibly uncomfortable and was directed by Halgeir to take his place so he could move to the patient’s torso opposite Lothíriel. Her companion awaited orders, intentionally avoiding a scrutinizing look at the open wound before him.

“Hold his flesh and I’ll stich it together.” Wiping her damp hands on the soiled apron the woman shifted on her knees, her spine stiff from leaning over for an extended time.

Between the three of them the wound was sutured, though it was crude and far from the delicate exacting instruction she’d practiced in the Healing Ward of Dol Amroth. But it would keep the patient’s insides within him and he would survive. For now. Lothíriel sent the assisting soldier on his way, the color drained from his face as their patient lost consciousness before she’d completed the suturing.

“Think he’ll live?” Halgeir followed her in dunking his large hands in the pail of water near the pallet as they watched the soldier’s chest rise and fall, his breathing labored.

“I couldn’t say,” she replied dully, gaze surveying the young man who’d lent his hands and expertise to her for hours by now, his rust-colored hair slicked back with perspiration. “We don’t have enough healers to ensure everyone’s survival. But we’ve done what we can for him.”

“Lady Lothíriel!” The Warden’s voice cut across the hall above the din as she stood up, a wince unbidden as her joints objected. Moving quickly down the aisle between beds, Lothíriel and Halgeir found Derufin, saw in hand, beckoning them to a pallet. Upon it was a moaning guard of the city, his arm mangled, and hand destroyed. Both were a mess of skin, muscle and bone, the very fabric of his maille and shirt shredded amidst the gore.

“Lend me your strength, lad,” the Warden spoke curtly to Halgeir, who again avoided looking at the man on the bed. “Lady, keep steady his neck and chest. We must rend arm from body and staunch the wound at once.”

Two more attendants joined them, one at the man’s feet to keep him from kicking and the other appearing with a blade hot from a brazier nearby. All knew their roles. Lothíriel positioned herself at his head, hands affixed firmly against his collarbone. The man had slipped from awareness, groaning quietly as they readied his body for the amputation. Halgeir accepted the saw from Derufin and his expression changed from distant to attentive, now bearing the responsibility of instructing those around him. Although the entire procedure lasted mere moments to Lothíriel it felt near endless. The soldier remained unconscious for the slicing of skin and muscle and cauterizing of blood vessels, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. But the moment the saw began working through the bone his face contorted wickedly, teeth bared as he wrenched to the side. Lothíriel pressed her forearms against his collarbone as the fellow at the other end pressed his weight against the man’s legs. He jerked against their compression as the saw severed his bone, a shriek emanating from his lungs and echoing despite the cacophony around them.

Halgeir and Derufin worked as though the man was unmoved by the procedure, finalizing the cut and exchanging tools as they maneuvered about. The attendant at his feet moved to Halgeir’s side and rapidly shimmied the soiled linen sheet beneath the patient’s tangle of an arm, scooped the entire mess up and bore it away as the Warden began stitching the flaps of skin that remained overhanging the exposed bone. The patient whimpered and mewled, though his eyes remained shut and his body relaxed once more.

Releasing her grip the woman straightened again, running a forearm across her brow to remove perspiration. She leapt when the patient screamed again, hands flying back to his shoulders as she looked down. But it was not the man wailing. It was a shriek from somewhere beyond the hall itself. It cut through the walls and rattled her very bones, her face scrunched, and eyes shut against the horrific sound. She was not alone in this response; indeed, the soldiers who were conscious clutched their ears and curled away from the ceiling as though they’d been whipped. Lothíriel’s eye remained narrow as she cautiously looked toward the Warden, who was equally distressed by the skreich. It made a decrescendo before disappearing entirely, leaving the hall strangely quiet for the breath of a moment.

“The hell-hawks of the Nazgûl are set upon us,” a man whispered from the pallet to her left. Looking at him Lothíriel did her best to compose herself, heart thudding in her chest as she watched him clutch the bed sheet and speak to her. “They bring despair and doom.”

He stared at her, eyes glazed and a vacant visage upon his face. Without warning his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, pulling her toward the bed as his voice rose and breathing became heavy.

“There is no hope left,” he rasped, though he was no longer looking at her but through her, raising up on the pallet with urgency. “They come in droves, crawling up the walls and laying bare our defenses! We are living corpses while we still breathe. It is a matter of time -”

The man was thrown back to his cot by a large hand, the fingers tightening around her wrist releasing as a second hand yanked them away. His nails scraped across her skin as Lothíriel stepped back. Halgeir settled the soldier on the pallet with another firm push before turning to the woman and blocking her view of him.

“Pay him no mind, Lady,” the young man rumbled as he encouraged her to depart, following as she turned away from the soldier who lay quietly babbling.

They were near enough to the narrow vestibule that she darted into the hallway, Halgeir a pace behind her. Taking a deep breath Lothíriel closed her eyes, back against the wall separating them from the wounded, arms around herself. The sounds of war and dying perpetuated, though they had become so accustomed that it was wellnigh background noise, and, in this small corridor, it felt muted. When she opened heavy lids she found Halgeir studying her, his brown eyes wells of sympathy and worry.

“Are you well?” he asked gently, voice raised over the din but still hushed. She smiled and nodded slowly as she relaxed her arms to cross them over her chest, mirroring his body language.

“Yes, thank you, Halgeir. I need but a moment to compose myself,” Lothíriel replied, meeting his eyes.

He was likely a few years her senior, closer to Amrothos’ age, and nearly a head taller despite her height. He had the long features associated with the people of eastern Gondor, an aquiline nose, and a wash of freckles across his tanned skin. He had been an apprentice to the Warden for several years, he explained earlier that day, his brothers and father soldiers in the city. He had not the heart for fighting or tactics; more attuned to the emotions of others, attributes on display that night as he watched her.

“You needn’t worry,” he continued with a flick of his gaze back to the hall. “The city will hold, my Lady.”

“You have an uncanny gift of faith,” she observed with slight tilt of her head. He shrugged one shoulder and offered a charming grin before dropping his arms from their crossed position. When he didn’t respond the Lady of Dol Amroth pushed herself away from the wall and ran her hands across the apron on her thighs. “We ought return to our tasks.”

He nodded as she pulled the door open, the clamor of the hall erupting into the hallway. Upon reentry they were immediately pulled to a bed where a fellow younger than both of them lay, the back of his head resting on linens soaked in blood. Lothíriel put a hand on the clammy skin of his forehead as he groaned. He was still clad in armor, arranged uncomfortably on the cot with half a leg off and his arms crossed over his chest. His breathing was shallow, and she tilted his head gently to reveal a deep cut across the back of his skull, hair matted with blood, tissue and bone. Halgeir passed her a damp towel to mop up the residue from around the cut, inspecting it as best she could.

“We’ll dress his head,” she announced as Halgeir nodded and jumped up to fetch bandages. She sat with the boy, for truly he was younger than she initially estimated at six and ten years perhaps, as he took rattling breaths. “Once we sort out this cut, you’ll feel better,” she told him with a smile.

Blue eyes found hers as he mumbled something she couldn’t understand. She leaned forward with a frown, trying to hear him better. Halgeir returned with the supplies and had dropped down on the other side of the bed when the boy flew up, convulsing with a gurgling breath. Blood shot from his mouth as he shuddered and heaved. Being so near Lothíriel was sprayed with blood as she and Halgeir turned the boy to his side, fighting against the bulk of the armor.

“He’s choking,” Halgeir cried, hefting the boy as Lothíriel held his head, her hands slick with blood. “Unbuckle the breastplate!” The woman let his head rest gently against Halgeir’s chest and fumbled for the leather buckles tucked under his shoulder guards, fingers scrabbling to loosen it. The boy racked another breath, the sound from his lungs wet and bubbling as he shuddered against Halgeir. Releasing a single buckle the chest plate only partially gave way.

“I can’t,” she muttered frantically looking over at her companion. Halgeir adjusted the patient in his arms, turning so he was effectively cradling the boy’s upper body in his lap. Between the two of them the breastplate was loosened enough that Halgeir could wrench it away, the buckles at his hips still fastened. Beneath lay his tunic, the white tree of Gondor was stained crimson and chainmail beneath was secured by a thin belt.

“Damn it,” Halgeir breathed as the boy convulsed and sputtered again before laying still. Blood leaked like syrup at the corners of his mouth, blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling beams. Lothíriel pressed her lips together, brow furrowed before closing his lids with soaked fingers. The pair sat in heavy silence, Halgeir still cradling the boy’s body. Another healer joined them, offering support to move the dead off the pallet to the wheelbarrow ferried between the Healing House and the pits. Halgeir paused, expression darkening with a protective grip on the boy.

“It’s alright,” Lothíriel assured her companion with a careful hand on his forearm. “Let him go.”

She wasn’t sure Halgeir registered the words, but the sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to the room and he loosened his grip as the other healer called for the guards to assist. They watched as the boy was carried and laid unceremoniously in the empty trolley. Standing and placing a comforting hand on Halgeir’s shoulder Lothíriel exhaled as the sixth floor shuddered with the percussion of the siege below.

“Take a moment,” she murmured with a light squeeze to his shoulder. “Find me after.”

“No,” he replied, standing as her hand fell away and handing her the unused bandage he’d brought for the boy. “If I take a moment I might never return.”

With an understanding nod, Lothíriel accepted the length of fabric, wiping her hands. Halgeir motioned to her head, and it was only then that she recalled the blood spattered across her face. Crossing the aisle to the bucket of water, newly refilled by a servant, she dipped the bandage in and ran it across her skin, paying close attention to her eyes and mouth. Looking at her companion once more and receiving a half smile and nod, Lothíriel tossed the bandage on the growing laundry heap nearby.

Again, the floor shook, this time prompting expressions of bemusement and apprehension from both healers. The quaking caused the torches and lit sconces to shiver and dust to puff into the air from between the cracks of stone. Around them others had paused to take stock of the series of vibrations that seem to come rhythmically, with weighted silence between. At once the percussion stopped and those on the sixth level tensed, awaiting the next tremble of stone that never came. After a beat Halgeir looked about, brows raised.

“Let us check the next bay,” he offered as Lothíriel agreed with a cant of her head. They moved from the hall into the wider vestibule leading to the gardens, one of the main arteries of the sixth story of Minas Tirith, amidst the shouts and sounds of war below. They’d nearly made it to the door to the bay where Ioreth was stationed when a group of three Gondorian guards approached them, one pointing to Halgeir.

“You,” he called as they came to halt before the pair. “Fetch armor. You are needed below! All able-bodied men are to serve at the second level.”

“He’s a healer,” Lothíriel interjected with a frown, positioning herself beside a wide-eyed Halgeir.

“That may be, my Lady,” the guard answered with barely a glance in her direction. “But we’ve been ordered to collect all men.”

“The Great Wall has been breached,” another put in as Lothíriel’s gasped. “Who can be spared has been called by Mithrandir to protect the city.”

“There’s no discussion, lad,” the first guard stated, his tone unyielding. “Find what armor you can.”

Already other guards were pulling men and boys alike from the interior of the halls to the protest of both the healers and patients. Halgeir cast a pained glimpse at the wheelbarrows where the dead were stripped of armor to dress the living. The guard before them received a breastplate, shirt of maille and helmet, shoving them into Halgeir’s hands before catching him with a glare.

“Refuse orders and you’ll be counted as a deserter.”

Turning away, the group of soldiers shouted orders to others dressing in ill-fitting suits as Lothíriel shook her head. Halgeir was no warrior. And who would help her and Ioreth with the wounded? It felt like a demand of madness as the rush of bodies threatened to separate them prematurely. Halgeir had thrown the maille shirt over his head and was fitting the bloodied armor to his body as he found her in the crowd.

“My Lady,” he called as she darted around a pair of men rushing to the exit. Rejoining him she helped him secure the buckles on the vambrace, brows knit in concentration and dismay.

“They can’t take all the healers,” she muttered, moving to fasten the pauldron while he secured a stranger’s sword to his waist.

“They won’t take you,” he assured her with an unconvincing smile, tucking the helmet under his arm. “Someone will need to put me back together when I return.”

Lothíriel bit her lip in concentration as she finished the last buckle, her mind racing in search of sage advice or a kind word to send him off. But she was unable to think of anything worthy of this abrupt departure.

“May the Valar keep you safe,” she eventually mumbled as he was hurried away, casting a glance over his shoulder at her as she raised a hand in farewell. It felt callous and abrupt. Unfair, even. But as the throngs of soldiers, some newly minted in their service, departed the House of Healing Lothíriel was struck with comprehension of the guard’s words. The Great Gate had fallen. The enemy was in the city. Fear for her father and brothers, for Halgeir and Pippin kept her rooted in the atrium, the sound of death and destruction echoing from below as she blinked away tears of terror.

Minas Tirith was breached – what could men like Halgeir be but bodies to pile up to slow the army of Mordor? Forcing herself into the hall she’d intended to enter with her companion the Lady of Dol Amroth surveyed the half empty room, eventually finding Ioreth tending to a man against the far wall. Cleaning her hands upon the apron she set her jaw firmly by clenching her teeth. There was no time for weeping or despair, though it grew ever greater in her heart. Refastening the hood over her hair, Lothíriel returned to her task, not daring to think of the horrors the men below were facing against an insatiable enemy just a few levels below their feet.

Chapter Text

An eerie calm settled over the House of Healing as Ioreth, Lothíriel and the handful of healers that remained tended to the wounded and dying. No more did soldiers bear their comrades through the gates from the lower levels, the screams and echoes of surgery punctuated by the battle raging below now vanished. The sounds of war and far off cacophony settled on the breeze, ever present yet strangely distant. The healers who had not been dragged to combat did what they could, scurrying from pallet to pallet, hall to hall to preserve life. Without the strength of men like Halgeir they did their best to keep patients alive and attend to them. Lothíriel could nearly shut out the appalling sounds below them, not daring to look down the balcony to what horrors lay at the feet of Minas Tirith. Her heart ached for her family, whom she prayed were surviving as she hadn’t seen them counted among the wounded or dying. And even the likes of Pippin and Halgeir, friends she had such brief encounters with; she wished dearly to see them alive and well.

Exhaustion was ever present, held at bay by the occasional surge of adrenaline from surgery or quick response to a patient. She dared not dwell on the state of the city though it felt increasingly bleak as the night wore on. Even the conditions in the Houses of Healing were affected by a sense of hopelessness, their ability to move dead men from pallets significantly reduced without the strength of able-bodied men. Instead, they took to covering the deceased with sheets and moving to the next bed, unable to pay proper respect to the corpses.

Sometime in the early morning hours just before dawn Ioreth found Lothíriel wrapping the wrist of a man in the southern hall, lost in thought with her gaze on the floor as she worked.

“My Lady?” Looking up at the older woman the Princess met her with a small expectant smile, awaiting whatever request was to be made. When the answer wasn’t provided immediately Lothíriel set the man’s wrist on the pallet and stood with brows raised.

“Are you alright?” she queried as the other healer glanced apprehensively at the arched doorway leading to the next bay.

“Yes, quite. But we’ve had a new patient.” Lothíriel’s brows rose again with a curious tilt of her head. Why the hesitancy? “The son of the Steward.”

“Faramir,” the grey eyed woman exclaimed in a hushed whisper. She was already making her way to the exit, Ioreth in-step beside her. “Is he alive?”

“He is, my Lady. In grave shape, as he was before. Come down from the White Tower with Captain Beregond from the Citadel, he has,” she replied as they spoke, leading the way to the smallest hall that housed high ranking members of the city. Crossing through the threshold Lothíriel caught sight of two Guards of the Citadel, their armor unmistakable, flanking the man who’d delivered the son of the Steward. The women approached as Beregond himself offered a half bow, revealing Faramir on the bed. His visage had not changed since she saw him the night before in the Tower but he smelled of oil and smoke.

“Where is the Steward?” she asked as she examined her cousin, glancing briefly at Beregond. Ioreth lingered behind him, uncharacteristically silent.

“The Lord Steward has… perished,” he answered haltingly before offering another half bow. “I must return to my post. It was Master Took’s request that I bring the Captain to you, my Lady. I take my leave, but I shall return to guard him whilst he recovers.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, brows furrowed as she studied the new Steward of Gondor. Casting a final appreciative look toward Beregond, the Princess watched him depart swiftly. After a moment she reflected on his words. Denethor perished? Where was Pippin? She was about to ask further details of the Tower Guards, but they too quitted the hall along with Ioreth. Alone save for servants bringing water and linens, the woman inhaled slowly. After wiping a smear of ash from Faramir’s brow Lothíriel took his hand gently in hers.

“I do not know where you’ve strayed, dear Cousin” she murmured, a lump lodging in her throat. “But you must find your way back. There has been too much death. Let not the darkness take you as well.”

If he heard her Faramir made no indication, his breathing regular despite the feverish temperature of his skin. The questions stirred by his sudden arrival would have been more pressing were the fatigue not so great. As much as she wished to sit by his side, willing him to return to consciousness, she could not forsake the others. With a squeeze to his hand, she set it by his side and stood, dismissing an aching in her bones. With instructions to the boys attending the hall to find her if Faramir’s state changed, Lothíriel stepped out. She found herself in the entryway to the gardens of the sixth level as they lay adjacent to this exclusive hall.

The darkness of night and shadow appeared to fade, ever so slightly as she cast her gaze north. Upon the ridge, bathed in pale light from the eastern sky there appeared a line of horses ere the blasting of horns cut through the dissonance of war in the valley. Lothíriel took hurried steps to the balcony to see further, joined by others from the halls who heard the horns. She realized then it was not a single line but a great cavalry. Air caught in her throat, believing it was yet another army from the lands of shadow.

“The Riders of Rohan!” a fellow nearby cried, nearly jumping off the edge of the balcony. Lothíriel looked to the other healers, who seemed to nod in agreement, unabashed relief washing across their faces. Looking north once more the woman strained to see the line of horsemen, the tolling of their arrival shifting the very air around them as dawn broke. Down the valley they charged to meet the host of Mordor, no hesitation in their advance. Her attention, then, was turned by a great movement below, the beating of the Nazgûl’s winged beast muting the horns as it arose from the Othram. Lothíriel’s blood froze in her veins as the creature ascended, guided by a robed black rider, to turn away from Minas Tirith as the orc army attempted a regroup to meet the onslaught of riders. The Nazgûl took to the skies as the calvary broke through the line of the enemy to the cheers of men below. She could hardly believe the sight before her, so caught up in the spectacle that she almost forgot her role and was ready to charge into battle herself.

“Back to the halls with you!” The Warden called sharply behind them, turning away from battle. “Enough gawking – we’ll be taxed for space with the arrival of the Rohirrim! Let us rejoice once we are assured of victory and tended our wounded.”

Following the others Lothíriel couldn’t help but glance back, allowing hope to flicker in her heart once more and wondering if she was foolish for permitting it to burn.

TTTT

Derufin’s speculation proved accurate as the liberation from the Rohirrim allowed the men of Minas Tirith a brief recovery period. More patients were delivered to the Healing wards and the dead were shuffled to trolleys and beds made available. The surge of activity pushed Lothíriel and the others into action, despite their exhaustion and depletion of numbers. The woman found herself now more than ever checking the men in the pallets for a hint of recognition, both anticipating the faces were unrecognizable and hoping to see her brothers merely wounded rather than counted among the dead.

She’d caught sight of Beregond who gave her a quick nod as he returned to the bay housing Faramir. A flash of relief surged through her knowing her cousin was under careful surveillance and would be attended if his state changed. So chaotic had the hall become that it wasn’t even clear if the battle beyond was in their favor as many of their patients were still from the city proper.

Haphazard and piecemeal stories from the hours prior filtered through as well; the manifest horror of the Witch King’s advance, the breaking of the Great Gate and the courage of Mithrandir and Imrahil among the tales. Lothíriel had intentionally concealed her title and heritage during her short tenure in Minas Tirith and to hear tidings of her father and brothers’ heroism without censor evoked both pride and fear for their wellbeing. She’d heard the arrival of the Rohirrim saw the Prince of Dol Amroth launching a mounted attack out from the city with the men who still had fight left, aiding the riders of Rohan bravely. She knew solace then for once they were on an open field of battle her father and their Swan Knights had the advantage over orc and men.

Hope seemed renewed despite the ongoing misery of injured and dying men. There were even moments of smiles and the light of the day crept back into the city after so many days of darkness. Lothíriel could not feel wholly devoted to optimism, however, as she held the hands of dying soldiers and mended wounds that would never fully heal. And as the stories of victory from the front lines grew, she felt an unexpected wave of dread for the eventuality of their duty as healers. Focus would ultimately shift to retrieving and managing the wounded, which felt an insurmountable task with the addition of the men of Rohan and the southern reinforcements.

“We’ve missed our breakfast, my Lady” came a familiar voice behind her as she knelt before a soldier, stitching a laceration on his forearm. Pausing in her ministrations, the woman looked over her shoulder to see Pippin extending an item wrapped in cheesecloth. A smile lit her features as she turned back to the patient and made quick work of knotting the thread and clipping it with her teeth. Turning around fully she received the item, warm in her hand, and embraced the Hobbit.

“Pippin! How well it does my heart to see you!” she murmured as she stood, leading them to an alcove set into the bay. He looked as exhausted as she felt but his eyes were bright and his undaunted smile elicited one of her own. “Thank you.”

“I’d come to have an eye on Faramir and could hardly leave without finding you,” he stated, accepting back a piece of the baguette he’d given her. As she chewed her stomach made it known that this was the first bite of food she’d had since early yesterday, savoring the taste and temperature of the bread.

“This is warm,” she commented with a brow raise. “The kitchens are operating?”

“Aye! The arrival of King Théoden has given hope to more than just soldiers I wager.”

“Indeed.” She paused as silence fell between them, though the chamber was noisy beyond. “I am grateful for this moment of rest. But I cannot tarry long.”

“Make room!” Ioreth’s voice pitched across the hall, bringing Pippin and Lothíriel to their feet. The older woman was clearing the way and shooing folk aside as a pallet was borne behind her, carried by both men of Gondor and Rohan. She led them up the wide steps to a dais where an empty pallet lay. Intercepting the group, Lothíriel and Pippin followed and caught sight of a warrior of Rohan being transferred to the bed. Once the soldiers backed away Lothíriel joined Ioreth at the bedside. Upon the pallet lay a Rider of Rohan, slight in build and coated in earth and blood. Ioreth smoothed hair away from the warrior’s face and Lothíriel noticed a softness to his features.

“Lady Éowyn,” came Pippin’s exclamation behind them before he too knelt beside the bed. Both women looked at the Hobbit who appeared both stunned and despondent having identified her. “She is the King’s niece,” he explained with furrowed brow. “Though I know not how she came to be here. Has she passed?”

Ioreth inspected the woman, watching her carefully and taking stock of her injuries with a vexed expression.

“Nay,” she determined. “But she is greatly afflicted.”

“She bears a likeness to Faramir in his condition,” Lothíriel observed cautiously, which received an affirming nod from Ioreth. “Perhaps we tend to her other injuries and appeal for hands that might heal this darkness.”

“Hands of a King,” Ioreth murmured almost inaudibly. Lothíriel caught her in a bemused gaze, grey eyes searching the woman’s face for further explanation. “Legends of a King’s healing hands to lift the Black Shadow.”

Before she could inquire further Ioreth stood and offered only a slight cant of her head, providing instructions to focus on the Lady Éowyn’s physical injuries. She departed to find the Warden, leaving Lothíriel and Pippin with the shieldmaiden.

“I did not know women of Rohan ride into battle,” Lothíriel quipped as she began gently cleansing the woman’s face, wiping away blood and dirt. Pippin appeared deep in thought rousing after a moment of silence between them.

“I couldn’t say,” he answered pensively. “Much is puzzling about this.” Lothíriel was ready to delve more into his knowledge of Rohan when the Hobbit stood with a frown and anxious visage.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I should return to my post while they yet have need of me.”

Unable to find a reason to bid him stay she nodded with a quick smile before he departed. She was curious about his sudden shift in demeanor but could only watch him hasten away and return her attention to the young woman before her.

Careful work to Éowyn’s person revealed a lovely woman, strong in her features and bearing a weariness in her expression. Lothíriel estimated Éowyn to be only a few years her senior, if at all. She was mystified by the woman’s presence on the battlefield, her men’s garb suggesting subterfuge and secrecy. As she worked Lothíriel was able to put together bits and pieces of Éowyn’s story from the filtering of other soldiers who came by to pay respects.

She also learned King Théoden had fallen to the dreadful might of the Witch King and his body had been borne away to the crypts of the Citadel for washing and care. Though she had no knowledge of the man loss overcome her when the tidings were revealed, if only for Éowyn’s assumed grief and the greatness of the King’s bravery and wisdom.

Slowly and carefully the day progressed, with more healers returning from the front lines to assist. Lothíriel was given leave to rest in her quarters, which she doubted would be successful, so worried was she about the fate of her family still on the field. But the moment she laid her head on the cot she slumbered until she was awoken by Ioreth some hours later. Grateful for the period of rest the woman inquired about the state of battle.

“Won, my Lady,” Ioreth replied, helping Lothíriel re-lace the stays briskly. “Though I suspect it wouldn’t be so were it not for the coming of the House of Elendil.”

“Who?”

“I know not,” she conceded as they exited the room together. “Only that, when the tide seemed turned against us the ships making haste down the river were not enemies but friends. Great friends that delivered the livery of the House of Elendil and won the day.”

“Do they return to the city?”

“In time, I suspect. But from what I hear the Prince of Dol Amroth will rule in the place of the Steward, Lord Faramir. No doubt he will come forth soon.”

Lothíriel had to quicken her pace to keep up with Ioreth for the woman was speaking and moving at a frenzied pace as she traversed the corridor, pausing only to administer instruction to the lads and healers that passed them. Lothíriel’s heart swelled to know her father was not only alive but well enough to be named Lord of the city. She resisted the impulse to inquire about her brothers but hoped to hear confirmation they too were among the company that survived. Ioreth sent her to Éowyn to remain her attendant as much as her catatonic state would allow.

Pulling a stool to the pallet, Lothíriel retied the blood-stained hood to her head to keep hair from falling into her eyes. The hall was filling with the bodies of Gondor and Rohan soldiers but this space felt secluded, raised above the stone floor below and private. All the better for the only woman in the war to be tended to, Lothíriel thought. Ioreth and her apprentices had removed the armor from Éowyn, leaving her in the moss-colored tunic and brown britches popular among the Rohirrim. Her arm was badly bruised and inflamed but left unbandaged to allow the swelling to settle. Turning her head to the side Lothíriel began gathering her golden hair, knotted and matted from helmet, sweat and mud to wash carefully and perhaps re-braid.  The lady of Dol Amroth worked patiently, ready to jump up and assist if asked but set in her task to honor the shieldmaiden and attend to her. An hour passed before she was disturbed, her mission only halfway complete and her focus entirely set on untangling a blonde lock from itself.

“Who ever expected you to be playing with hair?” Erchirion’s voice caused Lothíriel to jump as she was so absorbed in the task. She stood and turned to see her middle brother still garbed in his armor, helmet under his arm with a slight smile. Aware of where they were she kept her composure and reached for his hand.

“I only clean her hair - one could hardly expect me to dress it well,” she replied as he squeezed her hand. “Are you and Amrothos well? And Father?”

“Yes, we have managed to survive with our limbs still attached. It was bleak for a time, I admit. But the arrival of the Rohirrim and the Dunedain saw the enemy flee to Mordor. How have you faired?”

“Well enough,” she answered quietly. “We’ll be put to task here I’m sure as the wounded are brought from the field. Where is Father?”

“He comes soon. He wishes to speak to our uncle and assess his temperament, for the blood of Elendil has come too.”

“He needn’t worry on that accord.” Erchirion’s dark brow rose as he tilted his head. “Our Lord Uncle passed some hours ago. He took his life in despair of the war.”

“I see,” her brother murmured with a thoughtful expression. Giving her hand a squeeze he drew it away. “I will bear this news to Father. This changes much.”

She watched him leave with haste, wishing to go with him to see her father but willing herself to stay put. There would be time for reunions and sharing of stories. She was curious about the standard of Elendil and the blood of the King who seemingly turned the tide of the battle. Returning to her charge, Lothíriel felt less enthused about her prior task of cleaning Eowyn’s hair.

“My Lady?” hoping to see her brother had come back the woman pivoted toward the voice only to see Derufin’s apprentice coming halfway up the steps toward her. “You have been called for.”

Following the boy down the steps, out the hall and into a larger sick bay Lothíriel expression darkened with concern and confusion. Surely Derufin knew her oath to Ioreth to look after Éowyn and they weren’t heading in the direction of Faramir’s chamber. She trailed the boy until he came to a stop before the Warden, who turned to greet her.

“My Lady,” he murmured gravely before stepping to the side. On the pallet at his feet lay Halgeir still in his borrowed armor, though the chest plate had been removed. Lothíriel dropped down beside him compelling herself not to display upon her face the distress she felt on seeing his condition.

His copper hair was stained dark with blood, matted and plastered to his skull. A laceration cut the length of his right temple, across the arch of his nose and splitting his cheek badly enough she beheld the bone. His left eye was swollen shut, black and bruised where the skin puckered up against the gash. His breathing was labored and heavy, chest barely rising. She noticed his legs lay akimbo on the bed in a position that should have been uncomfortable if not painful. Craning her head up toward the Warden she waited for him to give his assessment.

“He was found face down beneath rubble,” the normally gruff man stated quietly. There was a hitch in his voice as he continued. “We removed the chest plate to look for damage. His back is broken.”

“But he draws breath,” she replied, turning her attention back to Halgeir, who laboriously opened his good eye. “Surely we can make him comfortable.”

“My Lady,” Derufin answered with a slight bow, nodding to his apprentice and leaving her. The corners of Halgeir’s lips curved into a smile when he recognized her, the laceration on his face weeping blood as the smile turned to grimace.

“Easy,” Lothíriel soothed, taking an herb laden cloth from beside the pallet and carefully dripping water into his mouth. A rattling breath seized Halgeir’s body as he tried to swallow, his lids squeezing tight.

“Fire,” he whispered, voice dry and strained. “Put it out.”

“The fire is out,” she answered gently, hoping to ease whatever vision he referred to. “You are safe.”

“The fire,” he continued, his tongue heavy as his speech became burdened. “I… am on fire, Lady. Please.”

Lothíriel froze, realization seeping in. His body was broken and he was asking her to end his suffering. They’d seen enough patients beg for release the night before as they worked together and he’d been the one to administer their will, always sparing her. Now he asked her for that greatest and most awful of deeds.

“No,” she whispered, her hand on his unmutilated cheek. “I cannot. Let me fetch someone ple-”

“Lady,” he gasped as he tried to move his body toward her but only his shoulders lurched up, the rest of his body prone and disobedient. Tears again welled up behind her eyes, feeling unworthy of this task and loathe to do it. He’d shown her how, but she doubted she had the physical or emotional strength.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as he settled back, brown eye watching her as his expression pacified. His gaze flicked down toward his arm and she reached for his limp hand, drawing it up and holding it with both of hers. Another pained smile twitched across his lips as she closed her eyes.

“Be here,” he breathed with effort. “Infusion.” Lothíriel knew at once what he was asking for and gave a careful nod before setting his hand down.

“I can do that,” she answered with a forced smile. She departed his side quickly, fetching the items she needed and locating Derufin, who uncharacteristically did not protest when she drew him away from a patient. Following her back to Halgeir the Warden paused, before they were within earshot of the man.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. I haven’t the heart to administer it but I will sit with him until… until he is gone. Can you… will you do it?”

“I will,” Derufin replied solemnly with a sidelong look at the dying man. “You know if he is asking for this he is aware of his condition. There is naught that even the hands of a King can do to reverse this damage.”

“Very well,” she mumbled, handing the cup bearing a sponge of herb-soaked water to the man. Accepting the cup the Warden nodded.

“This a strong soporific infusion. It won’t take long.”

Lothíriel sat beside Halgeir and picked his hand up in hers, using her other hand to brush strands of hair from his face. He opened his good eye and tilted his head to the Warden who sat opposite her. His breathing was still laborious, and he winced again as the skin on his face pulled away from the cut.

“The Lady says you’re ready,” the older man confirmed, raising the cup so Halgeir could see the contents.

“Aye,” he croaked. “My brothers… father-”

“They will know of your service to the city,” Derufin replied with a gentleness Lothíriel had not yet seen of him. “And your courage in the end.”

“I’ll go,” Halgeir murmured, turning his attention to Lothíriel. Assisting Derufin, they adjusted the man’s shoulders and neck so he could take in sips from the sponge as the Warden squeezed it carefully to his lips. A total of four slow pulses of the sponge, swallowed at length, was deemed enough by the elder and they settled him back on the pallet.

“Sleep, Halgeir son of Ohtar.” The Warden looked across the pallet to Lothíriel with a nod. “It won’t be long.”

With that he stood, bearing away the poison-laced sponge and left the pair. Taking Halgeir’s hand once more, the woman smiled mournfully at her friend. She’d seen the effects of liquid only a few times before but the amount Derufin had given him would likely send him into a deep slumber before his heart stopped soon after. Halgeir opened his mouth, the wound leaking blood once more as he tried to speak.

“I should die,” he strained, “die with a Lady at… bedside. I hoped I would… see you once more.”

“Rest,” she murmured as his brown eye searched her face. “I am here. I will stay with you.”

He seemed to acquiesce, eyes closing as the tension in his face alleviated. She held his hand and let the tears slip silently down her cheeks. Halgeir was never meant to be a soldier, nor was he meant to die as one. No songs would be sung in great halls for his acts of courage and quiet bravery. But she knew. She would remember.

It felt like hours as she held his hand close to her breast, watching his inhalation slow and ease slightly. It was likely the span of half a bell but when his breathing finally stopped, and his chest lay still Lothíriel felt her heart sink like a rock. Tightening her mouth she swallowed a sob, unwilling to vent her anguish in this space. She pressed her lips to his knuckles as she slowed her breathing to overcome the desire to weep. Placing his hand on his chest, the woman leaned forward and kissed his forehead, wishing she could give him a proper funeral. But she took a single haggard breath and set her jaw, unfurling the sheet by his bed as she stood and covering his damaged body and face so he could be taken with the rest of the dead.

She walked away from the cot and the chamber moving in a daze and retracing her steps to resume her vigil beside Éowyn. She was blessedly left alone, providence intervening to ensure she made it back to the shieldmaiden’s side. As she ascended the steps to rejoin her charge she caught sight of someone hunkered over the woman. Frowning and quickening her pace, she drew up the final steps before calling out.

“Kindly give the Lady a wider berth,” she stated firmly, irritated that he might crowd her just for a look at the woman who rode into battle. He likely wasn’t the first but with Lothíriel not attending her Éowyn was vulnerable to gawking and it infuriated the Princess. The man stood and turned to face her, his face a mask of wrath and incredulity as he sized her up. He was a man of Rohan, possibly a captain as evidence of his armor, his hair the same golden hue as the woman on the pallet.

“She who lays here,” he growled with a critical gaze, “is my sister.”

Chapter Text

Lothíriel’s expression softened considerably once the man identified himself, but she maintained a determined tone.

“Forgive me, my Lord. If you would like to sit with her I’ll have a chair brought bedside.”

“This seat is occupied?” he queried, dark brows raising over discerning hazel eyes as he indicated with his helmet to the stool.

“It is,” she replied with a tilt of her head. The grief and exhaustion allowed for precious little decorum in interacting with this horselord, though she knew it would be wiser to defer and back down. “I am attending the Lady. But let me not be a barrier for you to look after your sister.”

Though his expression remained severe his gaze tempered as she moved around him to kneel beside Éowyn, checking her breath and inspecting her arm. He retreated several steps, watching warily but no longer crowding her space. After the loss of Halgeir the woman was in no mood for trading barbs with this man and she was well aware he was someone of consequence if he was Éowyn’s brother.  When an apprentice approached with fresh water Lothíriel bade him fetch a seat for the man, which was brought swiftly. The horselord set the stool on the other side of his sister, his eyes trained on her as Lothíriel worked.

“I thought her dead,” he murmured at length, though it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to Lothíriel or himself as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “It was… how could she be here?” the dark-haired woman said nothing but offered him a glance as she began re-bandaging the shieldmaiden’s wrist. “When the Prince corrected my folly – that she lived… But when will she wake?”

Lothíriel’s brows rose at the mention of the Prince, wondering how her father correctly deduced Éowyn lived but finding it unsurprising. It hardly felt like an appropriate time to inform the man that she was Imrahil’s daughter. In fact, there wasn’t a reason for him to know at all as long as she maintained this role. It took her a moment to realize the horselord was looking at her, awaiting a response.

“I don’t know, my Lord,” she answered quietly. She began applying a salve to the rope burn on Éowyn’s left hand, her fingers working deftly as she spoke. “She is not the only one so afflicted. None who have been stricken with the Black Shadow have woken yet.”

“But the others live?”

“Yes. In a slumbering state. She does not have the fever seen in others. But this deep sleep is consistent.”

The man said no more, his brows knit over concerned eyes. She chanced a look at him as she cleaned her hands on the apron. He appeared around Amrothos’ age with the visage of a man who’d seen the horror of battle many times before the day’s events. With the opportunity to study him she determined his hair was darker than his sisters, pulled away from his face but stained with blood and sweat. He did not strike her as a man who smiled often.

“She is here, my Lord,” Ioreth voice caused both to look down at the steps below where the woman and a dark-haired warrior approached. Though he was dressed in attire of a ranger the man had a regal bearing as he came to Éowyn’s side, a small steaming bowl in his hand. After Ioreth gave an affirming nod, Lothíriel stood and backed away, allowing he man to take her place. He sang quietly as he set the bowl at his side and inspected the wounds Lothíriel had newly dressed. Standing beside the older healer the Princess watched him gingerly examine Éowyn’s broken blackened forearm. Her brother, for his part, made no move to protest and seemed comfortable in the man’s presence.

“The hands of a King are the hands of a healer,” Ioreth intoned softly, answering the unasked question of her companion. Lothíriel’s lips parted, eyes widening as she realized his identity. The blood of Elendil; he who bore the royal livery at the end of the war. Her heartbeat quickened as they watched him tend to the blonde woman, his quiet lamentation barely discernable.

“Tell me, Aragorn,” came her brother’s anxious voice. “Will she yet survive?”

“Her wounds are healing,” the man confirmed, raising his gaze to the horselord. “The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill.”

He brought forth the bowl of liquid, its steam curling into the air near Éowyn’s placid face. Aragorn beheld her for a moment before speaking her name, dipping a cloth in the bowl and tenderly bathing the broken arm. The scent wafting toward Lothíriel was oddly familiar but she could not place it.

“Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan! Awake. The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean.” The tendrils of vapor were brought before her face once more as Aragorn raised his gaze once more to her brother. “Call her – let her year your voice, my friend.”

“Éowyn,” the blond man murmured, kneeling beside her bed and covering her hand with his own, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Éowyn!” To the amazement of the beholders the woman’s eyes fluttered before opening, focusing on her brother as she spoke.

“Éomer,” she whispered. “What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?”

“Not long, my sister,” her brother answered, brushing hair from her forehead. “But think no more upon it.”

Lothíriel and Ioreth remained a respectful distance from the pair, giving Éowyn space to focus on her brother. The Princess of Dol Amroth caught sight of the ranger quietly departing, descending the stairs silently. Giving Ioreth an encouraging nod, the woman trailed Aragorn as he departed, following his steps until they were well away from the siblings.

“My Lord,” she called cautiously as he turned to appraise her, seeming unsurprised that she’d pursued him. “Your ability to heal is tremendous. Have you yet attended Lord Faramir in his affliction?”

“I have,” he answered gravely, though his expression indicated some level of recognition. “He has awoken, my Lady. But I must take my leave.”

With a small bow the man proceeded down the narrow hallway, bearing his cup of healing water along. Though she might otherwise inquire further into his skill and what was in the bowl Lothíriel instead turned and went swiftly to the chamber of her cousin, joining the Warden, Beregond and her brothers therein.

“Lothíriel!” Amrothos cried as she entered, bringing her close in an embrace, which was received gladly. Stepping away she regarded Faramir, still weak and faint but awake.

“Cousin,” she greeted him, taking the seat vacated by Erchirion beside the bed.

“I heard you in my dreams,” he murmured, his voice dimmed by exhaustion. “You spoke to me as though I were a room away. Far off but I knew it was you.”

“Now you hear me plainly,” she replied with a smile, her hand over his. “The darkness has faded and you are returned to us.”

“Returned yes, but I am troubled with the tidings.”

Lothíriel looked back at her brothers, unsure of how much Faramir knew. Amrothos gave her a cant of the head to indicate he knew all that he should, including the death of his father. Returning her gaze to the new Steward, the Princess patted his hand gently.

“They are ill tidings,” she agreed. “Would you have me sit with you, Cousin?”

Faramir smiled though it didn’t last long, his eyelids fluttering as he stifled a yawn. With a nod Lothíriel released his hand and retreated so the Warden could administer a sip of tea. Standing beside her brothers the woman watched their cousin settle back against the pillows, sleepily looking at them.

“No, little swan. That is not necessary. My heart is well to know you are all close. But I feel a mighty sleep overcoming me.”

“We shall return shortly,” Erchirion promised with a grin before shepherding his siblings from the room. Outside the chamber they reconvened, the quietness of this side of the ward affording them a moment to talk privately.

“Is Father named Steward?” Lothíriel inquired, her voice low.

“Indeed,” her middle brother answered. “For a time. The King has returned but it was decided between him, Mithrandir and Father that now is not the time for his unveiling.”

“He’s doing the King’s labor with his healing hands.”

“You’ve seen him at work?”

“He came to the aid of the Lady of Rohan, whom I was attending. He brought her from the darkness, though she does not seem as tranquil as Faramir.”

“Then you met her brother, the new King of Rohan?” Amrothos queried as they sidestepped a servant passing through the hallway. His sister’s expression shifted to mild surprise as she considered his words.

“Met,” Lothíriel ducked her head with a wince, recalling their initial interaction. “Yes.”

“Pray tell, sister. You didn’t insult the new king of the Rohirrim and shame our father's name.”

“No,” she replied with an indignant frown. “And he does not know me by my name. Nor title. And I would prefer to keep it thus. Neither he nor anyone else need know.”

“As you wish, little swan,” Erchirion agreed with a smile. Amrothos looked ready to speak on the matter but a glance from his older brother stayed his tongue. “You look… tired. Have you rested?”

“As much as you have, I wager.”

“Fair enough. Now there are more hands to heal, sister. Be sure to find sleep. That chamber is still waiting for you in the Citadel.”

“Thank you,” she replied as Amrothos reached out to adjust the linen cap over her dark hair.

“You’ve done an admirable job, Loth,” he murmured. “But don’t suffer needlessly. Minas Tirith will see no more war today. We overheard the Warden drawing up a shift. Be sure to utilize the schedule of rest, just as we are.” Lothíriel nodded as they prepared to depart.

“Father will likely call on you tonight or tomorrow morning as the commanders of the West come to a decision. Mordor suffered a defeat, but the war is not yet over.” Erchirion took Lothíriel’s hands as he spoke, running a finger across her blood-stained palm. “We must all use this respite with intention.”

With a final farewell her brothers departed, their leave filling her with a longing to join them. But she was plentiful with responsibility between Éowyn and Faramir waking. She turned back to Éowyn’s ward, contemplating the brief but influential knowledge she’d gained from her brothers. It seemed curious that Éowyn’s brother had been announced as the King of Rohan. She recalled from the broad teachings of the realms of Men that Théoden had a son or two. Had they all perished? She would have to adjust her interactions mightily with this new information. Even if he’d known her title and status, she was hardly in a position to interact so informally with him.

Climbing the steps to Éowyn’s pallet he was seated in the same place she’d left him, dark brows drawn as though he were deep in thought. The Lady of Rohan had fallen into a sleep interrupted by frowns and turning of her head as though she were displeased with her dreams. Lothíriel cleared her throat softly as she reached the top step to avoid surprising the king, whose hazel gaze caught her with a nod. His face was unreadable, trained in sternness. The Lady of Dol Amroth offered a formal bow to the man, which he seemed to ignore, before taking her seat.

“How long has she been sleeping?” she asked quietly, gingerly checking for a fever.

“She fell back soon after she was roused,” he replied in an equally hushed tone, his gaze lingering on her face before returning to his sister.

“I apologize for my words when first we met,” she murmured, busying herself with the bandage on Éowyn’s unbroken wrist. “I thought you were another soldier come to ogle the lady. I did not know you were the king. Nor her brother.”

“Has she had many such visitors?”

“A handful. A woman at war is an oddity it seems few can resist.”

The king said nothing to this but a ‘hmm’ was given as he watched her set the wrist down and re-apply salve to the burns. Lothíriel worked in silence, reminding herself the man must be grieving not only the state and presence of his sister but the death of his uncle and Valar-knew how many kinsmen. His reticence was none of her business. After she completed the topical treatments the healer prepared to leave the man, gathering various items before he spoke, halting her progress.

“She speaks of darkness and despair,” he said, training his vision still on his sister before looking at Lothíriel. “It is… I cannot convince her she is alive and the victory she had on the field.”

The woman took a breath as she studied the shieldmaiden, still sleeping but not without disruption. Settling her hands in her lap Lothíriel took her time in answering, not entirely sure he was asking her a question but feeling compelled to speak anyway.

“Her torment must be great.” She paused, gauging his reaction. When she could not discern one she continued. “She has lost her uncle. And the incumbrance of her concealment must weigh heavily on her mind.”

“How so?”

“I imagine she disguised herself as a soldier for some time. She must’ve been petrified every glance, every interaction could give her ruse up. And we both know the horror of war can irrevocably scar the most battle-hardened of warriors.”

“I did not want this for her,” he said at length, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Lothíriel recalled, then, holding Halgeir’s lifeless hand hours prior, wishing fate had been kinder to him. She empathized with the king’s words, feeling connected to him in their grief, though he certainly had no knowledge of this bond.

“I hope she is healed of this anguish,” she replied as he looked at her. “Love and patience may be more effective than these bandages and salves.”

With that Lothíriel stood to give him privacy and make rounds in the ward. He didn’t raise his gaze, even as she bowed, expression still inscrutable and eyes slick. She wanted to offer that he might attend the Citadel for food and rest but figured it would fall on deaf ears. He likely knew the amenities afforded to him, especially as king. She turned away and slipped silently down the stairs, leaving the sovereign to his fears and misgivings.

Chapter Text

The evening drew in as the last of the wounded were brought to the city, the dusk sky an array of colors as the sun sank. Lothíriel kept herself busy with other patients to give the King of Rohan privacy but she noticed he hardly left his spot beside his sister’s bed. She imagined it would be the same if it were her in that pallet but at least her brothers would be able to take shifts. She found herself wondering what drove Éowyn to ride into battle and the peculiarity of her symptoms compared to Faramir, who grew in strength by the hour. She’d discovered Pippin’s fellow Hobbit companion was also afflicted by the Black Shadow but he too was roused by the ministrations of the ranger-turned-king, Aragorn, and showed a healthy recovery. Éowyn alone was different.

Sympathy for the King of Rohan persuaded her to gather a small basket of food from the kitchen, having finished tasks for the evening before her break. The hall was quiet, most of the beds moved to other wards to afford the Lady of Rohan discretion and the King relative solitude. Only the Warden, Ioreth and Lothíriel were permitted to look after Éowyn and therefore the hall was unusually quiet. Ascending the stairs the Lady of Dol Amroth found Éowyn’s brother seated, as always, but he had his head in his hands, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. His shoulders moved steadily but exaggerated, as though he were training his breath.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she murmured as she crested the steps, the man’s face raising. His eyes were red but no tears were visible. He straightened up, permitting her to come closer with a nod. She offered the small basket over the bed to him, which he received with raised brows.

“I cannot imagine you’ve had much to eat,” she answered with a gesture to the basket. “It isn’t much. If you are seeking more, I can stay with her.”

“Thank you, mistress,” he murmured, pulling the cloth back to display a wedge of cheese, small baguette and an apple. It wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy his hunger, she suspected, but it would keep him from keeling over. “I confess I am not touched by hunger, though by all rights I should be famished.”

“Grief does strange things,” she replied, sitting opposite him. Turning her attention to Éowyn, the dark-haired woman felt her forehead and watched her breathing for several moments. “Her rest seems more peaceful.”

“Aye. She awoke about an hour ago, spoke of shadowed dreams and feeling ensnared before falling back to slumber.”

“It is puzzling,” Lothíriel commented as she began applying salve to Éowyn’s burns. “Why she should be so affected while the others not.”

The King said nothing, watching her massage the liniment across the red marks on his sister’s arm and hand. Lothíriel had hoped he would take his food and eat elsewhere. It was unnerving to have him sitting there, observing and perhaps evaluating her competence. He did not offer much by way of support or sense of calm but neither did his presence feel hostile. Simply ill at ease.

“Night has fallen,” she murmured, glancing over at him as she worked. “You must be exhausted.”

“Is it already night?”

“Yes.”

“Time seems hazy. I could’ve sworn it’s only been a few hours into midday.”

“I am sure there is a chamber in the Citadel for you to take rest, Your Highness.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Lothíriel caught his eyes with raised brows, his objection spoken with a tinge of derision. His brows furrowed as he softened, if only slightly. “I am… not accustomed to such titles.”

“What would you have me call you?”

“Uh,” he faltered with contemplation, before becoming focused on the contents of the basket. “Thank you for the food, mistress.” Lothíriel bit her tongue to keep from correcting him with her name, nodding instead.

“Have you been to Citadel yet?” something about him sitting here in solitude all night did not sit well with her. He eyed her for a moment, both of them aware that she was pushing an agenda but he offered a noncommittal shrug as he set the basket down at his feet.

“I have not. If my sister wakes I would like to be here.”

“I’ve heard rumors the Commanders of the West are considering their next move against Mordor,” she replied with a casual tone, as though it were commonplace topic. She hoped the vagueness of the statement would not inspire questions about how she came by this information. “The enemy will not likely let the realms of Men revel in victory long.”

“You have an ear for politics,” he quipped with the ghost of a smile, though Lothíriel may have been imagining it. When she didn’t respond the King tilted his head to look in the general eastern direction. “Yes, it is still being decided what our next move should be.”

“With such a reprieve I would hope you’d find some rest.”

“You are persistent.”

“My expertise is not limited to physical ailments.” She caught his glare and held it for a moment. “You won’t be useful to anyone falling asleep on your horse. If you are concerned about attending your sister there is a room just across the hall. It’s small and the bed is only a stretch better than the floor. But if the Lady needs you it would only be a quick dash across the corridor.”

She expected him to rebuff her but his hazel eyes dropped the defensive glare for a moment, his fatigue – physical and emotional – flickering earnestly. Lowering his head for a moment to stare at his forearms before raising his gaze again the King sighed.

“I accept this. Especially if it serves to keep you from assailing me with advisement.”

Swallowing a retort, Lothíriel nodded and wiped her hands on the apron. Closing the lid of the salve, she laid Éowyn’s arm back on the pallet and checked her temperature once more before standing. The King looked up at her with bemusement before realizing she intended to show him to the room now. Standing with a quiet groan, the man looked at his sister once more.

“If she stirs I will retrieve you at once,” Lothíriel assured him. With a nod she led him down the steps and across the ward to the hallway, plucking a candle in a metal cradle from the alcove in the wall. She half expected him to think better of it and depart for the Citadel or return to Éowyn’s bedside. But he stayed with her as they crossed the empty vestibule to the storeroom-made-bedroom. Opening the door, Lothíriel stepped in, gathered a few items and lit the candle on the tiny side table. The King watched her before his expression turned to a frown.

“This your chamber?”

“More of a cabinet than chamber.” When he didn’t smile she followed it up with a confident, determined tone. “But I am not scheduled to rest for another hour. And this is the closest room to your sister.”

He seemed doubtful and clearly uncomfortable with the idea of occupying her ‘room’ but Lothíriel stepped closer to the entrance, her body near enough to his that he was forced to move further into the chamber to avoid indecency.

“I insist.”

“I will only rest for a short while,” he assured her, his visage still disquieted. “You will fetch me when your shift ends, or my sister awakens.” She canted her head in both an informal bow and acknowledgement.

“I will, my Lord.”

Chapter Text

The quiet that settled on the sixth level of Minas Tirith was both comforting and peculiar, considering the chaos of the past two days. It seemed the healers were entering a period of maintenance and care for the patients, the most excruciating scenarios already played out for better or ill. Lothíriel left the King of Rohan in her chamber and made a brief sweep of the wards, checking in on Faramir to find him asleep and Pippin’s companion as well.

 When she returned to Éowyn’s bedside the woman stifled a yawn as she sat on the stool. The thought of laying on the cold stone for a quick nap was far more appealing than she wanted to admit. After taking a quick check of the Lady of Rohan’s vitals, Lothíriel rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on her knee as she sat before her patient. Whether it was a minute or several that passed before a voice roused her from her dozing she couldn’t say, grey eyes opening to see Éowyn staring at her.

“Forgive me,” she murmured drowsily, sitting up a bit straighter as she addressed the other woman. “How do you feel, my Lady?”

“Out of sorts,” Éowyn replied softly, her voice strained as she shifted on the pallet. “The waking and dreaming world converge and I know not the difference.”

“Your body heals as we might expect,” Lothíriel replied, assisting the woman as she sat up, bringing her legs to the side of the bed. Her broken arm rested in a sling, carefully adjusted against her torso. “But your heart is troubled.”

“It is strange,” she agreed with a furrowed brow. They sat opposite each other, regarding one another as Éowyn pulled the blanket over her lap. “Where is my brother?”

“Resting.”

“That is good. He frets too much.”

“As brothers are wont to do.”

This elicited a small smile from the blonde woman as she smoothed the dark fabric of the blanket with one hand, a distant expression replacing the momentary amusement as her eyes grew cold. Lothíriel tilted her head as she studied the wraith-slayer.

“Are you hungry?”

“I suppose I ought to be,” Éowyn answered with a perplexed look. “But I find the thought of a meal unappealing and eating a labor I am not interested in.” Her words were slow and careful, as though she did not trust the sounds from her throat to be understood. Lothíriel reached across the negative space and placed a hand gently on her bandaged wrist, careful not to apply pressure. Éowyn raised her gaze to the Lady of Dol Amroth’s.

“Your dreams and words uttered in sleep have been dark, my Lady. I can imagine what you see when your eyes are closed disheartens you greatly.” She paused to allow Éowyn to readjust her broken arm before continuing. “I trust, however, your strong heart will prevail.”

“It is not so strong,” she whispered, dropping her gaze.

“Then we must find a way to give it hope.”

When Éowyn did not respond Lothíriel removed her hand and offered a smile. It was far from her place to tell the shieldmaiden how she ought to find hope but if she could be with her in this time of doubt then that would have to suffice. And perhaps her brother would have more insight. Éowyn’s lids grew heavy as she swayed, caught by Lothíriel’s hands on her shoulders and gently laid back on the pallet.

“Let me bring you some food, if only to sustain you until your appetite returns. And tea,” the healer murmured, adjusting her legs on the mattress as the Lady of Rohan nodded wordlessly, slipping back into slumber.

Her symptoms were so unlike Faramir that it worried and puzzled Lothíriel. In her brief years as a healer she’d occasionally seen folk wither from an unknown ailment of the heart, their will to live and sustain so greatly weakened that they slip away. But those she’d seen with such a presentation were elderly or suffering great catastrophe. Certainly, Éowyn’s travails were numerous but she had much to live for and the love of her brother, as well as her countrymen. The dark-haired woman pondered this as she departed Éowyn’s bedside after assuring her sleep was peaceful.

Finding her way to the kitchen to request a meal for the Lady of Rohan to be brought by a servant once it was prepared, Lothíriel considered her next stop. Éowyn’s brother had requested she rouse him if his sister was lucid but her waking had been brief. And the King likely needed sleep. But so too did the healer, her muscles aching and the desire to find a quiet corner overwhelming. Resigning herself to checking on Éowyn once more and waking the horselord so she might sleep a few candlemarks, Lothíriel turned the corner to Éowyn’s ward, nearly colliding with a body coming the opposite direction.

“Oh!” She cried, reaching a hand out to steady the person before her. It was an older man, perhaps her father’s age, his Gondorian armor denoting him a member of the city guard. He was familiar yet unknown and it irked her that she could not place him. He stared at her, expression clouded and eyes dazed. “Are you alright?”

“You are the lady of the healing house?” he inquired, squinting at her as she shook her head.

“No, the Lady Ioreth and the Warden are likely resting at this hour. But I can assist you. Are you in need of a healer?”

“No. Not for myself. I seek my son. He is a healer by trade. I cannot find him.”

Lothíriel’s facial muscles stiffened as she pulled her hands away from the man. The brown eyes, a touch of auburn in his mostly white hair. No. This couldn’t be her fate.

“He’s a tall fellow,” the man continued, searching her face for recognition. “Halgeir. I was certain he’d be here but I didn’t yet check the sleeping quarters.”

“I - ”

“You do know him! What fortune, lady! Where are the lodgings for the lads? I was sure -”

“He is not there,” she found herself saying, taking a step back and wishing to flee entirely. The man fell silent as they stared at each other. It took all her willpower and a firm bite to her tongue to keep from freeing the tears prickling the edges of her eyes. Halgeir’s father’s face shifted from relief to confusion before sinking entirely.

“No, it cannot be so,” he whispered, brow furrowed furiously. “He is a healer. How could – no, my lady. You are mistaken.”

“Forgive me,” she pled, reaching her hands toward him once more in supplication. “He was called to serve in the defense of city.”

“But I was there as well. Surely I would’ve seen him, my youngest boy! He may yet be there – men have not come up from the walls.”

“I am regretful to share these tidings,” she stated with a catch in her throat, wishing this interaction to end as her voice dropped to a whisper. “So deeply grieved.”

“How? How did this happen?”

“He suffered a severe injury to his back. His body… we could not mend it nor alleviate his pain.” She blinked away tears as the man shook his head, disbelief and shock dancing across his face. He grabbed her hands suddenly, squeezing tightly as if he were trying to pull the truth from her.

“He is dead, then – tell me, girl!”

“I am so sorry…”

“Father!” another man came from the adjacent ward, approaching the pair quickly with a frown. Upon seeing his father the fellow looked to Lothíriel, whose gaze shifted with a plea not to have to repeat the tidings.

“Your brother,” the older man mumbled, voice stricken. “Alas! He has perished. What cruelty that he should die when we thought him safe here.”

“Come, father,” Halgeir’s brother murmured, pulling the soldier’s hands off Lothíriel’s wrists and guiding him back a step. The younger man’s voice was heavy with anguish as he struggled to maintain an appropriate tone. “He… he was no stranger to the risks of war. We shall mourn him as he is due. Let us not trouble the lady.”

Were she not fighting her own grief Lothíriel would have escorted them to a quiet bay and explained further or deposited them with another healer. But she could only stare in silence as Halgeir’s brother led his father away, a wail coming from the older man’s throat as the reality of his loss took hold. Her hands were shaking as she moved blindly in the other direction, wishing to get as far away from Halgeir’s kin and memory as possible. She scarcely registered where her feet took her, repressing a howl of distress. Could she not escape this torment?

Finally her hand lay on the handle to her makeshift chamber but the iron disappeared from under hand, grey eyes flashing with confusion as the door pulled away to reveal the King of Rohan. Brows furrowed with bewilderment – what was he doing in her room? He met her with an equally mystified expression that tempered once he beheld her.

“Mistress?”

Her senses returned, realizing she was standing before the horselord with her hand outstretched to open the door, her visage a portrait of failed restraint. Tears strayed from the corners of her eyes and she tried to answer with a respectable tone but instead she could only choke back a cry. The King of Rohan took charge then, opening the door wider and taking her upper arm gently to guide her inside. She followed dumbly as he sat her on the cot and crouched before her.

“My lady?” this time his voice was soft, imploring her with concerned hazel eyes. She met his gaze before sniffing and taking a heavy breath.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, settling her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “I was without thought.”

“What causes this distress?” his dark brows seemed to forever be knitted in confusion, concern or consternation in her presence. 

“I was caught unawares by the family of a man who died,” she faltered, gulping in a breath to ensure she would not lose composure before the King. “I was not expecting or prepared to explain their son’s death. He was… I couldn’t heal his wounds. There are so many I couldn’t help. I cannot possibly answer to their loved ones.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his; fear triggering her heart to thump against her ribs as the thought of reliving that interaction over and over caused her hands to shake once more. She shut her eyes, willing her breathing to slow – this was not the audience to be weeping before. Abruptly warmth enveloped her hands as her eyes opened to find the King’s hand covering hers. The soothing pressure he applied mollified her trembling. The simplicity and intimacy of his kindness was not lost on her but she didn’t have the words to express what this small deed meant. He held his hand over hers for a moment longer before removing it as her eyes met his again.

“You should rest,” he murmured, studying her face. “You offered me the selfsame counsel. Perhaps you will be less stubborn than I in accepting it.”

“Rest will not alleviate this responsibility,” she replied dully. To her surprise the corners of his lips curved into a faint smile below the dark mustache.

“No,” he agreed, the smile disappearing. “But you will be renewed to return to your duties. And I cannot rob you of this fine bed any longer.”

He stood, and she realized he still wore pieces of armor and hadn’t found an opportunity to wash the grime of war from his person. He smelled of sweat, smoke, horse and blood. Standing as well, Lothíriel cleared her throat, overwhelmed with propriety as they stood in scandalous proximity in the makeshift room. He too seemed to realize their nearness for he took a small step back.

“I thank you for the opportunity to rest so near my sister. Has she woken?”

“Only briefly,” she replied, her voice clearer as they strayed to safer topics. “She roused and we conversed for a few moments but she was overcome with fatigue. I’d planned to wake you before…”

“That is well,” he answered with a nod. “I shall go to her.”

“Of course. I will not rest long,” she commented with a glance to the exit. “Lady Ioreth will likely be checking upon your sister soon. I will wake shortly to resume tending to her.” The King of Rohan said nothing for a moment, instead turning toward door but paused, casting a look back at her.

“Take leave, mistress. You have been near enough to sorrow for one night.”

Lothíriel met his eyes as he held the door with one hand, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he canted his head and departed. The room fell silent as she dropped back to the cot, breathing slowly. The warmth from his body dissipated some time ago but the indentation where his person had slept remained, as did flecks of mud and debris. Exhaustion gripped her at once as she laid down, hardly bothering to brush the dirt away, instead closing her eyes and inhaling the lingering scent of the horselord as sleep claimed her.

Chapter Text

Morning light streamed through the high narrow window of her improvised room as the Lady of Dol Amroth wrinkled her nose, roused from a death-like sleep. She lay still a moment, collecting her thoughts and memories from the hours prior. Pulling herself up after a breath her brows furrowed, feeling disoriented and bemused. Near the bed lay a fresh chemise, the same grey as the soiled kirtle she wore, but blessedly clean. Beside it, new stockings and a linen cap were laid with care, a missive atop them. Standing, Lothíriel tucked unruly strands of hair into the bun and opened the letter. In short sharp script the note bade her, upon waking, to come to Ioreth’s quarters. The woman found this peculiar, folding the paper and worrying a fingernail.

Had she slumbered when Ioreth came to awaken her for her shift? How could she be permitted to sleep through the night? Gathering the items left for her the woman opened the wooden door, peeking into the hallway. It was quiet, though she could hear patients’ voices muffled in the wards adjacent to the corridor and the city beyond moving about in the morning. Slipping out and hastening her way to Ioreth’s chamber Lothíriel was able to avoid most eyes, skirting past servants and knocking quietly on the older healer’s door. Ioreth met her with a warm smile, beckoning her into the room and greeting her. She appeared to be readying herself for the day as well, a long braid resting over her shoulder, normally pinned up.

“How do you fair, my Lady? Rested, I hope? You’ve been well in need of a good sleep, I reckon. Come, I have a new gown. Let us get you out of that filthy one. Here, let me.”

Ioreth’s fingers made quick work of unlacing the stays at the back, the plain kirtle she’d referred to sitting on the table opposite the women, waiting for Lothíriel. Slipping out of the blood and sweat stained dress she stood in the chemise she’d brought from Dol Amroth, a shiver running up her spine. Ioreth tilted her head, examining the Princess for a beat before tossing the old garment to the corner of the room with a nod.

“A wash will be your next endeavor.”

“I have work to do,” Lothíriel replied with a frown, uncomfortable with the idea of lounging in a bath when there were patients waiting. Especially if she’d slumbered past her shift. “Did I sleep through someone fetching me for my schedule?”

“No,” Ioreth replied, sitting on her bed as she wound the grey and brown braid around her head and securing it in place. “You were not to be bothered.”

“Your doing, I suppose.”

“Nay.” Lothíriel’s brows rose as a sly smile crept across the healer’s thin lips as she stood and approached her companion, indicating with a finger for the younger woman to turn around. Complying, Lothíriel bent her knees slightly so Ioreth could unpin the bun and unravel the plait. “The King of Rohan bade us leave you to sleep. A most thoughtful man, I daresay.”

“The King? Why… why would he -” the brunette pivoted as she spoke but was gently turned back as the older woman continued working on her hair.

“He found me at his sister’s bedside and entreated me to give you rest until the morn. I could hardly refuse. And you were due for it. We managed well enough and will continue to when you take a soak.”

“Did… did you tell him who I am? My title or name?”

“No.” Ioreth paused, her fingers holding the dark curls a moment before she continued raking them out. “Was I meant to?”

“No,” Lothíriel murmured, her tone becoming more resolute. “No. I am a healer within these walls. That is how he… and anyone else should know me.”

“As you wish.”

Lothíriel didn’t all together like the way Ioreth trailed off but didn’t comment on it as the woman finished pulling the braid apart. Swiveling to face her the Princess gave an appreciative smile before reaching for the new clothes. Ioreth stayed her hand with an appraising glance.

“My Lady, a bath will be drawn for you.”

“I do not require a bath. I can wash with a towel if my scent is so offensive.”

“This request comes not from me,” the older woman confirmed, releasing Lothíriel’s hand and leveling her gaze, which the Princess met, expression skeptical. Was the King of Rohan demanding she wash as well? “Your Lord Father made it known to me directly.”

“My father requests I bathe?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

With an annoyed ‘hmm’ Lothíriel pressed her lips together. Although she knew she probably reeked, she didn’t want to be treated differently than the other healers on account of her heritage. But upon a second inspection of her mentor the brunette realized she too looked fresher and perhaps also indulged in a wash. Resignation relaxed the irritation in her face as she nodded.

“Very well.”

“Good then. Wait here and I will have servants draw a bath. Most are communal, as you know, on this level but there are two bathing tubs for nobility in the southern chambers. They are private. The Lady of Rohan has already been cleansed in one. No one will trouble you there. And when you finish you can resume your labors ere your good father comes to collect you.”

“Has he said as much?”

“Not to me, my Lady.”

Lothíriel nodded, accepting her fate as Ioreth excused herself to make ready the arrangements.

TTTT

For all her protestations the bath was extraordinary, the water cleansing blood, sweat, grime and tears from her person. The tub was narrower than she was accustomed to and she had to step out to allow the filthy water to drain into a divot in the stone floor which ran the water out the room and likely down the side of the wall to a collecting pool levels below. She was grateful for servants that attended her to refill the tub, Lothíriel sitting on a stool with a large robe wrapped about her as they worked. It was disarming to have only male servants but they kept their distance and eyes averted. Once the water was replenished and the chamber vacated, the Lady of Dol Amroth slipped into the tub once more, noting with a smile that scented oils had been left on a table.

Although she was used to idling about in the bath at home she was conscious of the time and made quick work of cleaning her skin and applying the mildest of oils to her hair before rinsing. Once dry, she ran a comb through her waist length hair, drawing through knots and braiding it. Unable to locate pins to fasten it into a chignon the woman secured the plait with a tie and resigned to fit the linen cap over her head and let the braid lay at her back. She pulled the clean shift over her head and rolled the stockings to her knees, tying them carefully.

She felt like a new human, wishing the painful memories could be washed away along with the dirty bathwater. Were she dressing for court she’d secure a bodice with stays to her person before donning the grey kirtle but she was committed to her station in the White City. As it was, she didn’t know where her belongings had been stored when they arrived, likely in the vacant chamber her father intended her to stay in during their occupation.

Loosely securing the ties that gave the kirtle form around her body and slipping the heavy boots back on, Lothíriel opened the door and looked down the hallway. This section of the Healing House was reserved for nobility, the gardens of the level interspersed with the various chambers. It had an entirely different atmosphere from the healing ward on the opposite side with its close quarters and functional spaces. Here there were open rooms, a solarium and sweeping views of the Pelennor Fields below, meant for both physical and emotional respite. It was here that the Lady Éowyn had been installed for the duration of her stay to recuperate, along with Faramir in his own chamber and handful of courtiers.

Moving down the wide corridor, Lothíriel located the Lady of Rohan’s chamber, knocking softly. A female voice bade her enter and she opened the door to reveal Éowyn propped up in a large bed, her hair loose and a healthy warmth to her skin. She encouraged Lothíriel to venture further in as she gestured to the empty chair beside the bed.

“Hail, my Lady,” Lothíriel greeted her with a smile as the door shut behind her. She sat in the offered seat regarding Éowyn. Indeed, she looked much improved from the night prior, a glow of health in her cheeks and a fresh dress replacing the men’s clothes and armor. Only her eyes remained haunted, but she presented a genuine smile to the dark-haired woman.

“Good morrow,” Éowyn replied, her voice still heavy with fatigue. “You look well.”

“As do you. I am much relieved to see you settled here and afforded some privacy.”

“Yes” the blonde woman agreed with a look around the chamber with its high ceilings and warm furnishings. “My dreams are dark still, I confess. But the change in scenery has done some good.”

“That is well. The House of Healing is renowned for its palliating atmosphere. Second only to the hallowed walls of Imladris if the Warden is to be believed.”

“I could hardly say,” Éowyn answered as her companion checked the burns on her unbroken arm. “But it is certainly peaceful, if not overly quiet.”

“Aye. A nearly empty city does allow one to be with their thoughts more readily.” A silence followed as Lothíriel felt the blonde woman’s eyes on her, matching her brother’s in intensity and study. When she spoke once more Lothíriel had finished adjusting the bandage on her hand, seating herself as Éowyn’s voice came forth with a note of curiosity.

“Is it not strange to be one of the few women in an entire city? Between yourself and Mistress Ioreth I believe we are the only womenfolk here.”

“We are, unless there are ladies still hiding in men’s clothes,” Lothíriel replied with an insouciant grin, which was returned, before adopting a more serious tone. “It does feel odd.”

“You must have remarkable skill to be permitted in the city when other women were sent away.”

Or I am a stubborn brat who refused to stay back and had the privilege of my name behind me, Lothíriel thought dryly as she considered a response. Éowyn followed her statement up quickly, as though she were embarrassed to call Lothíriel out.

“Are you a citizen of Minas Tirith?”

“No. I am here, like Lady Ioreth, from afar in Gondor. I suppose I came soon enough for the battle that they couldn’t turn me away and saw me fit for use.” Well, it wasn’t entirely untrue.

“I am glad for it.”

Silence followed as Éowyn smoothed the blanket across her legs. Her left arm was still in a sling but she moved with more flexibility. Lothíriel stood and walked to a table against the wall where a kettle sat. Pouring a cup of tea, she bore it to the Lady with a smile. Éowyn accepted it with her unbound hand and took a slow sip before setting it down on the saucer by her thigh.

“Thank you. I am reminded so frequently to partake in food and drink that I believe I ignore it on principle now.”

“I can hardly blame you. Between your bro – the King, and us healers you are rarely allowed a moment to yourself.”

As if on cue a knock thudded against the door. Éowyn called out, admitting entrance as her brother moved through the doorframe. He paused when Lothíriel turned to greet him with a small bow. His expression shifted from placid to uncomfortable, again his brows furrowing as he canted his head. Stripped of his armor he stood before them in a dark tunic, a belt and leather jerkin, the hems of his breeches tucked neatly into the calf-length boots that appeared almost identical to Lothíriel’s. His hair had been smoothed and tied back, though he did not appear to have been offered the same access to bathing as the women.

“Forgive the intrusion.”

“Nonsense,” Lothíriel replied lightly, beckoning him further inside with a polite smile. “I owe you much thanks, my Lord. I would not have found such restful sleep without your insistence.” Éowyn’s head tilted as brows rose over her gaze, which focused on her brother with an unasked question. The King, for his part, appeared even more uneasy.

“I take my leave,” the healer murmured when neither sibling made a move to speak, turning her attention to the lady. “I’ll check your bandages shortly and perhaps we’ll take a turn around the chamber to see how you feel on your feet.”

“I would be amenable to that,” Éowyn replied kindly, her gaze on the King despite her comment directed at Lothíriel.

“Farewell.”

“Good morrow, mistress.”

Lothíriel caught the King’s hazel eyes in a momentary glance as he spoke before giving her a nod and turning to his sister. Leaving them, the woman found herself wondering if Éowyn’s brother ever truly smiled or expressed cheer. She could not imagine engaging with her siblings in such a reserved austere manner. But she also hadn’t ridden into battle dressed as a man, slayed the greatest foe second only to the Dark Lord nor had her brothers thought her perished at the end of the battle. Perhaps the King deserved some latitude and empathy – for a time at least.

After checking in on her cousin, who remained sleeping, the woman found herself idling in the bay between corridors separating Éowyn’s wing from the other chambers. Whether she was hoping to catch the King of Rohan leaving so she might rejoin the Lady or if she was hoping to see him again she could not tell. But as she busied herself retying the linen cap over her head she caught sight of a child – nay, a Hobbit moving down the adjacent wing. Recognizing Pippin, the healer smiled as he came into view and recognized her with a wave.

“My Lady,” he gave a half bow as she joined him in the hallway.

“Hello, Pippin. You are well?”

“Aye,” he replied with a quick smile. “Well enough. I’ve come to visit my friend.”

“Lady Éowyn?”

“No, well, yes. Her, too. But I’ve come to see Merry - Meriadoc Brandybuck, my kinsman.” He gestured with a nod of his head that she follow him down the hall in the opposite direction of Éowyn’s room. “We traveled from the Shire together but, if you recall, I was separated from him. Well, borne away by Gandalf, really. But he stayed with the Riders of Rohan. Rode into battle – if you can believe it. Merry aided Lady Éowyn in vanquishing the Witch King. A Hobbit!” His voice dropped as they entered a room, a figure lying in a bed altogether too big. “And now I’m looking after him as he recovers. Morning, Merry.”

The diminutive figure in bed sat up, a shock of caramel curls brushed away to reveal the tired face of another Halfling. He appeared older than Pippin but there was a twinkle in his bright eyes that she recognized. Dropping her eyes as she gave a brief bow Lothíriel returned his smile as Pippin spoke again.

“This is… well, may I tell him who you are?”

“Yes,” she replied as Pippin scrabbled upon a chair and darted to the bed, sitting beside his companion.

“The Lady of Dol Amroth. Lothíriel.”

“Greetings, my Lady,” the other Hobbit welcomed her, his voice lower than she was expecting. “You must be one of the friends Pip has been telling me about.”

“I should be so honored,” she intoned as she sat on the chair. “You’ve had quite the journey, as Master Took tells it.”

“True enough, my Lady. But it is well that I’m recuperating here. You’re from Dol Amroth? I’m afraid I know little to nothing of the place.”

“You needn’t know much. We’ve come in service of the Steward and now the uncrowned King.”

“Her father is Lord Imrahil, if you remember him,” Pippin put in as he adjusted his tunic and brushed crumbs of second breakfast from the white tree on his chest.

“I do,” Merry replied, watching his friend before turning his attention to Lothíriel. “Is there a secret to your name that Pippin inquired if he could share it?”

“No secret, Master Brandybuck. My title and name should bear no importance while tending to the wounded but such honorifics have a way of… complicating things. So I’ve forgone such labels when I can.”

“Fortunately, we are without any lofty bothersome titles to get in our way,” Pippin stated with a grin, as Merry looked at him affectionately.

“Not so, Guard of the Citadel!” Lothíriel corrected him as he ducked his head sheepishly.

“Verily, my Lady. And Merry here was knighted an Esquire of Rohan.”

“A stately honor indeed.”

“Well, I’d be naught but a crow-food on yonder field were it not for Pip and the hands of Aragorn.”

“He is astonishing, this Aragorn,” Lothíriel commented thoughtfully. The result of his work was impressive, for Merry looked untouched by the Black Breath. “May I ask, Master Brandybuck -”

“Merry, please.”

“Merry. Do you feel recovered of your ailments?”

“For the most part,” he answered looking down at his body with a small shrug. “I was in a daze ere I came to the city. Like some vast fog had descended upon my vision. I felt lost, stranded between dreaming and waking. My body hurt from its toils, but once Aragorn brought that concoction forth – what was it again, Pip?”

“Kingsfoil.”

“Yes! The mixture and his wise words lifted the haze, as the sun breaks through the clouds and melts the morning mist. I fear I cannot explain it more beyond that.”

“It is that way with the Lord Faramir,” Pippin put in.

“Yes,” Lothíriel nodded, brow furrowed lightly as she mused aloud. “But not so for the Lady Éowyn. Her visible wounds are healing well enough but she seems to still walk in the mist, as you put it.”

“Perhaps something keeps her mind ensconced in shadow. I felt my mind was heavy as I wandered,” Merry murmured, expression darkening in memory. “A sorrow lingered, and it weighed me down mightily. I could only think of the desolation of our company,” he looked to Pippin as he spoke carefully. “Boromir’s death, Gandalf falling, poor Sam and Frodo alone in their trials. I was plagued with darkness until you found me. My heart was gladdened further when Aragorn came, and the weight lifted. It was hope, I think. Like the promise of light at the end of a long night.”

The trio sat in silence, reflecting on these words. Pippin’s expression was thoughtful but Merry’s held a trace of sadness, as though recounting his experience brought some of the weight back. Lothíriel watched the Hobbits pensively, idly playing with the end of her braid.

“Perhaps the Lady Éowyn has no light to call on,” Pippin murmured at length as the two looked at him.

“We might endeavor to find such a light,” the woman replied as Merry leaned back against the pillow, tilting his head in thought.

“Éomer, her brother, may yet know.”

Lothíriel watched him close his eyes for a moment, recognizing his fatigue from both their conversation and the recollection of painful memories. Standing she offered a cant of her head as Merry opened his eyes.

“I appreciate your counsel. I will trouble you no further on this. It was a pleasure, Merry.”

“Thank you, my Lady. Do come visit again. I hope to be up and about sooner rather than later.”

“Of course,” she smiled and nodded to Pippin. “Find me if you have need of anything.”

With that she departed the chamber, leaving the Hobbits to begin her rounds in the healing wards. Éowyn’s hallway lay empty as Lothíriel made her way to the other side of the level. She spent the rest of the day managing care with the Warden, Ioreth and the other healers, checking in on Éowyn and Faramir intermittently. She was unable to escort the Lady of Rohan for a walk, as she slumbered most of the day. Lothíriel caught sight of the King of Rohan occasionally throughout the morning and afternoon checking both on his sister and his kinsmen in the communal healing hall. Each time he caught her gaze and offered a polite if not discreet nod.

She found herself vigilant for Halgeir’s father or brother as she worked, prepared to greet and interact with them if they returned. She half hoped she would have another opportunity to treat them with the dignity their grief deserved, the other half grateful she did not have to exchange words once more. In the past she’d prided herself on her ability to navigate grief with the families of patients but with them she was overcome with shame and embarrassment, though she could not explain why she behaved thus.

It was well after dusk when a messenger found her wrapping a patient’s head wound in the healing bay nearest to the garden. He bowed before her as she sat back on her heels, brows raised expectantly.

“My Lady,” the lad greeted her. She recognized him as one of the squires or pages of a Gondorian knight who’d taken to running missives for various lords between the levels. “I am bidden to bear you a message.”

“Alright,” she replied, wiping her hands upon a towel and tossing it over her shoulder, awaiting the word.

“The Lord Imrahil, Steward of Gondor, requests your presence in the Citadel.”

“Does he?” she replied with a brow quirked over one eye. No doubt it seemed strange to this boy that the acting Lord of the City would request a modest healer come to the noblest level of Minas Tirith.

“If it pleases my Lady,” he intoned just short of nervously, extending a hand to the exit. Looking down at her patient, who also bore a quizzical expression, the woman grinned.

“I’ll check that wound when I return, for I am summoned by the Master of Swans,” she said to him as she placed a hand on his shoulder before standing and nodding to the boy. “Let us not keep his Lordship waiting.”

Chapter Text

Lothíriel shadowed the boy to the entrance of the final level of Minas Tirith, where he gave word to the guard. From there she was escorted by a silent Guard of the Citadel to the throne room she’d departed over a week ago when they arrived at the city, this time following him within. The architecture and white marble were not unlike the halls in Dol Amroth, though this one eclipsed it in size and majesty.

Their footsteps echoed quietly as she was permitted entrance down the wide aisle, the statues of kings flanking her as she walked. Stopping short of the platform, the guard bowed to her and retreated, leaving her in the seemingly empty Hall of the Kings. The seat of the sovereign sat empty, as did that of the Steward, instead a small table set off to the side of the dais with three chairs tucked in. Clasping her hands behind her back, Lothíriel turned to study the seat of the Steward, wondering how her cousin might appear sitting at the feet of their king.

“Lothíriel,” she turned toward the sound coming from the transept just beyond the abandoned table, her father closing the gap between them. He too looked freshly bathed and dressed, lightly armored and outfitted in a tunic with the white tree emblazoned on the chest. He bore the smaller sigil of Dol Amroth upon his vambraces and, aside from the tunic, was dressed in the manner of the coastal city. His hair, peppered with grey, was smoothed away from his face and secured at his neck, a departure from his normally loose shoulder length style. His beard, still mostly dark, had been trimmed and kept short against his strong jawline. Grey eyes beheld her with a warm smile as she greeted him and accepted an embrace.

“Ada,” she replied, feeling comfortable with a colloquial greeting as it appeared they were alone. Pulling away and stepping back she regarded him with a grin as she gave a quick curtsy. “Lord of Minas Tirith.”

“As obligation requires,” he answered, gesturing to the table and pulling a chair for her to sit. He followed suit and rested his arm on the table. “It is good to see you, Daughter. You look well.”

“I am. It has been a harrowing several days. Glory on the battlefield has not been without many losses, as you must know well.”

“Indeed,” his low smooth voice agreed, watching her as he settled back against the chair. “Your skills are welcomed in the Houses of Healing I suspect. Alas that we are not concluded in our victory.”

“You expect another siege?”

“Not that we will permit the enemy time for. No, it has been long discussed amongst the Commanders of the West what we are to do.” He paused, regarding her carefully as she waited, brows raised gently. “Forgive me, Daughter. To behold you now, in the prime of your talent and passion in your work… your mother, whose memory lingers undaunted in my heart… you honor her legacy.”

Lothíriel stared at him, surprise visible upon her face as she took in his observation. Her heart swelled in the following moments, a blush rushing up her neck and warming her cheeks as her father smiled, sorrow and joy saturated in his strong features.

“You do me a great tribute,” she murmured as he canted his head. “I have always endeavored to do well by you and her.”

“You have never faltered in that, dear one.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel shared Imrahil’s smile and knew at once; this moment in the serenity and solitude of the Kings’ Hall of Minas Tirith with her beloved father would be remembered for the rest of her days. But she could not remain too long in the delight of their company, aware once more that he’d been sharing tidings. “You were telling me of the assembly of the Commanders of the West – what has been decided?”

“Ah, Lothíriel,” Imrahil chuckled, leaning forward to grasp her hand upon the table. “Had you been born a man you might have joined us. No doubt you’d provide shrewder counsel than some in attendance. But yes,” his voice lowered as he sighed. “The host of the West will march upon the Dark Lord’s lands and, in our might and strength of will, we will turn his gaze.”

“Father…” Lothíriel was rendered speechless for a moment, eyes widening as Imrahil raised his gaze to meet her. “What chance is there of victory?”

“A Hobbit-size chance, as I am told,” he replied with a wry smile. When she did not return it he squeezed her hand. “Those wiser than either of us are in agreement, including our King, the heir of Elendil.”

“I do not doubt his wisdom, for he has fulfilled at least one prophecy in these walls in healing a number of our wounded.” The Prince of Dol Amroth did not appear surprised by her statement, nodding in agreement as he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “But is it not… are we to lose so many in this campaign?”

“I wish it were not so,” he replied somberly. “I have advised a regiment remain to defend the city, which was accepted. Though I encouraged your brothers to stay among the captains of Minas Tirith they have pledge fealty to the King and will ride with him into battle.”

“And you, Ada? Are you not the acting Steward?”

“Yes,” Imrahil answered patiently. “Only until your cousin is well enough to assume his rightful role. And I am also in the service of our King, Lothíriel. You were moved by duty to attend the suffering of soldiers. So too am I to follow my liege; to whatever end.”

“I understand.”

“I would not rob you of your remaining parent and brothers if I did not have hope. Hope in our King. In Mithrandir. In something bigger than all of us.” He leaned forward and brought the back of her hand to his lips, kissing it and setting it down once more. “I do not deny this feels a fool’s errand. But we may yet be triumphant fools.”

“Your impervious optimism has given faith to the men of Dol Amroth and now Minas Tirith. Who am I to doubt it.”

“We stand at the apex of change in the Third Age,” he commented as he stood, Lothíriel following. “I pray greatness will prevail. We can but do our part at the altar of virtue, though we may have misgivings and sorrow.” He pulled her in for a hug, holding her for a moment as he spoke again, his quiet voice comforting as blanket against the cold. “You have served Dol Amroth and Gondor with honor, Daughter. I do not wish to leave you. But I would have you know… none could prouder than I.”

“May the Valar bless and protect you,” she whispered, a tear escaping the corner of her left eye as they parted. She brushed it away with her shoulder as they detached and offered a brave smile. Imrahil took her hand once again and covered it with his own.

“We depart the city tomorrow with the host of the King. Will you see us away?”

“Of course, Father. I will find you and my muindyr at the stables on the morrow.”

He bowed to her and she responded in kind before departing, leaving the Prince of Dol Amroth in the empty throne room, a melancholy if not haunted expression on his strong features.

TTTT

It was well past sundown when she returned to the House of Healing, making a straight path to Éowyn’s chambers to check on her. It occurred to Lothíriel that the Lady of Rohan may not have been told of the departure of the host the next day – or perhaps she had and expected to join them. Determining her response would depend on what Éowyn knew. She made her way down the empty corridor, only a few yards from the Lady’s room when it opened, light spilling into the vestibule as the King of Rohan departed, closing the door quietly. He caught sight of Lothíriel and motioned for quiet. The woman paused as he approached her, bowing quickly in his presence.

“Good evening, my Lord,” she greeted him, careful to keep her voice low as he’d indicated. His expression was, as usual, disquieted but he appeared particularly disconcerted tonight.

“Hail, mistress,” he replied with a quick glance over his shoulder, as if checking to see if Éowyn had followed him out, before returning his gaze to the dark-haired woman. “Might I trouble you for a word?”

“As you wish,” she answered with a slight raise of her brows.

She indicated they step away from the hallway into a parlor off the eastern wall, the room lit by a single sconce. Shadows crept along the carpeted floor and wall, the tall archway to the terrace overlooking the Pelennor fields bathed in moonlight that only just touched the room. There were two chairs and a chaise joined by two tables and a stone bench on the narrow balcony. It was meant as a drawing room to rest or entertain company but with the city so depleted in citizens these rooms stood empty for most of Lothíriel’s occupation. The King appeared uncomfortable in their seclusion and cleared his throat as she waited, hands clasped behind her back.

“I do not wish to keep you from your tasks,” he began watching her sharply, arms crossed. For all his apprehension he did not avoid her gaze.

“I am not so overburdened I cannot spare you this moment.” The horselord made an affirming noise but still appeared unsure so she continued. “I have heard the Host of the West will be departing before long.”

“Yes,” he replied, brows hitched with mild surprise. “It seems you hear these things before most, mistress.”

“I possess a keen attention for such information, my Lord.”

“Aye. Well as you’ve already heard the tidings I would speak to you on the matter of my sister.” He paused, Lothíriel nodding for him to continue as he dropped his arms. “She will be much affronted not to be roused and permitted leave to join. She has been asleep most of the evening and, I hope, will continue to rest throughout the night. I have left a letter for her detailing my requests.”

“Requests?”

“In the event we fall, I have given Éowyn instruction to depart the city with all haste. There is said a path through the mountain and out to the Great West Road. She shall take those who will follow her lead but she is to leave Minas Tirith without a backward glance.”

Lothíriel watched him clearly choosing his words with care and speaking quietly. They stood a respectful distance from one another, the King hovering near the door. It struck her as odd that he would relay this information to her if he wrote it in his missive. But he’d fallen silent so she nodded obediently.

“I will ensure she sees the letter -”

“You must go with her.” Grey eyes caught his as his voice became soft, almost insistent.

“My Lord?”

“If we cannot defeat the enemy, darkness will sweep across the land. Minas Tirith will be first among the triumphs of the Dark Lord. My sister will take the mountain path and from there return to our people in Rohan. You… must go with her, mistress.”

“I will attend her as long as she is here,” Lothíriel replied with a frown, “but I am of Gondor. I cannot leave -”

“Please.” It came forth nearly a whisper, hazel eyes softening as they implored her. “I would go to this doom without reservation knowing my sister will be safe. And you.” He looked away for a moment before leveling his gaze once more, stepping toward her. “She will bear you to Rohan ere the servants of Sauron descend upon Gondor. Under Éowyn’s direction and the remaining lords of the Riddermark I am confident you will survive.” His words were almost beseeching as Lothíriel struggled to understand the motive, confusion evident on her face. What concern was her life to him – especially if she was but a simple healer?

“You honor me with this request, my Lord,” she replied with care, adjusting her hands before her and twining the hem of the grey dress about her fingers as her gaze dropped to the floor at her feet. “If a defeat comes to pass I will… I will go with the Lady.” She raised her eyes to his. “You have my word.”

Relief softened his handsome features and Lothíriel felt an unseen tug to wrap her arms around him, which took all her willpower to deny and remain rooted to the carpet. It would be outrageous to embrace a king, regardless of her true title or his curious concern for her safety. The King of Rohan released his breath and looked at the ground, as if searching for his next words.

“Thank you. I am indebted to you for your kindness and care with my sister.”

“It is our occupation,” she answered. “When you return I – we will care for you as well.”

“I should hope for such a return.” Lothíriel smiled, which he returned, though his was troubled by the great burden of grief and responsibility she recognized in her father. “Might I…” he met her gaze and felt her breath catch in her throat before he continued. “May I know your name?”

“Mithelphe.”

The King tilted his head, as if repeating it silently. At this point she might have divulged enough for him to be suspicious of her heritage, if not openly confront her. If he was skeptical he gave no indication, canting his head appreciatively. Upon a moment of reflection Lothíriel felt foolish providing him her childhood nickname but the impulsiveness was owed to her astonishment that he even asked. And it still felt improper to give him her true name and answer the inevitable questions.

“I shall look for you upon my arrival, Lady Mithelphe. Or go to my grave knowing you have departed this city and remain in the keeping of my people.”

“I will await your return, my Lord,” she returned, not bothering to comment on the thought of him perishing.

“Éomer,” he put in with another small smile. “At least in the privacy of this room.”

She ducked her head, unable to resist returning his smile as he gave her a brief bow. When the King rose up the solemn expression had returned, their moment of mirth feeling more intimate than any touch or promise made. The impropriety of the whole interaction was absurd but they were facing near certain doom. What did it matter if she assured such things to ease his mind when she knew the likelihood of success was slim? Perhaps she should have embraced him when desire bade her so.

He moved to leave, casting a final look at her, which she met and held. Éomer hesitated barely a breath before opening the door and departing into the corridor, leaving Lothíriel in the small room with only her pounding heart for company.

Chapter Text

Lothíriel’s awakening was far from glorious, the darkness beyond the narrow window suggesting it was still night. Pulling herself from the cot the woman had but a moment of peace before the memories of the prior day flooded back; her father, the proclamation of war against Mordor and her interaction with Éomer. To say her decision to give the King of Rohan such a ridiculous nickname haunted her would be an understatement. The more she pondered it the less she was convinced it was as wise as it felt in the moment. She was caught off guard at his innocent almost bashful question and she’d been rigorous in the maintenance of a veil of anonymity, at least around anyone who didn’t already know her identity. So committed to the goal of obscurity she blurted out the Sindarin moniker her brothers hadn’t called her for at least a decade without thought.

“You halfwit,” she muttered to herself as she tied the apron on, circled and pinned her hair in a low chignon.

The rest of her shift the night before was consumed with preparing the men who were able-bodied to ride with the Host and assisting the Warden in determining who was better off abed. Surprisingly Éowyn remained asleep for the entirety of her shift and she did not see her brother after their meeting. So consuming were her duties that she hadn’t had the opportunity to spare it a thought then. But now, after sleep and time, it became the focus of her reflections. By Gondorian court standards the very interaction and its privacy would be scandalous, let alone the content of their discussion. And yet, Lothíriel couldn’t help but smile in the confines of her chamber at the memory of his relief when she agreed to his request.

Departing the room she was greeted with an emptied healing ward, reminiscent of the call to arms from the siege. She took a few breaths in the solitude of the corridor, preparing her heart for the fear she knew would arise as she bid farewell to her family. Realizing it was shortly before dawn rather than true night as she surmised the woman felt a surge of panic. Had they already left? No. The march would start just after dawn. Catching Ioreth in the hallway between bays, Lothíriel requested a brief recess from her rounds to leave the House of Healing, which was granted with a knowing smile.

Since her arrival Lothíriel had not much ventured beyond the sixth level of the city and certainly not to the lower levels. Observing the destruction of the conflict up close was a strange experience, her thoughts jumping unbidden to what her brothers’, father’s and Halgeir’s experiences must’ve been and the abject terror of war. She made her way down to the long line of stables on the second level, finding the stalls of the Swan Knights’ horses quickly, despite the commotion of grooms, soldiers and servants. The flurry of activity was tense with anticipation, the expression on the men’s faces grim and determined.

“There you are, little swan.” Turning in the aisle she found herself face to face with Amrothos, saddle in his arms and a bridle slung over one armored shoulder. She smiled as he fell in step with her, evading others as they walked to his horse’s stall. “We were worried you’d sleep through our departure.”

“Good morrow,” she replied as they halted, accepting the bridle as he hefted the saddle to rest on the ledge of the half door. “Although it hardly feels good knowing you are leaving. Perhaps I should’ve remained asleep.”

“One could hardly blame you.” Amrothos regarded her kindly before opening the door and greeting his grey mare. Lothíriel watched the brother closest to her in age as he stroked the horse’s face, greeting her in Sindarin. Of the siblings he bore the closest resemblance to their mother, the only one of the four with her ocean-grey eyes. In his armor of Dol Amroth he struck a dashing figure, the silver of his plates flashing as they caught the torch light. It made her sad to think he did not have a sweetheart waiting for him. But then, she figured, it might make this leave-taking all the more difficult.

“Loth? Oy? Mithelphe?” Shaking her head with raised brows, she leveled her gaze realizing he was waiting for her to hand the saddle to him, both Amrothos and the mare regarding her with expectant stares.

“Yes,” she hoisted the tack on her forearm, the length of the saddle exceeding her arm and steadied by her other hand. She passed it over to her brother as he adjusted the saddle pad before gently setting it on the horse’s back, making it look no heavier than a towel. He glanced back at her as he worked and she knew some form of chastisement or decree was on its way.

“It is Father’s wish that you do not stay in Minas Tirith if we fail in this.” His voice was quiet but authoritative. Of all her siblings Amrothos was the most dictatorial with her, likely owing to her being the only one he could truly boss about with any influence.

“I’ve heard about the mountain pass to the north, which seems to be the preferred exit for the men of the city. And the Rohirrim.”

“That may be,” he replied as he slowly and gently pulled the girth up to buckle it to the saddle strap. “But Father would have you turn to the coast. There are men from Dol Amroth who remain and will escort you home.”

“Amrothos, if this does not succeed there may not be a home.”

“Perhaps but you will certainly not be safe here. It is too close to Mordor.” He approached her with a solemn expression. “Finding passage to safety is our concern for you.”

“I know. And if the Host of the West is defeated, I give you my oath that I will leave Minas Tirith.”

“Father said -”

“Hail, Lord Amrothos!”

Both siblings turned to see a pair of Elven warriors outside the stall, helmets under their arms as they bowed before them. Returning the bow Imrahil’s children then departed the stall to stand before the Elves, who Lothíriel realized were twins.

“Len suilon,” Amrothos greeted them with a hand to his heart. “May I present my sister, Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Sister, the sons of Elrond of Rivendell have come to aid the Men of the West.”

“Mae lovannen, my Lords,” she stated as the brothers smiled. Although it was not her first interaction with Elves the woman was transfixed by their noble visages and regal bearings. These were the sons of royalty.

“Mae g’ovannen, Lady Lothíriel,” one replied with a small bow. “I confess I did not expect to find a lady, much less the daughter of Prince Imrahil, in the city. I am Elrohir and this, my brother, Elladan.”

“She is a healer in the city and has instrumental in the care of the men.” Lothíriel cast her gaze to Amrothos, surprise written on her features at his compliment, which he ignored. “Though I dearly wish she were far from peril.”

“That is our wish as well,” Elladan put in with a kind smile. “You’ll forgive our intrusion. We’d hoped to take counsel with your Lord Father but it seems it is time for family.”

“We take our leave,” added his brother. “Amrothos, let us find you in the company of the Prince when your farewells are concluded. My Lady.” The twins bowed again as the siblings returned the sentiment with formal valedictions issued. Once they were alone again Lothíriel turned to her brother.

“Instrumental, hm?”

“I pray it does not go to your head,” he muttered as he looked over her head and beckoning someone over. “Father and Erchirion approach.”

Indeed, amidst the din the tall Prince and his son moved through the assembly toward them, both with solemn expressions. Stepping back into his mare’s stall, Amrothos held the half door for his siblings and father and closed it for a measure of privacy once they were inside. For her part the grey mare paid them no mind, nibbling at the remnants of hay as the family crowded into her stall.

“Daughter,” Imrahil held his arms open for Lothíriel, encircling her once she was within and gently holding her. “This parting holds much sorrow,” he murmured as she rested her cheek against his pauldroned shoulder.

“I delayed it long enough, coming with you to Minas Tirith,” she answered quietly as she stepped away.

“Is that why you insisted on joining?” Erchirion put in with a familiar grin as she moved to hug him. “Just to put off farewells. Well, dear sister, we are met with the day at last.”

“A dark day,” she agreed, arms around his neck. “Why does this one feel so much more certain than our parting before the battle of the city?”

“Because it is.” Amrothos’ voice was grim as they turned to look at him. “I know you hold the King returned in lofty esteem, Father. I do not dishonor your faith in him. It is… Well, I ought spare our sister these evil thoughts.”

“You are not alone in them,” Lothíriel assured him as she pulled him into an embrace. “We are none of us blind to the prospect of victory. You three least of all.”

“We love you, little swan,” Amrothos murmured tightening his grip on her before releasing.

“And I love you. Dearly,” she whispered before falling silent. They stood together, her hands grasping her brothers’ as she looked to their father.

“We gladly embark on this leave-taking with your love, Daughter. Let not your hope wane and shed no tears for us. If we are not to return remember us in the lament of the harp.”

“Farewell, Ada,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes as she met their gazes, each glassy pools of unspoken sorrow. They gave her one final hug and she departed the stall, turning down the aisle and walking away swiftly.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from weeping amid the bustle around her as men moved to fetch horses and get soldiers mounted. She traversed the wide aisles of the barn, the mounts of Dol Amroth giving way to Gondorian steeds and finally to the horses of Rohan. This was not the direction she’d come from and, turning around, gathered she had to backtrack to leave the immense barn.

Annoyed with her absentmindedness Lothíriel frowned, wanting to return to the House of Healing and focus on her work.  The labyrinth of Minas Tirith’s stable did her no favors as she crossed into a nearly empty aisle, the horses and riders already moved out to begin the procession. Pausing to cross her arms and worry a fingernail the woman realized she did not wish to watch them leave the city, the very thought a painful knot in her stomach.

“Lady Mithelphe?”

Lothíriel looked up from her thoughts, the concerned and slightly surprised visage of King Éomer greeting her. Her dark brows rose as she dropped her arms and offered him a quick curtsey. He held his sword’s scabbard in one hand, the adorned helmet under his other arm. He was dressed for war, much the same as he’d been when she beheld him at Éowyn’s side, though his armor was now clean. His hair was brushed, and a small portion was tied away from his face.

“My Lord King,” she answered, eyes glancing around instinctively. “I’m… I am lost.”

“Indeed,” he replied guardedly. “You are a fair distance from the Healing Houses.”

Grey eyes caught his sharply, but she found no derision in his gaze. Her expression softened as she nodded.

“So I am. I’ll not delay you further,” she moved to depart with a respective glance toward the exit of the aisle behind him. If she could just see herself out without having to answer why she was in stables it would be better. For both of them.

“It is a welcomed delay,” he answered, interrupting her exodus. “Has Éowyn awoken?”

“She hadn’t when I left.”

“Good. The Warden ensured me the tonic would keep her abed for some time. It is my hope to be well and away before she stirs.”

“You would not want to share farewells?” Despite wanting to make a quick escape Lothíriel could not help but wonder aloud, grey eyes catching him in a shocked stare. He watched her for a moment before shaking his head, shifting the helmet under his arm.

“I much desire to bid her thus but I fear she would be too cross or adamant to join us that it would sour any leave-taking.”

“She’ll not be pleased either way.”

“No, my Lady. She will not.”

“Shall I bear your goodbye to her?”

“If she’ll listen,” he murmured with the hint of a smile. When she cautiously returned it he took a step toward her, his volume dropping despite their privacy. “You must forgive me for yesterday eve. It was improper of me to draw you away and speak so freely. And to ask your name like that – it impugns my honor as King.”

“Do not think of it so,” she answered with a frown.

“I… I do not know if I will… if we will make it through this battle,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, hazel eyes searching her face. Although she should feel uncomfortable by his presence and the nature of their conversation she was caught by his gaze and their closeness. “I suppose I wanted…” he looked to the side before returning to her face, “Forgive me, Lady Mithelphe.”

“If we are bearing our confessions,” she murmured gently. “Then I will lend you mine and our scales will be balanced. I gave you a false name when first you asked – a pet name from my youth.” Éomer watched her, his emotions guarded as he waited. Taking a breath she continued. “I do not wish to be dishonest with you. Not now when we are parted without promise of return. I am Lothíriel. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth is my father.” She watched recognition build in his gaze, his lips parted, brows raising. He looked her up and down; the simple spun kirtle, apron and linen cap clearly not lost him.

“You are Imrahil’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“But you… how came you to be here in the midst of war?”

“Resolve not unlike your sister’s, though only a fraction of courage by comparison.”

Éomer then laughed, though sadness was not entirely absent. She stared at him, this reaction entirely unexpected as he shook his head.

“Forgive me, my Lady. Here I thought you were healer, a laborer from the village. You are not only a noble Lady - which makes our meetings all the more improper – but you are kin to a man I greatly respect and admire. This is either a great fortune or a terrible fate.”

Lothíriel studied him with a furrowed brow. Of all the reactions laughter was startling considering the subject matter. She wasn’t sure if he was scornful or simply aghast. Part of her felt indignant that he would permit the impropriety if he believed her a member of the working class but another was relieved he knew her identity. Deciding it was far too complicated to parse the threads of his response the dark-haired woman gave a brief cant of her head.

“I was wrong to deceive you. I shall take no more of your time. My Lord,” she moved away, turning to leave as he quickly laid his helmet and sword down to step toward her.

“My Lady.” His hand reached out, encircling hers at the wrist as she spun on the sole of her foot back to him. Their forward momentum brought them closer than either intended, her hand against his chest plate to keep from knocking into him as his other hand came to her upper arm.

“My Lady,” he said again, this time his voice a faint whisper as he looked down at her. From this vantage she could appreciate his height; though she was tall among the women of her ilk she had to tilt her head back slightly to make eye contact with him. Rationale told her – nay begged her to untangle herself, bid him adieu and flee from the King of Rohan but his eyes, no longer able to contain his grief and emotion, held her rooted to the stone.

“My Lord - King…”

“Éomer,” he corrected softly. He still clasped her wrist, his fingers moving against her skin until he held her hand as a lord should, her fingers perched along the edge of his hand, his thumb against them gently. His touch jolted her heart, its beating like galloping hooves in her ears.

“I must leave soon. I do not know if I will see you again.” His voice was quiet, melancholy returning as he raised her hand between them to his chest, his gaze dropping. “But if I should return… I would find you.”

No words came to her, instead she nodded, their faces still close. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of her hand as he closed his eyes. The chaste kiss of a soldier. It felt proper. It felt restrained. The woe of their parting mingled with the grief of the whole venture; she was doomed to watch the men she loved ride to their inevitable ruin. A kiss on the hand was courtly but it had no place here.

Éomer opened his eyes, lowering his hand, releasing hers and taking a step back. It was her turn to advance on him, her arms coming around him despite the bulk of the armor between them. He froze and she could imagine those dark brows drawing curiously over his eyes but the tenseness lasted less than a moment as he wrapped his arms around her in kind. Her hand lay against the back of his head, cheek against his neck as she inhaled the scent of earth, horse and firewood – the selfsame lingering aroma from her bed when he’d slept there days ago. Éomer’s hands stayed upon her back, one sliding lower across her waist to pull her closer. She felt his beard against her neck and collarbone as he sighed.

They stood together in the empty aisle, the pale tendrils of dawn filtering through the stall windows as morning broke. The sound of horns peeled from the walls of the city, bringing the pair to their senses. Extracting herself from his arms she caught him quickly streaking his cheek against a pauldron. Averting her eyes to afford him privacy, she adjusted the linen cap and tucked strands of loose hair back into the coronet.

“Be well and keep safe, my Lord Éomer,” she murmured as he bent down to fetch his sword and helmet from the ground. “I’ll look for your return.”

“Thank you for sharing your name with me,” he replied as he buckled the great sword of Rohirric Kings to the belt at his waist. “I’ll promise to use it in the company of others. But I think I shall know you evermore as Mithelphe, if you can forgive me for it.” Lothíriel smiled as he looked at her, prepared to leave and awaiting her departing words.

“Come back to me and I will be Mithelphe if you wish it.”

“Farewell, my Lady of Dol Amroth.”

Chapter Text

Minas Tirith felt like a shell, horses and men alike departing its walls and leaving precious few behind. Although a contingency of men remained to protect the city the immensity of the army in its formation marching across the devastated Pelennor Fields felt like an enormous loss. The calvary and foot soldiers moved into the eastern distance until they were mere specks, glinting in the daylight as they passed beyond the Rammas Echor. Lothíriel was intentional in avoiding the balconies in the Healing ward, though she heard of the progress from others. She had more than enough to consume her morning, intentionally denying her thoughts to drift to sorrow. Éowyn had woken briefly when the company was just beyond the great wall of Minas Tirith but fell quickly into a restless sleep. Lothíriel dreaded the moment she truly awoke and was given tidings.

It was well past midday when she was taking a moment of respite to finish off the fruit tart from breakfast, the sweetness tasting misplaced in her grim sadness. Stepping into one wide corridor between the general healing ward and that of the nobility, the woman paused in her unenthused consumption of the pastry, catching sight of someone walking to the balcony. Recognizing Merry, Lothíriel adjusted her path and caught up to him with a few well-timed strides, finishing off the tart and brushing any crumbs from her gown.

“Hail, Merry,” she called as he turned. Worry replaced her salutation as she beheld his tear-streaked face; his expression mirrored her own private mourning. Although no one in the city seemed particularly high spirited she was caught off guard by the immensity of sadness written on his face.

“My Lady,” he mumbled, forcing a faint smile. She fell in step with him as he walked to a narrow eastern balcony. Though the host was well beyond the fields a hazy cloud of dust wavered in the far distance, denoting their progress. Resting his hands on the high marble surface Merry tipped up on his toes to view the scene. “Just when I’d thought we’d not lose one another again…” His voice was strained from weeping. Standing beside him the woman looked at the Hobbit, dark brows furrowed with concern.

“It is a bitter parting,” she agreed, sensing there was something she was not understanding about his grief. Following his gaze east Lothíriel swallowed the pain of her own farewells earlier that day, grateful the company was well beyond any visual identification.

“One I should not be bearing,” he muttered, his tone shifting to resentment. She looked back to him, allowing the confusion to show plainly. He glanced at her and sighed. “I would have gone with them.”

“You are not lacking in courage,” Lothíriel replied carefully, not fully grasping the gravity.

“Only title, it seems.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Pip went. Dear, sweet Pippin. He rode out with my friends to defend the free folk and I am relegated to…” He sniffed, breaking his gaze to look down.

“I confess I do not understand why that should be the case.”

“He is a sworn member of the City Guard. His responsibility could not be denied. And yet mine… what I would give to be beside them.” Merry dropped his hands from the balcony and stepped away, turning his back on the eastern sky as Lothíriel followed him into the narrow room that opened to the corridor.

“I wish you’d been given that opportunity.” Lothíriel put in after a moment, the Hobbit’s attention drawn as she glanced back at the balcony before sitting on a bench near the door. Merry came to stand close, their faces now eye level. “Though I am grateful to have a friend here.”

“I’m glad of it too,” though his tone and expression did not align with that statement. His face darkened as he looked east again. “Yet, it is shameful that I am left here…” his voice was sharp but once the words were spoken he softened, gaze jumping back to her as he held his hands up. “Forgive me, my Lady. I don’t mean to imply…”

“It is well, Merry,” she soothed with a smile. “I take no offense. It does feel like we’ve been left to wallow and wait. I was aggrieved to say farewell to my kin and know not if I’ll see them smile again. Or indeed see them at all.”

She fell silent, looking away from the Hobbit as the memory of her sendoffs came unbidden. She’d been so meticulous in staving them off and now they rushed over her as a dam might break. Taking a shaky breath the woman mustered her strength to turn the subject for both their sakes. Grey eyes met his when she felt a hand lay atop hers on her knee, Merry smiling through his own tears. She smiled back and placed her other hand over his.

“We’ll be each other’s strength,” he said quietly.

“I’ll no doubt be calling on yours in short order,” she replied as they released hands and she sat up straighter. “The Lady Éowyn should be waking soon. I dread the moment she learns of the Host departing.”

“The decision was kept from her?”

“It was deemed wiser.”

“Well of course it was,” he put in with a smirk. “Leave it to us to tell the Lady once they’re all safe beyond her wrath.”

“And what a wrath it will be,” Lothíriel murmured dryly before standing. “I really ought to check in on her, but I tarry, to my own disgrace.”

“Would you have me accompany you to her awakening?”

“Perhaps,” she replied thoughtfully as they passed beyond the chamber into the wide hallway, their footsteps muted by the long rug. “For now I shall re-dress her wounds and give care to her condition. But I may yet call for you.”

“Then swiftly I shall be at her bedside. Until that time I’ll make myself useful and not linger in grief. It would not be the desires of those who left that we should languish in it.”

They bid each other adieu and parted ways, Merry in the direction of the of main sick bay and Lothíriel retracing her steps to Lady Éowyn’s chambers. Her mood was buoyed by this interchange and the knowledge that she was not alone in the grief. Merry would not doubt be a source of comfort and consideration in these long days. As she continued down the hall the entrance belonging to Rohan’s shieldmaiden opened quickly, Ioreth flying from the room to shut the door firmly. Catching sight of Lothíriel she beckoned the younger woman over as she put distance between herself and the chamber.

“Mercy, my Lady,” she mumbled as they met one another in the vestibule well away from Éowyn’s room. “The Lady has awoken and is in a terrible state! I daresay the letter from the King put her in a lather. I shudder to think of its contents!”

“I can sit with her,” Lothíriel replied as Ioreth grasped her forearms. It was the first time she’d seen the older healer out of sorts, her expression haggard and eyes anxious.

“It might be well you do,” she agreed, giving Lothíriel’s arms a squeeze before releasing them. “I’d not want to confine her – we both know I couldn’t accomplish such an act anyway. But Derufin might be pressed to restrain her in some way.”

“I’ll speak to her,” Lothíriel replied calmingly with a knowing smile. A firm nod was given as Ioreth straightened her cap and adjusted her apron.

“Very good. I’ll notify the Warden and he’ll –”

“Not yet,” the dark-haired woman interjected firmly. “If you please. Allow me to check upon the Lady for a time.”

“As you wish,” Ioreth answered, though her tone was doubtful. Lothíriel offered her a smile that did not reach her eyes before approaching the door. The older woman lingered a moment longer before walking away. Taking a breath, Lothíriel traversed the rest of the hallway to knock gently before opening the door, peeking her head in.

Éowyn sat upright in the bed, her face flushed and her once braided hair coming undone. A parchment lay open in her hand, fingers clenching the paper tightly. Her sharp gaze caught the healer as she slipped into the chamber, brows knitting in such a likeliness to her brother that Lothíriel had to hide a slight smile.

“They’ve left me,” she spoke flatly, looking at Lothíriel with an expression she couldn’t discern. It wasn’t even clear if that was a question or a statement.

“They have left,” the younger woman confirmed, venturing into the room and sitting in the chair beside the bed. Éowyn’s gaze followed her with a darkened expression. One arm lay in the linen sling at what must’ve been an uncomfortable angle from the way she sat. Resisting the urge to adjust it for the lady, Lothíriel instead sat silently, awaiting Éowyn’s words, which came after several moments.

“I ought not to be surprised,” she muttered, dropping her gaze to letter. “I just thought… It was ludicrous to expect I’d be permitted rank among the soldiers.”

“I do not think your prowess was the reason.”

“Then what? Have I not proven myself worthy? Can I not fight beside my kinsmen and King?”

“Surely you can.”

“It is just so exhausting.” At last she lay back against the pillows, eyes as blue as the sea in winter gazing at the ceiling. “Propriety and expectation. Ever will they fashion the bars of my prison.”

“Is that how you perceive this directive, my Lady?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Éowyn answered bitterly, looking away from Lothíriel. “Here I thought I might be granted leave to make my own decisions. Like a fucking fool.”

Lothíriel bristled, despite being accustomed to crude and coarse language, but made no comment, instead placing her hands in her lap and waiting once more. Rolling her head against the pillow to look at the healer the Lady of Rohan regarded her with a stony gaze. They sat in tense silence until Éowyn eventually sighed, the weight of her emotions and strain of anger causing fatigue.

“I wish to be alone,” she murmured finally, averting her eyes and turning so only her profile was visible.

“I will leave,” Lothíriel replied quietly, standing. “Myself or the Lady Ioreth will need to check in –”

“Just you.” The dark-haired woman stopped, staring at Éowyn who remained still, eyes cast to the long window opposite her bed. “I have not the temperament for the other one. You… or if I must, the Warden.”

Lothíriel bowed but said nothing and when it became clear Éowyn was also finished speaking she gathered a few items from the beside table in need of restocking and departed to the door.

“I’ll return shortly, my Lady.”

The Lady of Rohan was silent so Lothíriel gave another bow before quitting the room, her thoughts racing as she shut the door. Leaning her shoulder against it the healer took a deep breath. It occurred to her that Éowyn had not mentioned her brother’s entreaty that she take the hidden path out of the city, should the need arise. The woman was likely so consumed by disappointment and ire that any request made in the letter was either ignored or unread. It would probably be a point of conversation at a later date, and Lothíriel made a mental note to tread carefully with the shieldmaiden in the coming days.

Her thoughts drifted to Éowyn’s brother as she took the items to be restocked in the storage alcove on the other side of the level. As much as she’d avoided the memory that followed his leave-taking she smiled to herself to think how his arms had encircled her. By all accounts it was an entirely improper interaction between a lord and lady. She had no chaperone and he… well, he could do as he please with far fewer repercussions as king. But Éomer was a man who seemed unwavering in his duty and honor. Had the Army of the West not been marching to certain doom would he have behaved so boldly? Would she?

Lothíriel could hardly imagine the scenario if he returned – would they pretend no such exchange occurred? Especially once the reality of her title and status were at play. She tried to shake the musing, fearful of letting too much hope override the seeming certainty of their errand. Busy with collecting a set of towels and replenishing the burn salve for the Lady of Rohan the woman reproached herself silently for thinking too far ahead. Éowyn’s dismissal gave her time to consider these things and it was proving unhelpful.

The healer made quick work of informing the Warden of Éowyn’s wishes and, with hopefully more tact, gave Ioreth leave of tending to her. The older woman seemed relieved with this news, nodding and shaking her head at once.

“Yes, I fear I’m no good to her at the moment. Best she’s with you – being of the same age, you two. I can swoop in when some time has gone by, give you a reprieve.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel replied as they sat together in the laundering room awaiting the fresh linens for the wards. “I’m content to be at her call for the time being. For as long as she requests my service.”

“Aye. But hopefully the Lady won’t have you at her bedside all day. You’ve been asked for by the new Steward twice today.” The Princess’ gaze caught the other woman’s with a jolt, brows raising.

“When?”

“Early. I wager you were off bidding farewell to your menfolk, as you returned looking as forlorn as the rest of ‘em. And then just recently, but I begged the young Lord’s patience as you attended to another charge – that being the Lady of Rohan, of course.”

“It is good then that I may go to him now,” Lothíriel decided as she stood. Ioreth looked up at her with a grin.

“Indeed. I expect you’ll not want him asking a third time.”

Chapter Text

Lothíriel was admitted to Faramir’s chamber, attended by two Citadel guards who opened the wide wooden door with a nod to the woman. Though Éowyn’s amenities were grand they paled in comparison to the vastness of the Steward’s recovery room. The doors opened to a receiving parlor, his bedroom beyond with long arched windows overlooking the fields. In a time of peace it would no doubt be comforting to look upon the bucolic lands of Gondor. The parlor was empty so she moved further within, finding her cousin standing before an eastern window, hands clasped behind him.

He wore the cornflower blue tunic of the healing ward, belted loosely with cord at his hips, linen trousers beneath. His auburn hair was damp, the loose curls darker than usual, though the light sparked a few streaks of copper in strands that had dried. He turned as she entered the chamber, his skin warmer and healthier than days past. A smile lit his features as he walked to her, reaching for an embrace.

“Lothíriel,” he greeted as they hugged. Stepping back, he grasped her forearms, the smile faltering slightly as he beheld her. “I half expected to be told you rode off with the Host.”

“Forgive me, Cousin,” she replied, returning his smile. “I have been away for too long. How are you?”

“Nonsense. You are not my healer to come as I bid.” He led them to a seating area near another window, the cushioned bench receiving them as they sat near to each other. “My health improves by the day. My thoughts and dreams, though. They will likely never be as they once were.”

“No,” she agreed, grey eyes cast down. “I hesitate to think any of us will dream as we used to with all this despair and destruction.”

“Likely not. But ever is there a seed of hope in my heart, strange though it may seem with our tidings.”

“If anyone had hope, dear Cousin, it would be you.” They smiled as the sun revealed itself, bathing the room in golden light. “I grieve for your losses,” she murmured, her hand on his knee. He placed his hand over hers and squeezed it, expression dimmed by melancholy.

“The price of war is steep. I do not yet know how long these wounds will take to heal in me. But I cannot accept our King, your father and brothers – any of them – undertook this mission without believing in their cause.”

“I hardly know what the cause is. It’s been treated as some secret, known to a select few. But to the rest of us… it seems an ill-fated embassy.”

Faramir did not respond immediately, instead tilting his head and considering her statement. In that moment, the rays of light alight upon his hair, expression pensive, he bore a distinct resemblance to his brother and father, as though the three of them had melted into one being. She saw the lines in his forehead reminiscent of Boromir, his face constantly in a state of consideration (or so she recalled). The set of his lips and tightness in his jaw called memories of Denethor’s visage from her childhood when the Steward would visit Dol Amroth. But Faramir’s eyes were indistinguishable from those of her aunt, Finduilas. Grey, as the rest of the Prince’s family, but with a blueish hue that Lothíriel and her brothers did not have, reminiscent of the sea just before dawn. After a moment he shifted his weight and looked at her.

“It seems cruel to keep you in the dark,” he murmured, resting his forearms on his knees. “You must know there exists a weapon against the enemy far more powerful than any army we could conjure.”

“Father spoke of one such weapon,” she answered cautiously, not entirely understanding where their conversation was headed. “But it has also been shrouded in mystery.”

“For good reason. The vanquishing of the Dark Lord rests in the hands of one whose task is insurmountable. The item is unthinkably valuable.”

“Yes. Elphir referred to it outright before we left Dol Amroth, though Father bade him silent.”

“Wisely,” Faramir replied with a nod. “It was not something any dare speak aloud, so cunning are the servants of Sauron that they might hear us speak and give word to their master.”

“And this… weapon. It is with the Host? Marching upon the Black Gate?”

“No, it is not with them. They are a diversion to keep the Dark Lord from the true purpose. The King of Gondor came to me, healing my sickness and bringing counsel. The weapon will be destroyed, despite the wish of my father.” At this Faramir stood, turning from her to look out the window once more. Lothíriel watched him, trying to follow the trail he was laying out. “Do you know, Lothíriel,” he pivoted to look sidelong at her, “I had it. The weapon of Sauron was within my grasp. Waiting.”

“What did you do?”

“My hand was close enough to pluck it from the Halfling’s fingers. To bring it before my father and honor him. But my heart was resolute, against the will of the Steward and everyone else in Gondor, it seemed.” He looked away, eyes surveying the devastated fields beyond, voice wavering ever so slightly. “It killed him.”

“Your father?”

“Boromir.” Faramir glanced at her when she let free a quiet gasp, brow furrowed. Lothíriel stood and joined him at the window, grey eyes searching him for understanding.

“You know this for certain?”

“No,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. “But the pull of the… it is so strong. I felt it in those brief moments. And Boromir was ensnared. He attacked the bearer of the Ring after many months in its proximity. I do not know the nature of his demise but I cannot untangle it from what I learned from the Halflings.”

“Had you spoken to Pippin of this?”

“Pippin?” her cousin faced her fully, auburn brows rising.

“He and I spoke at length in the days before the siege. He shared much of their journey. Boromir fell protecting Pippin. And Merry. He died as he lived – with honor.”

Faramir watched her for a moment, sadness written on his face as he considered her words.  Lothíriel met his gaze, hoping to ease his burden as she placed her hands on his arms, drawing them away from his chest until they held hands.

“Cast away the tale you held in your mind about his death.” They smiled at each other, though she could see the doubt in his eyes. “You have done your brother proud, Faramir. And will continue as Gondor’s Steward.”

“Thank you, Cousin.” He released her hands and they looked over the fields again. “Can I confess that I am content to wait for that responsibility. Your father has done a fine job in the absence of a Steward of Minas Tirith.”

“Are you not the Steward, as Father is away?”

“Not yet,” he replied, canting his head that she should follow him to the other side of the room to step out onto a balcony, the door left ajar to allow a breeze into the chamber. “Behold – the banner of Dol Amroth still flies.” They looked up, craning their necks to see the very edge of the Citadel, where the flag of the Prince undulated in the breeze, its silver swan ship before a blue field catching the light.

“I don’t understand,” she stated, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun and looking at her cousin, brow furrowed .

“I am not well enough to take up the seat,” he explained quietly, tilting his head toward the warmth as they stood together. “Uncle Imrahil named Húrin the acting lord until… well. For now.”

“I’m afraid I do not know him.”

“He’s a man of the city. Warden of the Keys, before this. A good man. The city will be well defended, should we suffer another attack. Especially with the Rohirrim that remained, given by their new king.”

Lothíriel nodded, still skeptical that the rule of the city should be passed through so many hands. But it was hardly her place to make mention of those thoughts. She studied her cousin as he rested his hands on the marble rail of the balcony.

“The sunlight befits you, Faramir,” she observed with a small smile. “You ought to walk in the gardens as you heal. I suspect it would do you well.”

“Do you?”

“Indeed.”

“You’re probably right. I will take your advisement, provided you do something for me.” A dark brow rose over one eye as Lothíriel waited. Faramir pushed off from the balcony and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Join me in the Citadel for meals. The battle has ended. You needn’t scurry around the wards like a mouse. I heard you have taken up residence in a bolthole.”

“It’s a storeroom,” she grumbled indignantly, which procured a smile from Faramir.

“My apologies. But if you can at least dine with me and the other lords. It would ease my mind.”

“You sound like my father.”

“Then I am doing something right.”

Lothíriel couldn’t help but roll her eyes, though her grin was affectionate. She could not deny it felt pleasant to have someone care for her day-to-day wellbeing with her brothers and father gone.  

“Alright. I’m sure I can manage that.”

“Good. Now, I think I will retire for a spell.”

“Of course.” The woman held the door from the balcony open as Faramir passed through, his expression bearing evidence of the fatigue. She gave him a slight bow once she joined him in the room. “I’ll see you this evening.”

“Good day, Cousin.”

TTTT

By the time evening fell Lothíriel had nearly forgotten her oath to Faramir, a reminder only coming after her stomach made its hunger known. Leaping up from where she’d been stitching a ripped bandage, the Princess swore under her breath as she gathered the materials and left them in a pile on the table nearby to return to later. She’d been sitting in the garden gallery, the night air soothing her worry substantially. She made quick work of tidying up and hurried up to the Citadel, hoping Faramir wouldn’t be too disappointed. She hadn’t thought to change her attire, instead entering the feast hall in the worn (though clean) kirtle, her hair covered by the maid’s cap.

She was permitted entrance, a long table dressed with at least ten settings. She wasn’t late enough that Faramir’s guests were seated but it appeared most were already in attendance. Slowing her pace to a respectable walk, Lothíriel’s dark brows hitched with surprise as she looked about. Despite the length of the hall there appeared to be only a handful of people milling about, their eyes drawn to her entrance. Some she recognized, others were unfamiliar, but she spotted her cousin near the head of the table. No doubt these men were perplexed that a maid should be making a beeline to the Steward, who smiled upon her arrival, turning from the man with whom he was conversing.

“Cousin,” he greeted her, his voice loud enough to give his guests pause before they each bowed to her. She received his outstretched hand, his bow to her more than formal enough. “I am glad to see you.”

“I am glad I didn’t disrupt your meal,” she replied as he motioned to the chair beside him. Once Faramir took his seat the other lords moved to theirs. She caught sight of Merry across from her, his seat clearly cushioned so he might be at the same level as the others. The Hobbit winked at her as her cousin leaned over to her.

“I was worried you’d forgotten,” he murmured as the men took their places.

“I nearly did,” she confessed quietly. She was glad he hadn’t remarked on her lack of appropriate dress, as Amrothos had when she dined with them before the battle. In fact, Faramir made no indication at all that he was expecting her to dress a certain way, instead addressing the lords as a silence fell on the hall.

“Welcome, my lords. Dark are our days, but let us partake in these meals together so we may find courage and strength in one another.”

“Aye, my lord,” several intoned after as plates were served. Now that she had a moment to observe Lothíriel counted twelve men in attendance. She recognized two as men of Rohan by their dress. The others seemed to be the lords of Gondorian fiefdoms who had not ridden with the great Host.

“Lord Húrin, may I present my cousin, Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth,” Faramir’s voice caught her attention as she followed his gaze to a man sitting to Faramir’s left, directly before her. He was a tall man, even by Gondorian standards, raising above the table like a tree. Merry beside him looked miniscule. He canted his head respectfully as Lothíriel followed the gesture.

“My Lady,” he greeted her as a breadbasket was placed before them. “I knew not the Prince brought his daughter.”

“She has served as a healer,” Faramir answered, glancing between them at the head of the table. “Still she keeps to her duties, caring for our people in the House of Healing.”

“You must forgive my appearance, Lord Húrin,” Lothíriel put in, accepting a glass of wine from a servant. “It is unbecoming of my father’s name, but I hadn’t the time to change.”

“Worry not, dear girl,” the tall man replied with a slight smile. “Have we not all been taxed of our usual decorum?”

Lothíriel smiled in response as they began to eat. It was a quiet if not solemn meal, each keeping to themselves and conversing lightly with their neighbors. Gone were the courtly speeches and animated conversations. For her part the Princess spoke to Faramir, Lord Húrin and Merry. She decided she would encourage Éowyn to join as part of her recovery, perhaps some days later once the ire had settled.

When the meal concluded the lords departed the table, and Faramir welcomed them to linger in the hall for after-dinner wine – a common pastime among Gondorian nobility. Lothíriel stood beside her cousin, hoping to escape to finish her rounds before exhaustion settled in. As she was preparing to bid Faramir goodnight another man joined them, halting her leaving-taking, and bowing low before them.

“Hail, Faramir, Steward of Gondor. And…” he raised up, looking expectantly at the woman.

“Lady Lothíriel, of Dol Amroth,” Faramir answered, glancing at her. “This is Lord Húrin’s son -”

“Baranor,” he put him before her cousin could finish. She judged him to be younger than Faramir, perhaps Erchirion’s age. His dark hair was combed neatly behind the collar of his wine-red tunic and his beard trimmed close to a sharp jawline.

“Forgive the intrusion, my Lord,” his blue eyes flicked to the Steward who nodded graciously. “I hadn’t a chance to meet the Lady earlier and I would much like to acquaint myself with the daughter of the noble Prince Imrahil.”

“Well met, my Lord,” Lothíriel replied feeling somewhat out of place in the company of this well-dressed man of Gondor. “I regret my father is not here to meet you. Nor my brothers.”

“I had an opportunity to engage with them some days ago, brief though it was. It must be difficult for you, if you’ll forgive the speculation. Being the only lady in the city.”

“I am not the only,” she answered, feigning a smile that he returned genuinely. She felt the intensity of his gaze upon her and offered him a slight bow before turning to Faramir. “You must excuse me, dear Cousin. I still have patients to attend before I retire.”

“Of course,” Faramir replied with a smile with a cant of his head. “I will see you on the morrow.” Turning to Baranor she began bidding him farewell before he spoke again, silencing her before she had a word out.

“If I may escort you,” he put in with another smile. Faramir’s brows rose as he looked from him to Lothíriel who swallowed a wince.

“You needn’t,” she started as Baranor offered his hand.

“Please, my Lady. It would be my pleasure and honor. I’ll just walk you to the gates of the Citadel.” Feeling caught between propriety and discomfort the woman narrowly avoided letting her apprehension show on her face as she placed her hand over his gingerly. Faramir seemed unsure what to do with this exchange, looking to Lothíriel for direction. She gave him a small cant of her head to assure him she was alright, and he responded with a tight lipped smile.

“You’ll stop by my chambers before you retire?” he asked as she nodded.

Baranor gave his lord a small bow before leading her toward the exit, the distance between their bodies still respectable despite his hand holding hers. She caught a glance from Merry, who hadn’t caught on to the courtly etiquette, waving to her as they walked past. She raised her other hand to return the gesture, a slight smile on her lips. They passed two men of Rohan, both offering bows as the pair passed. She made a note to learn their names in future days. As they came to the end of the hall, Baranor glanced at her with a smile.

“Do forgive my forwardness, my Lady,” he murmured as the doors were opened, letting them into the night air. “You must think me most improper. I figured, though, with your kin so far away, you might like an escort.”

“That was… thoughtful of you, my Lord.”

“I would wish thus for my sisters.”

“How many sisters do you have, Lord Baranor?”

“Oh,” he paused, glancing at her as they walked. “None. I just… if I had sisters I would want them taken care of in my absence.”

Lothíriel was silent as they continued, their steps quiet on the stone. There were Citadel guards stationed at each archway, owing to a sense of safety for the Princess. Although it was proper for an unmarried woman of her status to be accompanied by a chaperone when she was with an unwed man it seemed propriety was eschewed in the days of war. As it was, Faramir would hardly be expected to know the appropriate protocol of ladies’ interactions. Lothíriel couldn’t tell if Baranor equally did not know the etiquette or if he was ignoring it on purpose. To anyone else he would appear a Lord escorting a servant or laborer. Perhaps she ought to wear a gown denoting her station to these dinners from now on.

“My Lady?”

“Hm?” Lothíriel looked at him, realizing he was waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked if I might call on you tomorrow.” Grey eyes met his blue, brows raising.

“My Lord, I do not think that would be appropriate,” she answered carefully, stopping a few feet from the gate leading to the sixth level. He halted as well, releasing her hand to stand before her. His expression implied he did not understand her caution. “I am much committed to my responsibilities in the House of Healing and have a full day’s worth of -”

“Oh! Of course,” he replied hurriedly, a nervous smile on his lips as he regarded her. “I understand. I only meant to look after you. My father is acting lord of the city, as you know. It was my intention to check in to make sure you are doing well. That is all.”

“That is kind of you,” Lothíriel answered, her tone not entirely warm though still polite. “But I have been managing just fine for the past several weeks.  And I have my cousin, who oft inquires after my wellbeing.”

“I did not mean to overstep, Lady Lothíriel.” Baranor’s blue eyes caught hers with a contrite gaze. She softened slightly, a small smile offered to set him at ease. Perhaps he was not as forward as he initially seemed.

“I appreciate the concern, my Lord. I will see you at tomorrow evening’s meal?”

Lothíriel pushed their farewells, worried he might think to join her in the vestibule down to the sixth level if she tarried too long. He bowed before her though she felt that he wanted to delay their departing as she dropped into a courtly curtsey.

“I look forward to it. Good night, my Lady.”

Turning from the man, Lothíriel walked away with careful, measured steps, feeling his eyes upon her as she disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Chapter Text

“Shall we take a turn around the gardens?” Lothíriel offered the Lady of Rohan a cup of tea as they sat together in the quiet room. Accepting the saucer with a frown Éowyn pressed her lips together, clearly avoiding whatever immediate retort came to mind, instead taking a long sip from the cup. The women had been sitting together since late morning without much exchange. Lothíriel was determined to gently encourage the Lady while she still tolerated the younger woman’s presence. In the hour they’d spent Lothíriel had checked her arm, which appeared to be healing faster than anyone anticipated, and tended to her other injuries. It was her mind that proved the most challenging.

“If you but take a few steps with me now I won’t harry you ‘til evening.”

“A bribe?”

“I am certainly not above such trickery if it gets you on your feet.”

Éowyn sighed, though her expression bore traces of mirth, the lines in her face softening slightly. Lothíriel smiled, detecting a measure of compliance if she was able to keep the conversation light.

 Receiving the cup of the tea from the Lady the dark-haired woman set it down and waited patiently for her charge to rearrange herself on the bed, swinging her legs carefully over the side and scooting to the edge. Lothíriel did not immediately move to help her, awaiting the gathering of the woman’s faculties as she pressed her stocking feet to the rug, testing the sensation. Carefully Éowyn arose, biting her lip to avoid wincing as she steadied herself with the side table. Lothíriel stood as well, near to assist if the other should require it but providing enough distance to allow independence. Once she was upright the Lady of Rohan looked to her companion with a nervous expression. The beige chemise far from modest, though it covered the woman from collarbone to ankle and no men were permitted without her leave. Her long blonde hair was loose about her, smoothed and brushed like a cloak of sunlight about her.

“My legs are unsteady, I fear. Like a newborn colt.”

“We would expect as much,” Lothíriel replied with a reassuring smile. “You have long been abed after the ordeal. Like a colt you will need to stretch your legs and build up strength in them. Here.”

Éowyn’s brows rose when Lothíriel offered her arm but acquiesced, entwining their forearms and straightening her spine. They took a few steps, each improving the blonde woman’s confidence as they moved away from the bed. Lothíriel could feel the tenseness in her person as they stood close, Éowyn doing her best not to rely on her companion’s arm.

“You are doing well,” Lothíriel praised quietly as they worked their way to the windows.  “Your body is adjusting and adapting. I think if we are to add walking to our daily routine you will be back to full strength in no time.”

“I know you are right. Yet… all my mind tells me is to collapse into bed and pull the covers over my head. I could sleep for an age, it seems.”

“Your body is ready to heal, my Lady. Your mind… may not be.” They paused as Éowyn stiffened, her gaze ahead as she adopted the aloof visage reminiscent of the day prior. Lothíriel knew she’d hit upon a sensitive topic but still she pressed, her voice as gentle as a mother to her babe. “Much has been stolen from you. More than I know. But you can overcome it. I believe you can.”

“You are the only one,” Éowyn whispered, almost in spite of herself. Lothíriel squeezed the woman’s arm reassuringly, the pressure seemingly bringing her back to the present.

“Perhaps, though I do not think so. But if it feels thus, trust me to guide you. I would not have you waste away in that bed. We will find your purpose again.”

Éowyn did not reply but her expression was placid so Lothíriel encouraged her to continue walking. The pair made it to the seating area near the windows, the Lady of Rohan sitting ungracefully upon the upholstered chair with assistance, the sling providing a counterbalance as she shifted to get comfortable. Once she was settled Lothíriel sat in the chair beside her, the sprawling view of the House of Healing gardens and Pelennor fields before them. They sat in silence for many moments until Éowyn looked at her, her gaze sharp despite the relaxed pose.

“I should have gone with them.” Bitterness tinged her words, and she seemed to struggle to keep her tone light.

“You were denied the choice,” Lothíriel murmured with care to her words. “That would make anyone angry.”

“My brother, Béma love him, spends more time making decisions for me thinking they benefit me than actually knowing what is in my heart.”

I don't doubt that, Lothíriel thought wryly. But she offered the Lady an understanding nod.

“I daresay that is the first thought the Valar gifts brothers when they are born,” she replied lightly, which elicited a small smile from her companion.

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Three. All my elder.”

“Mearas’ manes!” Grey eyes caught her blonde woman’s genuine surprise as a spark of her personality emerged, so hidden amidst her grief had it been. Lothíriel allowed for a grin and slight shake of her head.

“My life can be ordered by the decisions my brothers made thinking they knew right. And how I utterly disregarded or rebelled against them. And yet,” her gaze dropped as the words she’d held in her heart came forth, “I would give anything to have them here now, even if it was to order me about.” Looking back at Éowyn, who appeared to search her face for clues to avoid saying something hurtful or inappropriate, Lothíriel offered a smile. “They have departed along with your brother and left me here.”

“Would you have gone with them?”

“Me? No. My skill with a blade is precious little. All the same, it feels like being abandoned. Left to wait and worry, unable to change the course of what will be, but trapped all the same.”

“The doom of a woman,” Éowyn agreed with a solemn nod. She took a pause to look out the windows before tilting her head to eye her companion. “What is your name?”

“Lothíriel,” she answered honestly.

“That does not sound like a name of Gondor.”

“I am from the coast.  Sindarin names are more common there.”

“I see,” the blonde woman nodded. “Perhaps that is why my brother was such a bumbling oaf around you.”

“Pardon?”

“Surely you witnessed his flustering about,” Éowyn answered, a hint of shock in her voice as she looked to Lothíriel. Again, the pieces of her personality shone like light through broken pottery. “He could scarce look at you without getting stocked up. He always fancied himself with an Elven maid.”

“Oh.”

“Do forgive me,” the Lady of Rohan said abruptly, reaching forward with her good hand to place it upon Lothíriel’s forearm, her expression suddenly nervous and embarrassed. “That was inappropriate of me. I’ve made you uncomfortable and shamed my brother in one breath.”

“Worry not,” Lothíriel replied, patting her hand gently with a smile. “I was simply not expecting it. I make a sport of mortifying my brothers at any opportunity so I can hardly blame you. I confess, I did not notice any flustering with the king. He has been nothing but respectful and honorable.”

“I am glad you do not think ill of him. He is a good man and will be beloved by our people.” She fell silent, the shadow of gloom returning to her visage. Lothíriel waited a few moments to be sure she wasn’t going to speak further.

“I should’ve said so earlier, but I am deeply sorry for the loss of your uncle. By all accounts he was a wise and courageous king.”

“He was the greatest of men,” Éowyn agreed quietly, her eyes glazed by a glassy sheen. “Neither Éomer nor I are prepared to step into the space he occupied.”

“Did the late king have children of his own?”

“He did. Théodred, who fell to the villainy of the wizard, Saruman. My uncle was devastated. We all were.” Her voice was faint, Lothíriel leaning a bit closer to hear her. “How could any of us put to right the evil done these days? I fear I shall only know despair. For the rest of my life.”

“I wish it will not be so,” her companion answered.

“No words of encouragement and pleas for faith?” Again, bitterness seeped into her voice, a sharp glare directed at the dark-haired healer, who maintained a calm expression.

“In truth, my Lady, I do not know if you will be plagued with anguish. You have suffered greatly. I want to believe you will find hope and light once more. Perhaps you need something or someone to give you the spark needed to rekindle it.”

“The other healer was near adamant I find joy. As if it were mine to command.”

“It may seem so by those untouched by darkness and melancholy.”

Éowyn did not reply, her expression shifting to thoughtfulness as she regarded the other woman. Lothíriel maintained a solemn visage, aware that Ioreth may have over played her hand in encouraging the shieldmaiden to cast away her sorrow. The pair sat in silence until the Lady of Rohan sighed, breaking her gaze to look at her knees.

“Well, I have walked from bed to chair, Lothíriel. What shall you have me do next?”

“That will be enough for today. Though I should like to see you up and about more on the morrow. The lords of the city, including those left in charge of the Rohirrim dwelling in the city, convene for meals in the evening. Would you have interest in joining them?”

“No.” Lothíriel was unsurprised by this and nodded understandingly. “But I do not like eating alone. Will you join me?”

“Verily, it would be my honor.”

Lothíriel assisted her in walking back to bed and settled her in, reassuring her they would meet for the evening meal. Dark shadows haunted the planes of the shieldmaiden’s face, and it was evident that their short exercise and discussion had fatigued her. Hiding her concern with a warm smile, the Princess bid farewell to Éowyn and excused herself. Once she’d shut the door her expression fell, a gnawing worry settling in her stomach. It may be well beyond her skills to help the Lady of Rohan. And if the battle went poorly Lothíriel wasn’t sure Éowyn would be in any position to lead the people from the city as Éomer had hoped.

Departing her charge, the Princess went about her work for the day, assisting the Warden and Ioreth with their patients, grinding herbs and restocking shelves. Despite the numerous tasks it felt leisurely compared to last week. As much as she would regret not seeing her cousin at meals, she was happy to attend Éowyn for supper. She caught frequent sights of Faramir over the course of the day, mostly walking the gardens and staring eastwards. Finally, at dusk, she paused in her activities to greet him.

“Does the eastern horizon give any news?” He turned as she spoke, a light grin on his lips as he shrugged.

“No more than the day before. But I seem to be transfixed.”

“You are not alone.” She stood beside him, watching the sky darken as night claimed the land. He glanced sidelong at her before speaking.

“Are you planning to wear your servant’s gown to supper tonight?”

“You’ll not have the honor of my presence tonight, I’m afraid.”

“No?” He turned to face her, brows knitted with concern. “If it was Húrin’s son I will speak to him. He needn’t be the reas –”

“No, not for him,” she replied with a disarming smile and shake of her head. “A patient has requested I take my meal with them.”

“Who might that be?”

“One who also watches the eastern sky with rapt attention.” She tilted her head to gesture to the shieldmaiden’s room, which sat above them, tucked into the alcove standing above the gardens and field beyond. Faramir followed her gaze to the empty window, a light burning within barely visible from their position. “The Lady of Rohan.”

Faramir said nothing for many moments, instead watching Éowyn’s window with a pensive expression. Lothíriel wasn’t sure how much he knew about the shieldmaiden and thus took care not to share too much information. Looking back at his cousin the Steward crossed his arms over his chest.

“Would she wish to join us tonight?”

“I do not think she is ready yet. Perhaps later. I am hoping to get her out of her chambers and walking in the gardens tomorrow.”

“And you’d wish me clear of them to give her space?”

“On the contrary,” she replied, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “It might do her well to speak to someone besides myself.”

“I’m not sure a maiden of Rohan would fair better with me,” he teased with a simpering grin. “Though, I am curious how she came here.”

“You might ask her yourself,” Lothíriel shrugged when he cast an appraising glare in her direction. “It’s not my tale to tell.”

“Very well. Keep your secrets, Cousin. If I see the Lady tomorrow I will be on my best behavior.”

“I will warn her in advance.”

They shared a smile as the lamps were lit, night taking hold of the valley. Wishing her kinsman a good evening Lothíriel left him to find a kitchen servant.

She moved through the level, hoping to catch a boy on errand from the scullery, disappointed when she was unable to locate one. She wanted to give the kitchen time to remove her place setting from the dining hall in the Citadel and bring her meal with Éowyn’s to the room. Swiftly she departed the Houses of Healing to move down a level where most of the food was cooked and distributed. Finding a servant with the appropriate attire denoting his post she informed him of the change in setting and watched him disappear to inform the cook. Turning away she stepped into the dark lane, ready to return to the upper level when a voice halted her.

“My Lady!”

Turning with no small amount of annoyance Lothíriel beheld Húrin’s son, Baranor, walking toward her, the lamps casting him in light and shadow as he progressed upon her. She offered him a respectful bow, which he casually returned.

“I was not expecting to see you on this level,” he commented as he stopped before her. She realized she was hoping to not see him at all and this sudden meeting made her insides turn.

“I am here on errand,” she replied, glancing in the direction of the gate leading to the sixth level. “For a patient.”

“I see. Well, I look forward to our dinner this evening.” She resisted a scowl at the word our, instead shaking her head with a placid expression.

“Alas, my Lord, I will not be attending tonight. I am much needed elsewhere.” Baranor did not try to conceal his disappointment as he frowned.

“Surely your charges can spare you an evening. You are the Lady of Dol Amroth, after all, not merely a healer at the beck and call of ailing soldiers.”

“You’ll forgive me, my Lord, but I gave my word.”

“Of course,” he replied, softening with a smile. “Your loyalty is admirable. You will be missed tonight, my Lady.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lothíriel murmured as he stared at her. His gaze was unnerving, and she wondered if it was simply the lack of other women that made him so persistent. Finally he offered a bow in the form of a head cant, his smile not quite reaching blue eyes that regarded her like a hunter.

“Good evening, Lady Lothíriel. I shall look to see you in the coming days.”

She offered a half-hearted farewell before turning from him to walk down the lane toward the gates. If he was starved of female attention he was not managing it well. Were her brothers in the city they would take him to task for his overstepping. But they weren’t here. She felt keen responsibility to hold her ground, if only in defiance of his clear violation of appropriate courtly behavior.

As she returned to the Houses of Healing another thought occurred: he likely did not yet know of Éowyn. What was defiance in her turned to protection, at once certain he would be kept ignorant of the shieldmaiden in her vulnerable state. A man such a Baranor would be the last thing Éowyn needed in her convalescence. Quite settled in this, Lothíriel felt a renewed sense of purpose, even if her fears did not come to pass.

Chapter Text

“She’s as pigheaded as the rest of those horselords,” the Warden muttered none-too-quietly as he wiped his hands on a towel, swiveling away from Lothíriel. With his back turned she rolled her eyes, annoyance dancing across her face. She hid it when he rotated toward her by busying herself arranging the surgical tools on the table between them. The pair had finished a brief surgery in the ward on a soldier from Rohan, the topic of the shieldmaiden inevitably brought up when he asked the other healer how the lady faired.

“She has many wounds yet to heal,” she tried reasoning as Derufin snorted and shook his head. It was near midday and Lothíriel had already seen to her cousin, Éowyn and began rounding on patients from the main house. The Lady of Rohan had been in a sour mood that morning but agreed to take a walk with Lothíriel around the gardens later in the day.

“Her pride chief among them,” the Warden grumbled with a frown. He seemed unsure how to manage Éowyn’s care, vacillating between the recuperation of a woman on bedrest and treating her as a soldier. Lothíriel tried appealing to his pity but he appeared more irritated by the shieldmaiden’s presence than empathetic.

“Perhaps she needs time… and patience.”

“Perhaps,” he granted with an assessing glance. “But I can’t fathom what she might accomplish bothering the Steward as she did.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She had me bring her to him just before we began surgery, if you can believe it! As though the Steward possessed some ability I do not to assuage her temper.”

Lothíriel paused in her task, brows raised as she worked through this news. Although it was her hope to introduce Faramir to Éowyn she was surprised the Lady had requested to meet with him. From what Lothíriel knew the pair had no real knowledge of each other. Accepting the towel from the Warden to wipe her hands, the woman glanced at the exit before looking back to Derufin, whose expression was appraising, if not slightly smug.

“Go on then.” When she stared at him he waved to the door. “Go see to your patient, Lady. We’ll carry on well enough in your absence. As it stands, you’re the only one the horse maid tolerates. ‘Haps you’ll speak sense into her.”

With an appreciative nod, Lothíriel departed the room, anxious to find Éowyn. She wasn’t sure why she was nervous the pair should meet without her intervention. Perhaps she wanted to be the one to facilitate or mediate it. Regardless, she reasoned with herself, it was puzzling Éowyn entreated the Warden to introduce her to the Steward.

Departing the main halls the Princess checked healing wards of nobility, both wings and chambers empty. She figured Faramir would be in the gardens, as he was prohibited from the Citadel by order of the Warden so he might fully recover without having to engage in politics. In Faramir’s empty room the dark-haired healer paused to look out the long window, frozen by the view before her.

There stood her cousin conversing with the Lady of Rohan, walking slowly along the gravel path, facing eastward and away from Lothíriel. Ever the gentle soul, Faramir’s body language was receptive, even as Éowyn seemed to bristle and pull away. Initially the healer felt pulled to join them but as she observed from the window above it became clear they did not need her intervention. Unbidden a smile came to Lothíriel’s lips as she beheld the pair, wondering if perhaps they needed one another’s company more than any tonic or salve from the healing house.

As she turned away, resolute in allowing them privacy, a longing settled in her breast. The more she mused upon it the more her thoughts drifted to the King of Rohan, his hazel eyes, quiet voice and strong embrace. It felt foolish to pine after him, their interactions so limited and influenced by the likelihood of eternal separation. But she could not deny a desire to walk among the gardens with him at her side, speaking of anything and nothing at all. Lothíriel reproached herself for leaning into the daydreams that came unsolicited. How easily could their interactions be explained by circumstance? And even if there was veracity to the closeness between them it could all be done away with if he were slain. Worse, she realized, if he returned and felt nothing toward her.

Don’t be silly, she chided as she departed Faramir’s chamber. Her cousin and Éowyn deserved companionship, if that was all that resulted from their meeting. It was ridiculous to assume anything more – for them or herself. Still, she could not rid herself of the hollow pit that remained. She tried to put it from her mind as someone else joined her in the hallway, the armor designating him a Marshall of Rohan. She offered a bow as they came closer, which he returned.

“Good afternoon, my Lady,” he stated as they stopped before one another. She recognized him from the dining hall in the Citadel two days before, he being the younger of the two commanders of the Rohirrim left in Minas Tirith.

“My Lord,” she replied with a polite bow of her head.

“I am Elfhelm, Captain of the remaining Rohirrim.”

“Lothíriel. Is there something I can assist you with, Lord Elfhelm?”

“You are the healer attending my Lady, Éowyn?”

“I am.”

“I was hoping to call on her,” he answered with a glance down the vestibule. “Though I do not know her state and would not wish to impose.”

“She is managing,” Lothíriel answered as Elfhelm’s expression shifted to concern. “But I am glad of her progress. Her injuries are healing.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Would you bear a message to my Lady?”

“Certainly.”

“Tell her if she has need I will be at her side. Éomer King left her in my care, though I am no healer and she is better off with you. I did promise to attend her needs.”

“I will tell the Lady,” Lothíriel promised with a smile. The young captain returned it, his posture easing slightly.

“And, should you need anything, mistress, please do not hesitate to seek me out personally. You and the other healers have saved the lives of many a Rohirric warrior. We are in your debt.”

“You are most kind, Lord Elfhelm. I will give your message to the Lady. She is - ”

“Lady Lothíriel!”

Her expression darkened immediately, Elfhelm’s blonde brows raising before both turned to see Baranor striding toward them, one hand clasping the opposite wrist. Blood seeped between his fingers as he bore down on them, his blue gaze reserved for Lothíriel. Elfhelm bowed but did not move, his eyes darting between them with guarded curiosity.

“Lord Baranor,” she greeted tightly, offering a slight curtsey. “What happened?”

“I was hoping to find you,” he answered, stopping short of the pair with a casual nod to Elfhelm. “I seemed to have sliced my arm helping the boys in the yard. Would you have a moment to assist me?”

“You passed through the healing hall to find me?”

“The others seemed preoccupied and I didn’t wish to bother them,” he explained with a glance to Elfhelm. He sized the larger man up before offering a slight smile. “If I am not interrupting you, of course.”

“Nay,” the Rohirric man replied, his tone curt. “I was just departing.” Turning to Lothíriel he offered a slow bow before rising and speaking. “Thank you for your time, mistress. Forget not, I am here should you have need of me.” The final sentence was spoken with a glance to Baranor, who smiled rigidly. Lothíriel offered a reassuring nod to Elfhelm, who took his leave with a distrustful glare at Húrin’s son. Turning her full attention to Baranor the woman indicated to his arm.

“Let’s have a look.”

Removing his hand, which allowed drops of blood to pool on the stone between them, the man tilted his forearm to display a narrow laceration. Untying her apron the healer covered his arm to keep it from weeping more blood and nodded to it.

“Hold this firmly. We can bandage it in the room just down here.”

Lothíriel guided him down the corridor away from the convalescent chambers to the main halls. Both annoyed and curious why he eschewed the ward to find her in particular the healer motioned for him to take a seat at a table in the quiet hall. He acquiesced, resting the injured arm on the tabletop as she gathered the necessary materials from the nearby cart. Returning, she stood opposite and carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage. She ignored the weight of his gaze on her as she cleaned the wound. It was not as bad as she initially thought, the incision shallower than the amount of blood suggested.

“How did you come by this injury?” she asked crisply as she worked, revealing the cut, which was short and clean across half the length of his forearm.

“The lads were sparing, and I caught the wrong end of a pike as I assisted them.”

“It’s not so deep,” she observed as the pressure from the apron quelled the blood. “It didn’t seem to have struck the vein, for which you are fortunate. No vambrace, my Lord?”

“Uh, no,” he replied, brows furrowed. “I wasn’t planning to be struck.”

“All the same,” she replied, washing the wound gently. “It seems unwise to be in a training yard without appropriate equipment.”

Baranor said nothing, his eyes following her as she stepped to the side and selected a salve. Readjusting his arm on the table she cleaned the last traces of blood, taking note of the clean edge of the wound. Whatever blade made this cut was sharp, though she could not rule out a pike. The incision itself was thin, the layers of flesh barely peeling back. As she began applying the salve, she felt him tense under her fingers, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the interaction.

“This will numb the flesh, enough that sutures shouldn’t cause too much distress,” she stated absently, avoiding his gaze. “We’ll let this absorb for a few moments then I can stitch the wound and you’ll be on your way.”

“I am grateful for your attention, my Lady.”

“Any healer would do thus.”

“All the same,” he answered quietly. Despite the charitable tone she was ill at ease in his presence, though she couldn’t say why. “Will you return to Dol Amroth?”

“I cannot know. It depends on the outcome of the war.”

“Of course. Is this your first visit to the White City?” she looked up swiftly, caught off guard by the casualness of the question.

“No,” she replied with a frown. “I have traveled here on occasion in my youth. The late Steward was my uncle. That alone gave us cause to visit.”

“A pity I hadn’t met you sooner,” he paused before following his statement up carefully: “Rather, a shame that we’re meeting under such circumstances.” He leaned a bit closer, seemingly to adjust his stance but his face came dangerously close to hers. Lothíriel pulled back and busied herself with the suture kit. When she didn’t respond he laughed awkwardly.

“I have never been a wordsmith, my Lady. You must forgive me.”

“Hold still, please,” she murmured as she prepared the needle. The urge to ‘accidentally’ pierce the skin untouched by the salve was overwhelming but she stayed her hand as he obeyed. She’d performed enough sutures that she anticipated the tensing of his muscle as she began the task, moving the needle quickly to avoid further discomfort. She noticed he looked away, the muscle in his jaw clenching as she worked.

The thread was from the stores intended to be used on aristocracy, coming from the more expensive material of silkworm. Although she doubted he would recognize the difference between the thread derived of plant fiber it was protocol to utilize the finer material on nobility and the son of the acting Lord of Minas Tirith certainly fell into that category, despite what she might think of him.

“There,” she commented after several moments, knotting the end of the thread and slicing the surplus. Baranor regarded her work with a pensive gaze, tilting his forearm from side to side. Lothíriel took a small towel soaking in vinegar to the wound, causing him to hiss in a breath.

“I know,” she murmured gently. “It stings. But this will keep ill humors from the wound as it heals. Return tomorrow and have the Warden take a look. It’ll start itching in some days – that is a good sign. If it becomes too bothersome, we can wrap it.”

“Then I can call on you to check?” Lothíriel paused in the tidying of her materials, grey eyes catching him in a glower.

“You did not acquire this injury just to see me, did you?”

“No,” he snapped with a frown, blue eyes flashing with shadow as his face darkened. He stood up straight, settling his expression once more with a halfhearted smile. “I did not. But you were the first thought when it happened. You are practiced in your craft, Lady Lothíriel.”

“Any healer should be able to check it,” she answered cautiously, resuming her task. She felt his eyes on her as she returned the suture kit, vinegar bowl and clean linens to the cart and tossed the soiled apron into the basket. Taking a deep breath, the woman turned around, applying a placid mask on her face.

“Take care not to strain your arm lest you undo the stitches. If that is all, Lord Baranor, I must be off.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, pivoting his body in her direction as she walked toward the exit. “It seems you’re always running from me, my Lady.”

She paused, turning slightly on her heel. Steeling her expression to keep the irritation from showing she instead offered a polite, tight-lipped smile.

“I do not run, Lord Baranor. But I am much occupied with tasks. If that is all?” he offered a light nod, the smile on his lips not quite benevolent. She dropped a brief curtsey before departing, relieved he had the sense not to follow.

She was perplexed by his insistence and odd conduct. He would not behave thus if her father or brothers were present. Perhaps, she considered, that was intentional. A lone woman in the city was opportunity enough to be a braggart. Well, Lothíriel could weather a windbag sufficiently without her menfolk to intervene. Baranor was likely not used to being told no or rebuffed by the ladies of the city. He would eventually become bored and move on.

TTTT

Evening saw Lothíriel pausing outside Éowyn’s chamber. She’d left the woman to her own devices for the remainder of the day; both a product of wanting her to have space to talk to Faramir but also a result of Lothíriel’s schedule. Now she hesitated before entering to dine with the shieldmaiden, unsure how she would be received. Taking a breath she knocked on the door before announcing herself.

“It’s Lothíriel,” she called, her tone more cautious than she intended. When she was bade enter, she opened the door and slipped inside. Éowyn sat at the chair beside the table braiding her hair. She offered a welcoming smile as the dark-haired woman moved further into the room.

“Good evening,” Lothíriel greeted her as she was invited to sit across from the Lady of Rohan.

“It is a better evening,” Éowyn replied as she secured the braid. “Better than this morning, at least.”

“I am glad!”

“I did miss you today, though. I expected to walk in the garden with you.”

“Forgive me, my Lady. When I came to check in you were not in your chambers, and I became waylaid with other tasks.”

“It’s alright,” the blonde woman answered lightly. Lothíriel couldn’t help but notice a warmer glow to her skin, despite the shadows on her face.

“Oh, I should share with you that the Lord Elfhelm has asked after you, my Lady.”

“That is good of him,” Éowyn answered, though she seemed uncertain.

“Are you -”

She was cut off by the sound of the door opening again, this time bearing a servant with a plate of food. He was followed by Faramir, who halted in the doorway when he saw the two women. Lothíriel detected a slight smile on Éowyn’s lips when he appeared and she sat quietly as the Steward addressed them.

“Good evening, my Ladies,” he stated with a bow as Éowyn encouraged him to venture further in.

“Well met, my Lord Steward,” the shieldmaiden replied before indicating to her companion. “This is Lothíriel, the healer attending to me.”

“Ehm, yes,” Faramir nodded, brows drawn. Looking between them Éowyn frowned, unable to discern his discomfort.

“You are acquainted, I suppose,” she intoned, looking at Lothíriel with raised brows. Unable to hide a warmer smile the Lady of Dol Amroth stood as the plate was set before the shieldmaiden.

“Well acquainted, in fact. The Lord Faramir is my cousin.”

“Your cousin?!” Éowyn’s brow furrowed, not unlike her brother’s, as she processed this information. Faramir appeared sheepish as he sidestepped the servant and drew his hands behind his back.

“Yes,” Lothíriel continued congenially. “I mentioned I am from the coast. Dol Amroth, to be specific. You’ll forgive me for keeping my complete identity from our conversations.”

“But you’re… that would mean…” Consternation affixed itself to Éowyn’s visage as she looked between them before settling on Faramir. “Did you know she was attending me?”

“Ehm, well, yes,” he murmured, a blush spreading from his collared neck up to his cheeks as he looked imploringly to his cousin. “It did not arise in our conversation, my Lady.”

“I have been intentional with anyone who knows me to keep my anonymity,” Lothíriel put in. “It was not a secret. But nor was it announced.”

Éowyn stared at her, the frown tempering slightly. Faramir appeared utterly unsure of his next move and while Éowyn was distracted smoothing her dress Lothíriel jerked her head toward the shieldmaiden, encouraging him to speak further with raised brows.

“I do apologize,” he murmured quickly as she looked at him. “I was meaning to check in on you. I didn’t know you’d be here, Lothíriel.”

“It’s alright,” Éowyn put in immediately, her tone reassuring. “I was not expecting this but do not fret, my Lord Steward. Thank you for your concern.”

“I’ll leave you to your supper. And have a plate brought for you, Cousin.” Lothíriel nodded with a smile as he bowed to them. “I would be honored if you joined me in the garden on the morrow, Lady Éowyn.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she answered with a small smile. Faramir returned it and nodded to Lothíriel before departing, closing the door behind him. Still standing the younger woman turned to the shieldmaiden, unsure if they needed to have further words. Éowyn’s countenance was more placid than Lothíriel had seen it, the smile lingering on her lips as she turned to look at the woman.

“I hope you do not feel deceived,” Lothíriel murmured.

“No,” Éowyn sighed. “Perhaps on first consideration I was. But then… the only way I came by this predicament was deception. I suppose I can hardly blame you. But…”

“Hmm?” Lothíriel’s brows furrowed as she waited, worried the shieldmaiden would not wish to be seen by her once the truth came to light.

“Does my brother know?”

“Know who I am?”

“Yes. He thought, as I did, you were a healer from the city. Not the cousin of the Steward.”

“I was honest with him. Before the Host left.”

Éowyn said nothing, staring at her food as a knock came. The servant returned with another plate, placing on the table opposite the Lady’s. Lothíriel nodded her thanks and waited until he left to speak again.

“I’d understand if this was too great an offense, my Lady. You are within your right to request another healer.”

“Nonsense,” the blonde woman retorted, gesturing to the other plate of food. “Sit and eat. I would be a fool to send you away for protecting your identity while I spent weeks outright lying about mine.”

Lothíriel acquiesced with a relieved smile, which was returned. They ate in comfortable silence, the air between them relaxed. The Lady of Dol Amroth could not help but wonder where Éowyn’s mind had drifted, fearful still that she felt deceived by the healer. Before she could remark upon it her companion spoke.

“Do you spend much time with the Steward?”

“For my part, yes,” Lothíriel answered with a smile, wiping the corner of her mouth before continuing. “His mother was my father's sister. Faramir and his brother often spent summers in Dol Amroth. I was too young to be involved in the mischief, despite my best attempts. But my aunt was beloved by my father, and he wished to maintain a strong relationship with his nephews, even after her passing.”

“I did not know she died. Was it recent?”

“No. Well before I was born. But it had quite an impact on my uncle, the late Steward, I am told. And by extension Faramir and Boromir.”

“I do recall meeting Lord Boromir – this past summer, I believe. As he was passing through the Gap of Rohan. I heard he was felled some months ago.”

“I grieve for Faramir,” Lothíriel replied quietly. “Losing his brother and father in such short order. Taking up his father’s seat during a time of war.”

“What sort of man is he – if you do not mind me asking.”

“He is the kindest and gentlest of souls, my Lady. He has ever been dutiful under his father’s harsh gaze. But I suspect he longs for a simpler existence. One of love and stillness. If anyone were to deserve such a life it would be Faramir.”

“I see.” Éowyn’s face softened as she considered this observation.

Lothíriel could not help but notice a tone of affection in the shieldmaiden’s words as they spoke of her cousin. Eating again in silence the Princess thought then of Éomer and his sister’s concern that he did not know Lothíriel’s identity. She was grateful for the opportunity to be honest but wasn’t sure why it mattered enough for Éowyn to ask. But the Lady of Rohan was clearly no longer thinking of her brother, a faint smile on her lips as she ate and a wistful look in her eyes. Not wishing to disrupt her peace Lothíriel kept her curiosity to herself, hopeful for more conversations in the days to come.

Chapter Text

“You’ve never had pipeweed?!” Merry’s incredulous tone was punctuated by wide eyes and quick shake of his head, the tawny curls quivering. Lothíriel could only tilt her own head with a half shrug as the Hobbit made a tsk sound.

“I couldn’t even tell you what it is.”

“A shame, if I may say so.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate anyhow. Smoking is a man’s wont,” she explained as Merry shook his head again, settling back into his chair and looking out over the balcony to the dark fields beyond. They sat together outside his room as the last tendrils of light disappeared. The twilight swathed them in a navy-violet haze, the stars above twinkling. Had their hearts not been so full of tension it might have felt peaceful.

“Our ladies of the Shire are fond of the smoke,” he put in with a glance her direction. “There’s nothing like a pipe awaiting you after a long day. Give me Old Toby and an ale – I’d be a mighty-pleased Hobbit, I would. Though spring evenings such as this call for Southern Star.”

“What is it?” the healer inquired before taking a sip of her tea. The dark braid fell over her shoulder as she cradled the cup and enjoyed its warmth. They’d been sitting together for the better part of an hour, sometimes chatting other times sitting in comfortable silence.

“Couldn’t rightly tell you the name of the plant,” Merry conceded as he shifted in his chair. “Pipeweed’s all I’ve ever known it as, aside from the varieties. It’s a leafy thing, as you might expect. It has flowers but I can’t recall the color. White or yellow? And it’s got a nice smell, as my nose recalls.”

As Lothíriel listened her gaze was drawn reflexively to the eastern horizon. Though she heard the Hobbit as he continued describing the plant she found her thoughts were far from their topic. So had the days gone, all within the city putting their focus on tasks to keep the hours moving. The evenings, however, were spent in quiet and careful contemplation. It seemed no one wished to speak their thoughts aloud, though they were all thinking the same.

“My Lady?”

“I’m sorry,” she smiled at him apologetically as he waved his hand. “I’m afraid my mind drifted.”

“It’s alright,” he replied amiably, though his voice sobered. “It’s been days without news. I do not know when we’d even know of the outcome, but I fear each day brings us closer to that which we dread.”

“Indeed. They should be reaching the Black Gate soon. Another day or so, if my father predicted correctly. Although it depends on speed of the Host and how long they’ve lingered in Ithilien.”

“If I know Aragorn he’s pushed on with as little delay as can be managed.”

“I am still in awe of his return. That is, that he is our King.”

“You and I together,” Merry answered with a grin. “But there’s no better man for the job, I wager. Besides your cousin.”

“True enough. But he’d reject it,” she murmured before adding: “He wants only a quiet life. It would be a burden upon his shoulders, though he would bear it nobly.”

“Will he stay on in the city if Aragorn is crowned?”

Lothíriel pondered this for a moment while taking another sip of her tea, the liquid warming the tension in her insides as she swallowed. She paused before answering, willing her muscles to relax.

“I do not know. Perhaps. He would be Steward still, should the King depart for a time.”

“He ought ask the Lady Éowyn to stay with him.”

“Had he?”

“Aye! He’s clearly besotted with her. He’s spent the last several days at her side in the gardens. And he gets that far-off look in his eyes when he isn’t with her. Best take her by his side and call it done.”

“It’s not that simple,” the Princess replied with a smile.

“Why not? Does she not fancy him?”

“Oh, I suspect she harbors the most tender of feelings for him. But she may be promised to a lord of Rohan.”

“I doubt that.”

“All the same, there are expectations of both within their countries. They would be well matched, but it may not be their fate.”

“That’s bollocks.” Lothíriel’s grey gaze caught the Hobbit’s disdainful snort as she chuckled.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“What of you, Lady Lothíriel. Are you promised to someone?”

The woman dropped her gaze, the blue blanket on her lap suddenly fascinating. Silence hung between them until Merry looked at her, his expression abashed if not a touch curious.

“I didn’t mean to pry, my Lady.”

“I am not promised,” she answered with a light smile. “The growing threat of Mordor saw to delaying any betrothal, though I’ve been of age for some time. To be truthful I spent many years considering myself an early devotee of the Maidens of Mercy, but I was –”

“Forgive me,” he interrupted, his attention now solely upon her, brows drawn. “Maidens of Mercy?”

“Yes, the female order of She Who Weeps. Do you not have such associations in the Shire?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed it was pervasive across the land. It is a fellowship of women devoted to the acts of compassion and quiet contemplation.”

“Are they healers?”

“Some are, though in most towns and cities healers are their own order. The Maidens of Mercy see to supporting those in mourning. They wash and prepare the dead and sing the songs of passing. In the days of old they were established within the realms of Men to provide counsel and compassion. Maidens of Mercy take no husbands and bear no children, though I think the order will accept women who have done both as long as they cast away their prior lives.”

“You wanted this life for yourself?” Lothíriel caught his gaze, surprised by the disbelief in his voice. Merry blushed and followed up with: “You’re the daughter of a Prince. Would you not have a fine life before you?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smile, smoothing the blanket across her lap as her cheeks warmed as well. “I suppose I always fancied myself capable of making decisions about my future. Not that I would join the order to oppose my father. But I first saw the Maidens at work as a girl and I was so enthralled by their presence and bearings I was convinced it was my future.”

“And now?”

“Now… I see I was naïve.” The woman looked away, voice dropping as she continued, watching the eastern sky. “I understand my role as the Prince’s daughter and a lady of Dol Amroth. If, by some grace, the Host of the West is triumphant alliances will take precedence. Securing the fiefdoms of Gondor will be more than ceremonial, especially when the King is installed.”

“I confess I don’t understand all the politicking among Men,” Merry answered with a grin as she looked at him. “But I suspect you would make a fine Maiden of Mercy. Or Lady of some great house of Men.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel returned his grin as they fell into silence. Although she felt comfortable enough in the Hobbit’s presence to share such personal information she found it left a sour taste in her mouth. It had been some time since she was confronted by the reality of her situation and she didn’t much like the reintroduction, though she could hardly blame Merry’s curiosity.

“It is well to know you are not promised.” Dark brows rose as her companion spoke again; curiosity written on her face. Merry glanced at her with a frown that seemed displaced on his otherwise jolly face. “I’ve seen that Lord’s son poke about for the last few days, inserting himself like a dog begging for scraps. But I am unversed in the courting practices of Gondor and so kept my thoughts to myself. ‘Til now, I reckon.”

“Ah yes. Him. He is persistent, isn’t he?”

“Intolerably so. But if he is not acting in accordance with the decorum you deserve, I’d be the first to have words with him.”

“That is noble of you, my friend,” Lothíriel replied followed by a slow shake of her head. “But he isn’t worth the breath. Bothersome, yes. But doesn’t merit intervention.”

“That may be well enough now. But if it should change, my Lady, please do not think twice to tell me. I’d let him have it and put him right.”

“I have no doubt. Thank you, Merry.”

They sat in easy silence until it was time for her to depart, both feeling the weight of exhaustion and rising fear of the unknown.

TTTT

“I feel it in my bones,” Ioreth muttered, more to herself than Lothíriel as they moved around the storeroom collecting items. She’d been in a strange disposition since first they greeted one another earlier in the day. The Lady of Dol Amroth glanced sidelong at the older woman whose expression was drawn and eyes anxious.

“Let us take your shift to ease your thoughts,” the younger woman put in as Ioreth glanced sharply at her before allaying.

“Nonsense, my girl,” she waved a hand before setting a jar of herbs onto the shelf. “There’s nothing for it. Just a sense. And it’ll be a sore day that I let a feeling stop me from my craft.”

Lothíriel said nothing but nodded. It would’ve been near impossible to keep Ioreth of Lossarnach from her tasks if she was not amenable to a break. And the grey-eyed healer didn’t have the energy to argue. Her mind had been burdened since her discussion with Merry the night before but she was clearly not alone, a stranger pallor hanging over the city. It felt as though they were on the edge, though none could rightly say when they ought to receive news.

The healers went about their business noting a shift in the minds of the soldiers they tended, some leaning toward unsettled, others sinking into quiet mourning. For her part, Lothíriel fell firmly between the two emotions, vacillating as the day waned. She’d briefly saw to Éowyn but the woman had spent her day, as she had for the past five, with Faramir. As relieved as she was for the pair to find comfort and strength in one another Lothíriel couldn’t deny the sting of envy when she caught sight of them in the garden or walking the walls.

Tucking the feeling away she kept herself busy, even finding the inevitable presence of Baranor a decent distraction. He’d kept his distance directly after she tended to his lacerated arm but somehow found a way to see her daily, even if it was passing each other in the halls. But for each encounter with him Lothíriel observed the offhand presence of Merry, Elfhelm or her cousin. She wasn’t sure how correlated those two interactions were but she was grateful for their company.

“My Lady!” Lothíriel’s attention snapped to Ioreth whose eyes were wide. It was only then the younger woman felt a rumble beneath her feet. Unbidden, panic rose in her chest as her thoughts flew to the siege. Although it was a different sensation she couldn’t help but wonder if the city was under attack again. Following Ioreth from the storeroom Lothíriel tried to calm her breathing and evoke logic, the stones beneath and surrounding her quavering again. The pair were joined by others, healers, guards and patients alike, as they crowded the wall overlooking the fields and mountains beyond.

At first the horizon remained unchanged and it felt as though the crowd was holding their breath as one. Then, as though initiated by an unseen hand, the ever-present dark clouds around Mordor broke, light pouring through, evident even at their distance. A surge of brightness sparked amidst the darkness, far enough off that they could not tell the source. Lothíriel felt bodies press against her as all sought to better discern the eastern sky. The rumbling of the earth resumed as though some great beast beneath the ground was moving. She didn’t dare to hope as the luminosity continued to stream through the shadows of the Dark Lord’s land, like knives of light stabbing through the very firmament.

“Béma bless us,” a warrior of Rohan cried beside her as others added their voices and exclamations. Although she heard their exuberant shouts she was terrified to believe it. Could it be? Had the King and his Host been victorious? Had the Hobbit completed his impossible task? It felt foolish to at once trust this strange vision but others around her were cheering and reacting as though it were certain.

Pulling away from the crowd Lothíriel staggered from the walls into the House of Healing. Patients bound to their beds were crying out, begging for news and being given tidings of the luminous break in shadow across Mordor. Even as she heard it recounted the woman was reluctant to trust it. She found herself in a hallway alone, leaning against the wall as tears overflowed her eyes. Her heart was both full and aching as she wept, heaving shoulders and strangled breaths unbecoming of her station. She wasn’t sure why she cried but it was both unbidden and overpowering.

Drawing the back of her hand to her mouth to slow her breathing and control the sobs Lothíriel closed her eyes. The hem was sodden by her tears and she wiped her nose with the sleeve in a most indelicate manner. Finally, she was able to regain command of her faculties as she straightened her spine. Grateful to experience this in privacy, the Lady of Dol Amroth wiped her cheeks and chin to remove excess tears and pursed her lips. She would not be the only one to have such a reaction but she did her best to compose her person before returning to hall.

The hours that passed seemed to do so in a daze, the fear and silence lifted like a veil from Minas Tirith. Songs and joy seemed to overflow the city and the hearts of the men therein. Lothíriel continued her work with patients, observing that even the most dejected were buoyed by the apparent victory. She too felt a pull to gladness, though she didn’t quite trust it. And lingering beneath the elation was fear, forbidding her from reveling in the joy. Her thoughts passed to her father and brothers, agony and concern for their survival superseding relief. So too did her worry turn to Éomer in a similar fashion, though she wouldn’t admit it to a soul.

It wasn’t until a great Eagle descended upon the White City to herald the official words of triumph did Lothíriel allow herself to believe her joy. She watched his magnificent form arise from the second level where the Lords of the city had assembled to hear his tidings, held captive by the Eagle’s mighty shape and otherworldly appearance. Exhaling a breath that felt like she had been holding since first arriving in Minas Tirith, the woman closed her eyes. The sounds of music and celebration washed over her as she smiled. She dared to believe the threat was ended, though she couldn’t discern what that meant for her future, or even that of Arda.

But the darkness was gone.

Chapter Text

“He must be daft,” Éowyn muttered as her eyes rose from the parchment between her hands to look at Lothíriel. Dark brows rose expectantly as the Lady of Dol Amroth waited to be informed. They stood in the shieldmaiden’s chambers, the younger woman braiding the other’s golden hair when they were interrupted by a courier bearing a message for Éowyn. The boy was dismissed with a nod of Lothíriel’s head to afford her companion with privacy. Closing the door behind the lad the healer turned as Éowyn shook her head.

“He bids me join him at the encampment at the field,” she answered by way of explanation, her tone exasperated as she offered the parchment to Lothíriel, who perused it quickly:

Dearest Éowyn,

My heart sings to bear you news of our triumph! I beg you make haste with the riders and wagons to the Field of Cormallen, where the King of Gondor and our friends await. Take Windfola under saddle and join us in celebration, so I may know you are well and we might rejoice.

Éomer

“I won’t go,” the Lady of Rohan stated plainly, receiving the letter and looking at it again. Her expression was somewhere between a frown and scowl. Lothíriel did not hide her confusion, dark brows furrowing as she beheld the blonde woman’s ire anew.

“I don’t understand.”

“He hasn’t a thought in his head,” Éowyn muttered once more, pacing across the carpeted floor. Lothíriel sat down to wait through the other woman’s consternation. Of all the folk in the city the Lady of Rohan was the least jubilant by tidings of the Dark Lord’s fall. Her spirits were raised more than days past but Lothíriel, Faramir and Merry were confounded by the unyielding sadness and gloom that hovered over her.

“Is it not well to know he is alive?” the dark-haired woman offered, hoping to turn Éowyn’s thoughts to positive details.

“Yes,” she agreed with a break in the scowl before it returned. “But then I am left to wonder if he wasn’t bestowed a lick of sense.”

“Why would you not ride to the camp?”

“Because I…” the lady paused, looking now to Lothíriel as she considered her words. The scowl melted into a melancholy visage as she dropped the hand holding the letter. “I cannot go.”

“Does your brother know why you unable to do so?”

“He ought to. And yet.” Éowyn released a sigh before dropping heavily into the chair opposite her companion. “I have not spoken directly to him on the matter.”

“Is it some quarrel between you and he?”

“No.”

They sat without words for many moments, the Princess finding it difficult to keep her questions to herself. This was not the reaction she would’ve expected from Éowyn and it perplexed her greatly. But she’d learned in their weeks together not to push the shieldmaiden, trusting it would be revealed in time. But she was not able to train the curiosity out of her expression and Éowyn was no fool.

“It is complicated,” the blonde woman explained with another sigh, holding the letter up and staring at it. “I do desire to see Éomer. And to know all the details of their victory. Truly, I do. But I am restricted by my own folly.”

“Surely it is not so great that your deeds upon the field of battle are outweighed!”

“It is not so much what I have done as a soldier but as a woman. My heart… my heart has been held captive, desiring the love of a man who will not return it.”

Lothíriel tilted her head, surprise written plainly upon her as she watched Éowyn. This was the last thing she expected to hear and it amazed her into silence. With this confession the shieldmaiden was withdrawn, almost timid in her averting her eyes and dropping the letter into her lap. But as the moments passed the healer began to understand the deeper nature of Éowyn’s despair.

“It wasn’t just the darkness that overcame you,” Lothíriel chanced quietly. “Your love for this man is the anchor denying you happiness.”

“I cannot go, Lothíriel,” the blonde woman repeated, this time her voice hesitant and trembling.

“You cannot be sure you will see him. I do not mean to be indelicate but… are you certain he would be there?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause as Lothíriel considered her next response. Although she doubted Éowyn’s conviction it would not do her any service to question the belief.

“Alright then,” the Lady of Dol Amroth announced decisively, such that Éowyn’s gaze rose to meet hers. “Then you shall not go.”

“Éomer will be disappointed.”

“He will overcome it.”

“You must think me ridiculous.”

“I do not,” Lothíriel assured her, reaching across the negative space to lay a hand over Éowyn’s. “I would not trust any of my brothers to understand my feelings on this matter. If seeing this man would do your heart ill then I cannot, as your healer, advise you attend the King’s summons.”

The corners of the shieldmaiden’s lips twitched as though she might smile but instead she nodded. Lothíriel patted her hand gently before removing her own and settled back into her chair. They sat again in the sun-washed afternoon, a breeze filtering from the balcony’s open door. It was as though the heat of summer had arrived early on the wings of the Eagle, each day after his heralding warmer than the one before. Minas Tirith had been a frenzy of activity since the announcement, first calling back citizens to the city, then preparing to send wagons of provisions to the army and planning for the eventual return of the King.

Faramir would officially be released from the Warden’s care to assume his role as Steward the next day but he’d been in as many councils and preparatory meetings it hardly seemed to matter if he received an official discharge from the healers. It did Lothíriel’s heart well to see her cousin come into his own, for he commanded great respect among the lords of the city and undertook his role with diligence.  

But it occurred to her then; the weight of Éowyn’s divulgence would impact Faramir’s disposition mightily. It was clear to anyone with half a mind that he was love-struck by the shieldmaiden. To learn that she was in love with another would crush him. As his cousin Lothíriel felt pulled to address this with Éowyn to protect her kinsman from hurt. But as a healer and Éowyn’s companion she stayed her hand. And if the Lady of Rohan declined her brother’s request perhaps she and Faramir would have the opportunity to draw closer and her heart might be tuned from despair.

“You should go in my place.”

“What?” Lothíriel looked up from her thoughts, unsure she heard Éowyn correctly.

“You have family who you must be longing to see. And they are already expecting a Lady to travel – I doubt it matters which Lady.”

“I don’t know,” she replied with a doubtful expression. “I have patients and you – ”

“We can spare you.” Éowyn regarded her levelly before offering the first smile in days. “You deserve to see your menfolk. You’ve served the city beyond measure. Certainly you can join the wains if you prefer not to ride.”

“My mount would never forgive me if I left him here.”

“That is well! Take my place. It is my request of you.”

“Your brother will be dissatisfied to see me instead of you.”

“I think not.”

Lothíriel decided not to remark on this playful albeit dry response as she worked it through silently. Éowyn was watching her with practiced appraisal, as if she knew something the other woman did not. The Princess could not deny the hope that nestled in her chest thinking of seeing her brothers and father before she thought she might. Still, it seemed strange to accept someone else’s invitation.

“You seem reluctant.” Now it was Éowyn’s turn to push, her eyes following Lothíriel’s movements as the other woman stood.

“It is a kind thing you are offering me. And I do wish to see my father and brothers.”

“But?”

“I wasn’t summoned directly. I am worried it will not be perceived well.”

“Hogwash,” the shieldmaiden barked with a scowl, standing as well. “I am inviting you to take my place. Besides, they will need healers in the camp. I doubt every man came out unscathed.”

Lothíriel canted her head in acknowledgement of this, which encouraged Éowyn on, pacing and gesturing.

“And you are the daughter of a Prince. Cousin of the Steward of Gondor. I cannot imagine anyone giving you grief. As it stands, I imagine Lord Faramir would personally escort you.”

“He very well might if he weren’t staying in the city.”

“He is?” Éowyn paused in her campaign, turning back to Lothíriel with her brows raised.

“Yes. He will oversee the preparations for the King’s return. And there are matters he is far better equipped to handle than the acting Lord of the city.”

“Oh. Well… he would no doubt send you with a royal edict, if such is in his power to do.”

“Alright,” Lothíriel acquiesced with a grin, raising her hands to accept defeat. “I could not be further convinced. Will you write back to your brother to announce the change?”

“I will not,” the other woman replied wryly with a coy glance and hint of a smile. “No need to delay travel. If you’ll bear to him my good will and regret then I suspect he will be pacified.”

“If you are certain.”

“I am. He need only hear from you of our arrangement. Which I somehow imagine will be better received than if an envoy delivered a refusal on parchment.”

Lothíriel could not find an argument to counter with so instead nodded. The pair resumed their earlier task, the healer completing Éowyn’s plait and wrapping it into a chignon fashionable in southern Gondor. Although the silence was comfortable the brunette could not help but wonder what sorrows the other woman harbored with her unrequited love. She worried her lower lip as she secured the bun, equally concerned for her cousin’s affections toward the shieldmaiden.

Knowing there was little she could do to affect it her thoughts turned to seeing her family. She felt a knot settle in her stomach as she realized there had been no word about the Prince or his sons’ survival. Would she be walking into tragedy? The thought almost gave her pause in this mission but she decided it was better to know. And Éowyn wasn’t wrong – the Host would need healers. If she joined the wains departing tomorrow with her kit and a wagon from the Warden she could at least be useful. Completing her tasks with the Lady of Rohan Lothíriel bid her farewell with a promise to speak again before the convoy left the next day.

TTTT

To Lothíriel’s surprise she was met with good favor when she announced her intention to attend the camp at Cormallen. The Warden and Ioreth were equally agreeable, with the latter expressing relief.

“As you should!” the older healer remarked as they packed items to be stocked in the healer’s wagon. The day was stretching closer to evening as they made a second check of inventory. “Derufin’ll be sending a faction that we can spare from our halls. You needn’t do any healing if you can avoid it, my Lady. Be with your family.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel replied, handing the woman a basket of rolled linen. “I suspect I’ll be doing both.”

When she shared the news with Faramir she excluded the switching of Éowyn for herself, figuring if the Lady wished to share her brother’s summons she would do so in her own time. Instead, she positioned it as she had with Ioreth, noting she could travel as a healer rather than a Princess to alleviate the need for pomp.

“That may be true,” her cousin replied as they strolled the serene gardens as night descended, their path illuminated by the glow of lamps. “But I would much prefer you ride with a company of Knights. It wouldn’t do well to send you off without some measure of protection.”

“Against what?”

“I do not know,” he conceded quietly, turning to face her, his expression apprehensive. “We know only of the Dark Lord’s defeat. Not whence his servants fled. A wagon train from Osgiliath to Ithilien seems too easy a target. I will assemble a group of unobtrusive men to ride with you. To protect the wagons as a whole but with specific orders to see to your safety.”

“I thank you for your concern, Cousin. I heard tell of boats sailing to Cair Andros rather than making the days-long trek across North Ithilien.”

“Yes, I have ordered the movement of vessels large enough to bear both men and horse between Osgiliath and Cair Andros. I suspect once their sojourn at Cormallen concludes the Lords of the West will desire a swift return to the city.”

“Are you sure you do not want to join us?” she asked after a beat, to which he shook his head and instinctively glanced at Éowyn’s window.

“I have a good deal to attend to here, little swan,” he answered, catching her in his gaze with a smile. “The White City has not seen her king in an age. There is much to be overseen.”

“I understand.”

“Cousin,” he turned to her again and Lothíriel caught a tone of worry in his voice as they halted. “If you tell me yes now I will not ask further. But… are you sure you wish to undertake this journey?”

“Yes,” she replied gently. “I know I may meet sorrow but that has not changed since first I arrived in Minas Tirith.  The thought that I might behold my father and brothers alive after such a spell apart fortifies my heart in this. I appreciate your concern and love, dear Cousin. I would not have weathered this time without you.”

“A mutual feeling, I assure you, Lothíriel.”

They embraced, both aware they would have to adhere to courtly etiquette tomorrow morning when he officially sent the procession off. But this evening they were afforded privacy and time to be as they were in their hearts – cousins drawn close by their love and dedication to family, and an unwavering sense of duty, underpinned by grief.

Chapter Text

Sleep was harder to come by for the Princess than she anticipated, spending most of the night tossing and turning in the large bed. She convinced herself it was due to the actual mattress and goose-feather pillows; her quarters much more impressive of late. Faramir and Ioreth both were instrumental in persuading – insisting, even, that she sleep in the chambers of her family in the citadel. After weeks in her storeroom she felt swallowed up by the grand apartments provided for the Prince and his children. She reasoned her poor sleep was owed to this change in location rather than the worry that wound its way through her insides.

She was up well before morning light crept into the room, locating the small measure of belongings she’d brought to Minas Tirith in an armoire. Three dresses, shifts, breeches, skirts and the riding habit, none of which had seen the sun since she arrived. She found the riding coat had been cleaned of the grime from their journey, which both pleased and surprised her. It seemed Imrahil had taken care to look after her, even in the midst of a war.

The woman selected a thin blue cloak, a couple shifts, two unadorned helfdaer, a familiar grey kirtle from the Healing House, a pair of riding breeches and a split skirt, folding and setting them on the bed. She withheld one dress to tuck into the pack that would sit upon the saddle, not sure how her other bag would be arranged in the caravan. Donning tan breeches, beige split skirt, stays and a grey blouse, the Princess considered if she ought to dress more appropriate for her station. But long days on the road begged for comfort. She braided her dark hair into two long plaits before wrapping them around the back of her head in a circlet and pinning them in place. Setting the dark green riding habit on the bed next to the items, she released a sigh.

A knock on the door turned her attention from the labor of packing, bidding entrance to her guest. Faramir emerged from the hallway to greet her with a smile. The blue tunic matched the hue of King Elessar’s standard, the silver thread of the starched collar glinting in the morning light. He looked regal, the stewardship sitting well upon his mantle.

“Good morrow, Cousin.”

“And to you. Am I already late for the leave taking?”

“No,” he answered, glancing at the clothes stacked neatly on her bed. “It will be an hour at least before the party is ready to depart the city. But it seems the wains have been packed to burst with provisions, among other items.”

“I suspect the Host is much desiring the comforts of home.”

“We’ll send all we can for them. I do not know how long they will remain camped at the Field.”

“Will you come eventually?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted with a slight frown. “I fear there is much to do in the city to prepare for the King. And my heart desires to stay.”

“It seems someone else’s heart would desire the same.”

Faramir said nothing but his neck and cheeks flushed as he turned away from her to look out the long window to the city below. Lothíriel joined him, watching the carts and horses arrange themselves far below, like ants marching across the dirt. As much as she wanted to encourage her cousin to share more about his feelings for the shieldmaiden she held her tongue, knowing it was not her place.

“I have your small company for the journey,” the Steward commented, with a glance her direction. She nodded, expression unsurprised at his changing of topics. “I made a discreet inquiry for the position. Three men offered their swords. Gaelen, a fellow of Minas Tirith, who is one of Beregond’s men and thus of high esteem. Evandor, one of your father’s soldiers remaining in the city.”

“Ev and Amrothos are friends,” Lothíriel noted with a smile. “I am glad for their protection. Who is the third?”

“Not who I expected, I confess.” The Lady of Dol Amroth faced him, brows raised as she waited. She dared not guess, worried she would be disappointed.

“The Lord Elfhelm, a Rider of Rohan. I’m not even sure how he heard of my survey but he came to me late in the eve and requested if a retinue be assembled to escort you that he may take part. I granted him leave, if that is alright.”

“Yes,” she answered with a slight smile. “That is noble of him. And, I suspect, a good excuse to see his countrymen when we arrive.”

“Certainly. But he was clear he would be your protector before all else. It seems you’ve made good friends in your time here, Cousin.”

“In truth they’ve found me,” she replied with an offhand shrug. “But Lord Elfhelm is welcome. You did encourage them to join the procession without pomp or circumstance, yes?”

“Indeed. They were instructed to stay near enough but not attend you as they might in a formal setting. They will be your shadows and will be strategic in their presence, especially when camping overnight.”

“My heart is soothed by this. Thank you. I’ve no doubt my father and brothers will be appreciative of your thoughtfulness on this account.”

“I’d not risk your safety. I am eased by the defeat of our common foe. But it would be foolish to think we are without enemies.”

Lothíriel said nothing, offering a nod of agreement, though she knew not what enemies Faramir feared. She imagined it was naivete that guided her thoughts but it seemed their victory would, for a time, provide unfettered peace across the lands. She made a note to ask her father if he too worried over the enemies Faramir referred to. With a quick embrace, the cousins bid farewell so the Steward could return to his business and she could finish her preparations.

TTTT

An hour after dawn saw Lothíriel mounted upon her chestnut gelding, twisting back to secure the small pack to the back of the saddle. They stood in line as the procession began to make its way from the city at a slow pace amidst the songs and cheers of the citizens. She tugged the leather tie upward once, ensuring the bundle would not unravel and discard the dress and shift under foot. Her other bag of clothes and medicine kit were tucked carefully into one of the healer’s wagons, which she followed on horseback.

A handful of skilled healers and apprentices joined her, most either walking or riding in the wains. Their caravan was moderately sized, bearing cooks, launderesses, smiths, soldiers and the healers to the Host of the King. Some would take the prepared barge to Cair Andros, Faramir had explained, while the rest continued on foot. Excitement buzzed through the group, the expectation of undertaking this brief trip and seeing the frontlines of victory creating an excited atmosphere among the group.

The healer’s wagons made up the tail of the wains, the provisions and other items leading the group. There was a contingency of soldiers at the head and rear of the group to ensure safety, with a handful of men riding alongside the carts. It was in this position she noted two of her three guards were situated. Evandor rode well ahead of her beside the horses pulling the first of three medic wagons. Behind her was Gaelen stationed, blending in with the other soldiers of the city, only recognizable from her introduction by Faramir before they left. She shifted in the saddle, her horse following the wagon ahead of them obediently as she scanned the crowd on either side of the procession. She had not yet seen Elfhelm and offhandedly wondered if Faramir had been mistaken.

Facing forward once more, the Lady adjusted the reins as they moved toward the great gate of Minas Tirith. She then beheld the damage wrought by the Witch King’s magic, the massive doors bent inward, and a gaping hole slashed through the seemingly impregnable steel and iron. It sent a chill down her spine as they passed beneath the archway, despite the warmth of the sun and elated cries from the crowd. The fields before them also showed the terrible effect of war, the earth torn and fields wrecked by machine and the clash of armies.

Although the songs of the citizens followed them onto the road the music felt displaced in this scene of ruin. No words were spoken as hoof, foot and wheel moved across the Pelennor Fields. As much as she didn’t wish to look Lothíriel was unable to tear her gaze from the blood stains and discarded weapons, armor and items of war that littered the ground. They traversed the sometimes imperceptible road leading away from the city, dust spiraling lazily in the morning air as horses snorted and wagons creaked.

Unless she concentrated her gaze upon the gelding’s mane before her the woman’s eyes were drawn to the scenery, powerless to avoid gaping at the dark stains and still smoking pile of orc corpses piled away from the road. She barely registered the sound of hooves approaching her at a trot as she craned her head to look at the vastness of the fields.

“Hail, Lady,” a voice called out just before the other horse was abreast. She turned to see the Captain of the Rohirrim bring his bay mount to a walk beside her. She welcomed him with a smile, appreciative of an interruption from the landscape around them.

“Good morning, my Lord,” she greeted him with a cant of her head. “I fear I am much distracted by this scene.” She gestured around them, wrinkling her nose as the scent of decay hit them. Elfhelm nodded solemnly, the white-blonde mane atop his helmet flashing in the sunlight.

“One could hardly blame you. It is a difficult sight to take in.”

“I am glad for your company,” she put in with a smile, focusing on her companion as their horses fell in stride. “Both in this moment and for the duration of our journey.”

“When word came to me that the Steward was seeking men to accompany you it was not a question of should but would I be permitted. The Lord Faramir was generous enough to provide me a spot with a man of your country and a soldier of Minas Tirith.”

“I am grateful. If I may ask, how did word come to you?”

“Ehm,” the young Captain faltered, glancing down at his saddle for a moment before clearing his throat. “The Lady Éowyn.”

“Oh!” Lothíriel tilted her head, bemusement upon her face. “I did not know she knew of Faramir’s inquiry.”

“I believe he told her himself,” Elfhelm replied with a glance her direction. “I cannot know for certain. Only that she bore me the summons and we agreed I might leave her company for yours. She was confident in her security and I have left a handful of our people with her in the city.”

“That is well,” Lothíriel answered.

“The Steward was explicit that we should be close at hand but not crowding your person on the road. Is that your expectation as well?”

“It would certainly make for an easier journey. Perhaps I am unwise in this, but it doesn’t seem we have much to fear from enemies attacking us on the road, what with the triumph of the Host.”

“It is unlikely,” he agreed with a nod. “But I suspect the Steward is equally concerned about your wellbeing within the company.”

They fell silent then, Lothíriel left to ponder this statement. She was not ignorant to the evils of men, especially on the road. But it would be bold if not stupid for a man to attempt such behavior in the presence of so many, their destination notwithstanding. But she trusted both her cousin and Elfhelm’s wisdom in this, secretly hoping the presence of her trio of protectors was enough to deter any mischief. Besides, she wasn’t the only woman in the caravan. Several maids and laundresses newly arrived from the surrounding towns joined the company. Lothíriel suspected their presence also accounted for the carefully selected Gondorian soldiers sprinkled throughout the procession. Faramir was astutely aware of the need for safety beyond just the gentry.

They rode together for the length of the field, the Princess’ focus turned from the ravages of battle to her companion as they chatted off and on. It was slow going with so many wagons but Lothíriel found herself glad to be back in the saddle, especially in good company. She and Elfhelm traded stories of riding and discussed the difference between Rohan and Dol Amroth when it came to breaking horses. There was an easiness to their exchange and she felt relieved to have a companion so similar to her brothers in temperament and conversation. Though he did not share much personal information she gathered Elfhelm was married and seemed close to the new King and Éowyn.

“I suspect you are eager to return home,” she put in as they neared the Rammas Echor.

“I much desire to look upon the rolling hills of the Folde.”

“The Folde?”

“The land of olde in Rohan. The seat of our King and the ancient hall of kings before both sit in that region. Aldburg, from whence Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn hail was my childhood home as well.”

“You knew the Lady and King in their youth?”

“Yes, and they knew me well. The King and I shared our boyhood together, along with the son of Théoden King, Béma guide him.”

“And your wife?”

“She is of Edoras, the current seat of Kingship. And there she resides, awaiting word.”

“I am sorry you have been long from her.”

“It will not be so long, I hope. The Lady Éowyn and Éomer King will bear the fallen king’s body to the hills so he may rest with his forefathers. It is then we will return and I shall see her and have news of our child.”

“Your child?” she caught his gaze with an expectant stare.

“Aye. She was newly pregnant when I departed.”

“Elfhelm, that is wonderful! Is this your first child?”

“Yes.” He paused, a stricken expression passing across his face. Lothíriel’s smile was replaced with concern as she waited. The Captain pressed his lips together before looking at her again. “She lost one some months ago.” Another pause. “Forgive me, my Lady. It is not appropriate for me to speak of such things. I have dishonored her and my King.”

“Nonsense,” Lothíriel answered quickly, brows knitted with concern. “You have not dishonored anyone. I am a healer so sharing such information is perfectly appropriate. This knowledge will stay safe with me.”

“I thank you, my Lady.”

Chapter Text

The morning progressed into afternoon, the caravan stopping to lunch beyond the Rammas Echor. It would take the entirety of the day to reach Osgiliath given the ponderous speed of the wagons. Were they simply riding the whole venture would’ve been shorter, Lothíriel surmised. But she was not as bothered as she thought she would be by their progress. She found the time conversing with Elfhelm both a welcome reprieve from the last two weeks and a wealth of knowledge about Rohan, most of which she did not know. His tales of Éowyn, Éomer and the late king’s nephew impressed and intrigued the Lady of Dol Amroth, though her companion was careful not to share too much. But what little he did provide stirred a curiosity in her, intensifying her anticipation of seeing the King of Rohan.

The sun was setting as the convoy reached the river and Osgiliath. The stone city, heavily damaged by the war, rose up as dark shadows against the evening sky. Uneasiness crept into Lothíriel’s heart as the wagons were pulled together and their procession broke to make camp. She was not alone in her discomfort, for others seemed to set their tents and wain-beds as far from the city proper as was possible. She dismounted the gelding, untying the pack from the saddle before allowing a lad to lead the horse toward the makeshift stables. She was joined by Gaelen and Evandor, who nodded greetings to the Lady.

“It is good to see you,” she intoned first to her brethren of Dol Amroth. Evandor grinned as he removed the helmet, his dark hair matted to his head. Running a hand through the brown strands he turned slightly to look at the ruins of the city before looking at her again.

“Well met, my Lady Lothíriel. It is an honor to accompany you.”

“Thank you,” she replied before turning to Gaelen who offered a low bow.

“My Lady Lothíriel,” the older man murmured as he straightened up. His helmet, adorned with the sigil of the White City, was tucked under his arm. “How may we be of service this evening?”

“Honestly, I am not sure,” she confessed with a glance around. Tents and camps were being established, most modestly built. “It doesn’t seem we’ll be taking rest in the city so I suppose finding a bedroll and a measure of privacy would be enough.”

“I will find out what accommodations will be afforded to you, my Lady,” Gaelen put in. “Grant me leave to speak with the other captains and the remaining men of Osgiliath.”

Lothíriel acquiesced and he departed as Elfhelm joined, greeting the older soldier with a nod as they passed. Fires and torches were lit, bathing their large contingency in a warm glow as cooks began preparing supper. Although she recognized a few senior members of the various Gondorian armies by their armor and sigils it seemed most of the travelers were laborers and foot soldiers.

The small camps were organized by the wagons; the launderers and kitchen staff congregating closer to the city, the smiths and stable boys setting up near the queue of horses hugging the tree line and the medic wagons drawing together, the furthest from the river and city. The soldiers were interspersed, with some larger tents being erected for captains and other high-ranking men. Lothíriel joined the other healers in their semi-circle of wagons, Elfhelm and Evandor fading back. She accepted a proffered tankard of ale from an apprentice and watched the fire being built, unable to shake the apprehension in her bones. Gaelen returned shortly but took counsel with Evandor and Elfhelm first before approaching Lothíriel. After setting the mug down she led them away from the healers, still in the light of the fire but far enough to maintain privacy.

“My Lady, a tent has been arranged for you just yonder,” he indicated with an arm away from the healer’s camp toward Osgiliath. “Evandor will collect your luggage and bring it hence so you might be more comfortable. A bed and amenities are being prepared.”

“That seems a great deal of trouble for a single night,” she quipped to his raised brows. “I am no stranger to sleeping on the ground in the wild. Even still, we’ll be departing on the river tomorrow. I needn’t such a grand tent to myself only to break it down ere we leave.”

“That is the other news I bear. The captains of the city have told me the boats conveying provisions cannot also carry the horses. They are limited to the necessities needed for the Host of the King. You would be permitted to travel on the next boat, which would dock tomorrow eve.”

“Oh.” Lothíriel couldn’t conceal her disappointment but smiled in appreciation of the man’s effort. “I see. What will the remaining company do then? Await ships as they ferry the groups across thither and back?”

“Nay,” Gaelen replied, trying to judge her reaction with a cautious tone. “I reckon most will depart and travel north on foot or horse and reach the crossing to Cair Andros in a few days’ time. They’ll likely cross to the island and from there join the Host on the other bank.”

“Then I should like to ride with them.”

“My Lady, you would not wish to sail?”

“Although I am partial to traveling by water I do not like the idea of lingering and waiting. If the remainder will make the trek, then so too will I. If you three are amenable.” The trio shared a look, Evandor unable to hide a knowing smile. Elfhelm rubbed the back of his neck with a slight shrug.

“I will go whither you command, my Lady.”

“I do not command it,” she reminded him with a light grin. “It is my petition to ride with the party. Evandor has already been in my company during our journey to Minas Tirith from Dol Amroth. I am competent enough for days in the saddle and nights under the sky. I would not order this of you, my Lords, for that is not my wish. You are my sworn swords so I will defer to you on it. Might you be agreeable to this change in plans?”

“If it is your desire to travel by horse, that seems reasonable,” Evandor put in before looking to Gaelen. “You said it was naught but a few days ride to the crossing?”

“Two at least.”

“Hardly a trip to Dol Amroth,” the young man observed. They stood there for a moment, Lothíriel awaiting their final judgment; Gaelen still appeared skeptical, Evandor clearly open to the new proposal and Elfhelm seemed unmoved by either option.

“If it eases your decision I will keep to a strict formation, with one of you riding ahead, and another behind.”

“It is not a matter of obedience, my Lady,” Gaelen murmured, brows furrowed over dark eyes. Their voices had dropped to avoid being overheard by the others and she had to lean closer to hear him now. “I just… it is not proper for a lady to ride alone amidst a company of men. I doubt neither your ability nor skill. It is your modesty, I fear, that would be challenged if this was the decision. The other women will be awaiting the boats in the next days and kept safe in Osgiliath.”

Damn Gondorian politesse, she thought crossly. Gaelen was at least twenty years her senior, well versed in the courtly expectations of Minas Tirith and was clearly concerned not to offend her feminine civility. Neither Evandor nor Elfhelm seemed willing to challenge him as the moments passed but Lothíriel was not ready to yield.

“I am appreciative of your concern. And I do understand the nature of your fears. But the Lord Steward selected you three to be my protectors. Evandor is under the direct order of my father, the Prince of Dol Amroth. He is a Swan Knight, though he is the picture of humility. Elfhelm is a Captain of the Riddermark, so decreed by Rohan’s King. And you are the highest lieutenant of Lord Beregond of the Citadel. Your presence alone assures my virtue will remain intact. And it will undoubtedly prove thus to others who might question it.”

It was a longshot, she wagered. But she did not want to wait around for days in Osgiliath to board the ship. Or worse – turn back to Minas Tirith. Grey eyes watched the older man consider her plea, hoping she inspired at least a modicum of confidence. Gaelen ran a hand along his jaw, smoothing the dark beard as he looked at the other men. To their credit neither Evandor nor Elfhelm looked entirely against her argument, both men’s brows raised expectantly. With a sigh the Gondorian soldier’s shoulders dropped slightly and he nodded.

“If you wish it, my Lady, I will bear you hence. It is not for me to say you cannot undertake this journey.”

Lothíriel felt as though she’d won a great battle, yet she maintained her decorum and opted for a nod of appreciation. She caught a grin from Elfhelm and a wink from Evandor when Gaelen looked away. Offering him a respectful bow, the Princess smiled warmly, which he returned.

“Thank you, Sir Gaelen.”

She knew she’d twisted his arm. And she knew he did not think it was a wise choice. But she could not return to Minas Tirith after Éowyn entrusted her with a letter to Éomer. And there was something about the ruined city of Osgiliath, looming before them in the darkness, that scared her more than a few days on the road. And she clung to the belief that no one would be foolish enough to behave untoward in her presence with her trio of swordsmen. Her guilt at compelling Gaelen to agree was only slightly allayed by the hope that the journey would be uneventful and they were arrive at the Field of Cormallen free of misfortune.

She would even afford Gaelen the formality of sleeping in the all too grand tent he’d commissioned for her use tonight. She followed him to the encampment, which was modest compared to the trappings of a King or dignitary, but impressive nonetheless. It was a wider tent than any she’d yet seen and once they were within it was clear labor was put into its design. Two rugs covered the ground, one horizontal to the entrance, another beside the narrow bed. A smaller banner of Dol Amroth was hung at the head of the bed and she wondered if Evandor brought it for this purpose. Lothíriel’s bag had been set in the corner beside two tables, one holding a wash basin and towels, and the other set with a plate, silverware and a chair. Where these items originated from she could not imagine, for she did not think they were packed in the wagons. At once she felt a blush creeping up her neck. Turning back to her companions the woman’s brow furrowed and she pressed her lips together.

“From whence did all this come?”

“The city,” Gaelen replied. “I informed them the Princess of Dol Amroth was among our company and this was assembled. Is it not to your liking?”

“It is too tremendous, I fear.” She paused when the man’s expression fell slightly. It seemed he was the architect of all this finery. And he wasn’t entirely out of bounds for it, given her station. But it felt odd to be the only person in the company afforded such luxury and did not put her at ease for travelling the next day. But she softened her visage and tone at Gaelen’s reaction. “You have exceeded my expectations, Sir Gaelen. I will rest well tonight. Once we are on the road, however, I would like a more modest tent.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

He appeared eased by her praise and canted his head respectfully. Swallowing her embarrassment at calling him out Lothíriel bid the men farewell as they took their leave, with Evandor informing her they would be sleeping near enough that she could call upon them in the night. They departed the tent, securing the door flap behind them.

Unfastening the evergreen riding habit, she hung it by its wide hood upon a high peg at the foot of the bedframe. As nice as it would feel to undress entirely and don a night gown she was not unwise to the etiquette of a lady on the road. She could, given her status, wear whatever she wished and could expect to be treated with respect. But something about wearing a simple sleeping chemise and nothing else felt risky. Instead, she removed her boots, the split skirt that allowed for easier riding astride and traded the sturdy, fully boned stays for a pair of white jumps* that provided modesty without restriction. Once she’d laced it up in the front and pulled on the linen shirt she felt far more secure. This along with the riding breeches would suffice for the duration of their journey as her sleeping attire, as it would provide her discretion should camp be broken in the middle of the night.

She was tucking her clothes beside the bag when a voice from the front of the tent called out. Recognizing Elfhelm’s distinct accent, Lothíriel discarded her task and instead pulled the rolled-up cloak out from the bag and threw it over her shoulders. Both greeting and bidding him entrance as she stood, the woman smiled as the Captain ducked his head beneath the entrance and joined her with a brief bow.

“My Lady, supper has been prepared. Should you like to take it in here?”

“Where are you and the others eating?”

“Near the fire.”

“Then I shall dine with you.”

She followed him out, but not before wiggling her feet into the dirty boots and adjusting the cloak to appear more like a cape about her shoulders. Elfhelm led her many paces from the tent to a table that had been set with benches and chairs near a healthy fire. This appeared to be the dining location for the elite of the company, though it seemed they were few in numbers. Both Elfhelm and Gaelen had seats but Evandor was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if this was due to his schedule of guarding her or because he was not permitted to dine with the gentry. Before she could inquire with Gaelen, who bowed with a dropped gaze, a familiar face at the table caught her eye.

“Lady Lothíriel!”

“Merry!”

He waved her closer as she approached, both smiling. He was also dressed for travel, though she noted a small helmet not unlike Elfhelm’s at his side on the bench. Nodding politely to the other men who offered her bows, the woman sat in a chair opposite her friend.

“I’d hoped you’d come,” he put in, offering her a plate of cheese and fruit. Others began sitting as well, though it seemed a casual affair compared to the feasts they were accustomed to in their halls. “I’d heard Lady Éowyn was riding too but I have not yet seen her.”

“She has remained in the city,” Lothíriel replied as Gaelen sat beside her. “She graciously offered me her place so I might see my family and assist the healers.”

“That is well,” Merry answered as he chewed thoughtfully. “Though Éomer will be saddened by her absence. Where are you in the queue?”

“I have been riding behind the healer’s carts. Are you riding as well?”

“Not I! I was given a prime spot guarding a cart of provisions. That is, guarding it from the safety of the cart itself.” He patted the hilt of the weapon at his belt with a wink to her. Grinning in response the pair clinked their mugs before drawing a sip. She was glad to see her friend, his spirits lifting hers significantly.

“Will you accompany the wagons upriver?” she asked after politely wiping her mouth from the brew.

“I’d figured it would serve me and everyone else best that I don’t ride the rest of the way. Will I have your company on the boat?”

“No, I will ride to Cair Andros and rejoin with you in a few days times.”

“Ah,” the Hobbit noted with a frown. He seemed to consider this as they continued to eat. “I should rather go with you I think.”

“I would welcome it. But I don’t think we are escorting carts on our journey. I’m sure we could find you a pony.”

“Oh. Well, that is a bother.” He fell silent and they continued their meal. Merry and Lothíriel were then drawn into conversation with Gaelen and another man, this one a captain in Osgiliath. She learned of the war’s effect on the city and the veil of evil that lingered still. After the battle at Minas Tirith a contingency of men were sent to retake the abandoned capitol, reclaiming it from the fleeing enemy. But much damage had been wrought leaving Osgiliath a mere shell of its former self.  

Lothíriel could not help but speculate how long it would take to not only restore and fortify the city but construct anew the bridge that was destroyed. This was once the capitol of Gondor and now… it felt like a husk, still damp with the malice of darkness. But she was buoyed by the hopeful voices of the men around her and it seemed that preparations to rebuild were already underway. As their meal concluded she was left feeling more optimistic than she’d been at the start and offhandedly wondered if she would live to see Osgiliath in its glory. Preparing to bid Merry goodnight, the pair stood and farewell bows were given to the other captains. Turning to Lothíriel the Hobbit grinned, pulling the side of his waistcoat away to display a pipe.

“Found myself some pipeweed, if you can believe it,” he commented to her raised brows. “Pippin’s stash, though I suspect he won’t miss a tiny bit. And I saw on our trip here that grows abundant near the river.”

“Does it?” Lothíriel tilted her head, trying to imagine which plant he referred to that they’d seen on the road. Merry’s brows furrowed as he searched the ground near her, clicking his tongue as he moved across the ground.

“Aye. It’s… hmm… here! This is the Leaf.” He guided her with a lantern to the edge of the dining space, beyond the fire toward the tents. He illuminated a cluster of bright green leaves, still low to the ground in their growth but hardy. Lothíriel leaned closer to look before laughing.

“That’s your pipeweed, is it?! We call it galenas. Sweet galenas, as it’s known in this part of Gondor. It grows amply here and in the fields. It has such a fragrant scent. Healers will sometimes encourage folk to chew it to settle their nerves.”

“I say, you’d make a killing on it in the Shire, for how much I’ve seen. I’d be a rich Hobbit to bring this back.”

“It’s plentiful enough that it wouldn’t be missed.”

“Perhaps I’ll sneak a handful if I’m able.”

“You’ll have to show your friends when you see them at the camp of Cormallen.”

“Aye, good point.” Merry stood up straight, attention drawn from the plant to the Princess, who he regarded carefully before speaking again. “You know, I’m not overly fond of horses. But I will join you the group if you ask it of me.”

“I do not,” Lothíriel replied with a smile. “Take the boats to the island. I think you will enjoy the trip. And I shall meet you in a few days’ time.”

“You are sure you are alright riding? That is, you’re alright with the company?”

“Yes. I will be looked after.”

“I suppose with Elfhelm and the other lad you’ll be well enough. At least that lordling with the shifty eyes hasn’t come. Reminded me of a weasel, he did.”

“I confess I am relieved he is absent,” she answered, the smile faltering. “Though I do not look forward to our return to Minas Tirith with him lurking about.”

“Ah, perhaps he will’ve found a hole to crawl into by then.”

“One can hope.”

“Goodnight, Lady Lothíriel.”

“Goodnight, Merry. I shall see you on the other side of the Anduin.”

Chapter Text

Lothíriel shifted with a quiet groan in the saddle, the muscles in her neck and back stiff as she tilted her head to the side. Thrice in the night had she been awoken, once to the sound of a horse and rider arriving in the camp and the other two from her own unsettling dreams thereafter. She was up just before sun, rearranging her saddle pack with items and redistributing her main bag to account for the days on the road. She would send the larger bag with its wagon and Merry on the boat to travel light and have it for their sojourn at Cormallen.

She’d had the opportunity to bid farewell to the Hobbit before they parted ways, giving him both a hug and assurance that he could tell her family and Éomer that she would be coming in short order. That ought to alleviate the King of Rohan’s disappointment if he knew before she arrived that Éowyn wasn’t among the riders.

The smaller company of men, Lothíriel among them, were mounted as dawn broke; riding in lines of two and three abreast down the road. Though they maintained a healthy walk or trot, their pace didn’t feel rushed. The Princess guessed there were twenty-some in their group, the rest either waiting for the boats or returning to Minas Tirith. She’d been riding beside Gaelen for most of the morning, chatting on and off with the older soldier. Although she knew he wasn’t thrilled at her insistence to ride he maintained a congenial nature and was amenable to answering her occasional question, even asking a few of his own. She discovered he was much older than she originally thought, the sporadic comments about his children and grandchildren likely putting him in his fiftieth year if not older.

The road narrowed as the midday sun rose, Lothíriel dropping back to allow Gaelen’s horse forward. She could see Elfhelm’s helmet with its distinctive crest of horsehair several riders ahead. Evandor had been behind them when the morning began and she hadn’t seen him when she glanced back. But she felt at ease with her trio of guards, realizing this unexpected trip was much more tranquil with their presence. The single file continued for nearly an hour, but it gave the Princess time to her thoughts as they went along, the sight and sounds of the woods soothing her. She imagined what the reunion with her father and brothers might be, not daring to think any had perished. And she knew, with noted relief, that Éomer was alive. With Merry bearing news of her coming she could rest well knowing he would not be shocked to see her. Perhaps they would be afforded time to converse, and she could share his sister’s missive.

As the road widened a bit more, it seemed some moved up to ride two abreast, while others maintained single file. Gaelen sped up several paces to join with another soldier of Gondor – someone he clearly knew well by his body language. Lothíriel was glad to see him more at ease and not feel obligated to keep her company. She smiled when he glanced back at her, nodding her head once to indicate she was well. He raised a hand in understanding and returned to his partner, saying something that made the fellow chuckle.

She and her chestnut gelding walked alone for another few minutes before the sound of trotting hooves approaching broke her reverie. She expected Evandor to bring his bay roan up beside her but she was caught off guard when another, darker chestnut horse appeared. She turned to behold Baranor, son of Húrin upon the horse, his expression amused if not a little wary. Lothíriel could not hide her surprise as she stared at him, dark brows raised over concerned grey eyes. How could she have possibly overlooked his presence yesterday?

“Good day, my Lady,” he began, reining his horse back to fall in line with her. He wore the burgundy tunic beneath the leather jerkin, its collar visible and glinting in the dappled light. His dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, though some pieces had escaped. Settling her expression and resisting the urge to look behind her for Evandor the Princess forced a small smile.

“Hello, Lord Baranor. I did not expect to see you among the company. Did you ride with us yesterday and I missed you?”

“Nay. I arrived late last night,” he replied congenially, glancing at her as they walked. Lothíriel did not hide a bemused visage, hoping he would explain further. When the silence drew out he continued. “I hadn’t planned to ride to the camp. But, in truth, I heard you were among the group and rode at once to Osgiliath.”

“Oh.” Lothíriel’s brows drew together as she tried to find a polite way to ask him why. “That was… considerate.”

“A Lady should not be riding alone,” he explained with a frown, his tone suggesting it was odd to clarify this for her. “Not with a group who are not her peers.”

“I have my own guard,” she replied warily. “Selected by the Steward himself to ensure I was well protected.”

Baranor stared at her for a moment, clearly surprised. Clearing his throat he recovered his surprise with a slight nod and smile.

“That is well. I am glad the Steward saw to your safety! That was not known to me so I rode at once, with leave of my Lord Húrin, of course. But I am relieved to know you are in the care of the Steward’s men. All the same, I am here should you have need of me.”

I need not to be near you, Lothíriel thought dryly but offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Baranor did not take this as an invitation to draw away, instead keeping their horses’ paces matched. The woman’s smile faltered slightly when it became clear he meant to stay at her side.

“You are most kind,” she replied at length. She kept her gaze ahead but her tone remained pleasant, drawing upon her childhood education in courtly manners. “It must’ve been quite a flight to Osgiliath if you arrived in the night.”

“Indeed. I had scarcely a moment to pack belongings before I was mounted and out of the gate. And I am thankful I made it when I did. Especially when told you were riding and not taking the boat to Cair Andros. Why, if I may ask, are you not taking the river with the wagons?”

“I much prefer the saddle,” Lothíriel answered with a stiff smile his direction. “And I would be waiting an extra day for the boat that would bear me north. My guards, highly esteemed in their own right, were in agreement that we take this course.”

“I see.” Baranor sounded unconvinced but he shook it off with a tilt of his head and a grin. “I suppose I should be grateful. Traveling the road with a beautiful lady at my side is the dream of any man.”

“How is your arm healing, Lord Baranor?”

“Oh, ehm. Well, I suppose,” he switched his reins to one hand and held up the injured arm, his sleeve and bracer covering the bandage. Rotating it before her he regarded it before speaking. “You’ve worked your wonders upon it. I hardly remember it’s injured. But I haven’t checked it in some time. Perhaps you might take a look when we make camp for the night.”

Lothíriel swallowed a grimace and nodded. Baranor studied her with bright blue eyes as their horses stayed apace. She half wished her gelding was ornery and might pin his ears at the liver chestnut, providing them more space and caution. But he walked quietly; ever the docile creature. Never before had she faulted him for his gentle bearings.

“Are you not needed in the city?” she asked, uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Not for a time,” he answered before looking away. “Certainly, they might spare me for this venture. And I am the highest-ranking lord among this group now. My presence alone will ensure your protection. With deference to your guard, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And I do look forward to seeing the rest of the Host at Cormallen. Not least your father.”

“Were you much acquainted with him before the siege?”

“No, regrettably. I had the privilege of enjoying his company and counsel during meals in the days leading to the war. Though I did not see you.”

“I dined with my family in private when I could be spared from the House of Healing.”

“Naturally. Well, you must imagine my surprise when I was told Prince Imrahil’s daughter was in the city the entire time! And to find you such a lovely and charming vision. I am pleased we have this opportunity to continue our acquaintance.”

“Where were you stationed during the siege?” she inquired, hoping her deviation of topics wasn’t too obvious. But if he disapproved he did not show it, instead seeming to light up.

“I attended my Lord Húrin in the citadel for a time. Then ferrying missives between commanders.”

“You did not see battle?”

“Oh, well yes. At the end when the riders were called out. My position required a measure of protection to ensure word was carried safely.”

“You call him Lord Húrin. Is he not your Lord Father?” Baranor’s expression darkened slightly at this, his gaze drawn away as the silence lengthened between them.

“I am not his true born son. My mother wed him after my father’s death when I was a lad. I am his son by marriage only. My father was a Lord as well, however.”

“I understand.” Lothíriel observed him with care, noting the change in his tone and stiffening of his silhouette. It was a sore point and she half wanted to poke at it for curiosity’s sake. Before she had the opportunity he changed the subject, his expression shifting at once to warmth as he looked to her, knocking his head to the side to move dark strands of hair from his eyes.

“Is it not delightful that we have this time together, my Lady? We’ll not reach the crossing for two nights. Perhaps three depending on the state of the road.”

“Two would be preferred,” she muttered before catching herself and smiling apologetically. “I am anxious to see my father and brothers.”

“Indeed.”

He fell silent at this and she hoped he would take the hint. If he was uncomfortable it was only displayed in the quiet between them. Their mounts stayed together picking their way along the road, which had become a bit more unruly as they moved through the woods. Baranor would occasionally glance at her but the Princess kept her gaze trained ahead of her, hoping Gaelen would look back and join them.

After what felt like ages walking in silence the path narrowed again. Instead of moving his horse either forward or behind, Baranor instead drew closer to her, their legs brushing together as they rode nearly shoulder to shoulder. Lothíriel swallowed her discomfort, reducing the gelding to a measured walk. Her unwanted companion’s horse also slowed.

Each time Baranor looked at her she felt like a piece of meat on display, observed and assessed for value. If he knew how to hide his gawking he was uninterested in doing so, instead openly moving his gaze from her face to her breasts, down to her hips and legs, which he casually bumped against every few steps. She was resolute in her trained stare, showing no hesitancy or discomfort at his looks. She realized he probably felt bolstered by the observation that he was the highest ranking lord among their group, no longer deferring to polite glances and veiled expressions.

Lothíriel was preparing herself to call his uncomfortable glances out when the line pulled to a halt. Relief washed through her when it was clear they were breaking to eat and rest. Gaelen turned back to find her, his expression bewildered when he beheld Baranor. She saw Elfhelm turn as well, though she could not discern his visage from their distance with his helmet on. But he was immediately wheeling his horse around, weaving around the others and even riding off the path to approach her. Baranor wasn’t nearly as close as before, but he was near enough to slightly lean toward her and murmur almost under his breath.

“It seems the Rohirrim is among your guard. Look how he practically splits the company in twain, charging back here.” He chuckled to himself, as though he were above it all before addressing Elfhelm, who was now within speaking distance. “Take ease, Horselord. The Lady and I were conversing, and I have offered my protection as a Lord of Gondor to her person, should she need it.”

“My Lady,” Elfhelm greeted her, ignoring Baranor long enough to cause the man’s expression to falter slightly. “We are halting to water the horses and rest for a spell. With my Lord’s leave I shall convey you somewhere with more privacy.”

“Thank you,” she replied, dismounting as Gaelen joined them. He bowed to Baranor, whose annoyance was palpable, before speaking to the woman.

“Shall I take your horse, Lady Lothíriel?”

“The Lady is fortunate for your attentiveness,” Baranor announced, tone shifting to appreciative if not somewhat guarded. “I take my leave to seek out Captain Verondil. My Lady.”

He gave her a brief nod before leading his horse away and trotting down the line of men to the head of the group, disappearing amidst the trees. Lothíriel released a sigh as Gaelen accepted the reins from her, glancing between her and Elfhelm, whose expression was cross.

“You are well acquainted with Lord Baranor?” he asked quietly, judging their faces.

“More than I wish and less than he would like,” she replied with a worried glance in the direction he departed.

“I did not know he was here,” the Captain of Rohan remarked darkly, removing his helmet.

“Nor I. It seems he arrived late in the night and kept himself inconspicuous when we departed Osgiliath. He has been my companion since we split,” she explained to Gaelen.

“I’d have backtracked if I knew,” Elfhelm put in, his tone almost apologetic. She smiled kindly to him and shook her head.

“He caught me by surprise.”

“Is his presence unwanted?” Gaelen asked carefully as Evandor joined them, his mount in tow. The men were dismounting around them, squires and lads moving to collect the horses and bring them to a nearby stream off the river.

“He is… a bit forward. I’ve had the misfortunate of his attention in Minas Tirith after the Host departed. He’s been persistent in seeking me out and this is no exception, though I’m surprised he went to such lengths.”

“He came for you?” Elfhelm appeared a mix of irritated and dismayed.

“He claimed to arrive to safeguard me and provide his title as a Lord against any impropriety I might face.”

“Are you talking about that fellow riding alongside you for the past while?” Evandor inquired quietly as their horses were taken. She nodded and he scowled. “I couldn’t rightly put him together. Seemed he knew you but he was getting awful familiar at the end there, if you don’t mind the observation.”

“No, he certainly wasn’t maintaining a well-mannered distance when the road closed in.”

Elfhelm muttered something in the Rohirric tongue as Gaelen looked troubled. Evandor just shook his head, taking his waterskin and offering it to Lothíriel. She declined and stepped to the side to allow another soldier to pass them. When he disappeared Gaelen sighed.

“I can’t imagine he means you ill,” he put in tactfully, ignoring a derisive snort from Elfhelm. “And he is kin to Lord Húrin.”

“By marriage only,” Lothíriel put in. “As he made quite clear.”

“All the same, my Lady, he must be respected.”

“He has the bearings of a vulture,” Elfhelm replied, to which Evandor chuckled quietly before falling silent at Gaelen’s glance. “If we cannot protect the Lady from his fell conduct what good are we?”

“I didn’t say we’re unable to protect her from him,” Gaelen stated calmly, watching the Horselord with an understanding gaze. “But we must be diplomatic about it.”

“We can make sure we’re at your side for the rest of the journey, my Lady,” Evandor suggested, receiving a nod from Gaelen.

“Thank you,” Lothíriel replied with an appreciative smile. “I agree, we must take care not to stir his ire. I do not know what power he wields here or in the presence of the King once we reach Cormallen. But if we air on the side of caution and propriety he won’t have anything damaging to say.”

“I shall respect your counsel,” Elfhelm stated at length, directed at Gaelen first, then Lothíriel, though he seemed less convinced. “But I am held to the esteem of Éomer, King of Rohan. And I believe I know how he would advise me in this.”

“That is well, Lord Elfhelm,” Gaelen answered with a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I have my own opinions on Lord Baranor’s conduct. But we are tasked with keeping the Lady safe. A subtle but clear restructuring of our presence about her will make a difference without confrontation.”

“I defer to you, Sir Gaelen. If this lordling has any sense he’ll take the meaning behind it and leave well enough alone.”

With that, they dropped the subject. Their break was short, allowing Lothíriel time to relieve herself and have a quick bite of apple and cheese before mounting up. True to their word her trio was strategic in their accompaniment, Elfhelm beside her and the other two ahead and behind. Baranor did not return to their position in the line, but the Princess suspected he was aware that she was escorted. The rest of the day went without upset or concern. When they broke for the evening she caught sight of the Lord but he merely raised his cup to her. She ate with Gaelen and Elfhelm, Evandor again disappearing for the meal. The men were quiet as they prepared the camp. A few men, Baranor included, had small tents erected. Lothíriel was grateful that hers was well away from his. She noticed a bedroll placed strategically nearby but she wasn’t sure to whom it belonged.

Her tent was significantly smaller and less opulent than their first night, housing a cot with a fine fur blanket and a tiny folding table. The banner of Dol Amroth was again pinned to a fabric wall, which brought a smile to her lips. After arranging her belongings she stepped into the night air and found Gaelen outside, standing a few paces from her tent lighting a pipe. He nodded when she approached, extinguishing the lit match with a flick of his wrist.

“My Lady,” he greeted.

“I apologize,” she murmured, glancing around. There were several tents within a few yards from hers but the rest of the company appeared to be sleeping beneath the stars, most pulling close to their fires. “I need only relieve myself and then I’ll be abed.”

“Of course,” Gaelen replied. “I’ll join you ‘til the tree line. Find yourself some privacy but don’t go too far into the woods, if you please.”

Lothíriel nodded and followed him away from the camp. The moon shone brightly overhead and gave light to their path. He directed her some distance from the men before halting at the edge of the road. He indicated to a group of birch trees and turned his back. Winding her way among the trees, the Princess found a spot that afforded her discretion. She was immensely grateful she was not in the midst of her cycle – that would make this trip far more challenging. Finishing up, she pulled up the britches and dropped the skirt over them before rejoining Gaelen.

He walked with her before pausing with a hand reaching for her wrist as they caught hushed voices in the trees at edge of the camp, unseen and barely detectable. The older man motioned with a finger to his lips as they halted.

“… cornering me like this.”

“I’m not … you. You’re taking a piss so near… we’d be hearing… our sleep.”

“What do you… then?”

“…indiscreet in… I am no fool…” this voice was clearly Elfhelm’s, his accent punctuating the words they could discern. “…the Lady…. like you.”

“You have no business… Lady Loth… alone.”

“Don’t think… leave her be… Éomer, King of…”

After a moment the voices fell silent, though they heard one speaker move away brusquely. Gaelen and Lothíriel locked eyes and he looked as concerned as she felt. Had Elfhelm sought Baranor out or was it happenstance they met at the edge of camp? Nodding in the direction of her tent, Gaelen escorted Lothíriel from the trees. When they arrived he indicated across the fire to a person asleep on a bedroll facing away from them.

“Evandor will take the next watch. Someone will be at your tent all night, my Lady.”

“Do you think that is necessary? That is, won’t you be exhausted tomorrow?”

“We’ve established an equitable schedule. None of us are strangers to taking night guards. Worry not for us.”

“I appreciate your attentiveness. Truly, it fills me with ease. I hope it is unwarranted.”

“As do I, Lady Lothíriel.”

“Will… will Elfhelm be well?”

“I suspect so. I trust it was a coincidence he crossed paths with him. Lord Elfhelm may be quick to aggravation but he is a tested warrior and sound in counsel. Being a man of Rohan affords him a bit more leverage than Evandor and myself. But I will keep a weather eye on him.”

“I am glad of it,” she replied, stifling a yawn. Bidding Gaelen a good night, the Princess retired to her modest but comfortable tent. Although worry kept her vigilant as she changed for bed, she was asleep within moments of laying upon the cot, confident in and grateful for her nighttime sentinels.

Chapter Text

The remainder of the journey to Cair Andros was uneventful, to Lothíriel’s relief. As promised Evandor, Gaelen and Elfhelm rotated their attendance about the Princess, sometimes riding beside her, other times riding one ahead one behind. For his part Baranor kept a noticeable distance, mostly riding at the front with Captain Verondil. When they paused for breaks he would find his way over to offer her something to eat or drink but otherwise gave her trio of guards a wide berth. Evandor and Gaelen maintained a polite if not aloof demeanor when Baranor was present. Elfhelm was unabashedly contemptuous, though he avoided complete disregard. Lothíriel couldn’t blame him – out of the confines of the city Baranor’s presence was increasingly haughty and vainglorious.

Evenings were spent fireside with her companions, joined at times by the handful of nobility in the group. Baranor did ingratiate himself the second night, sitting with them for supper but keeping a respectful distance from the Princess. He seemed to assess opportunities to catch her without the trio but was unable to do so. Even bathroom breaks were carefully planned to avoid him, with Elfhelm taking it upon himself to be ever cognizant of Baranor’s location when Lothíriel was away from the group.

The Princess found both comfort and companionship with her three guards, each sharing more with her as the journey progressed. Her time with Evandor was spent reminiscing of Dol Amroth, trading tales of growing up by the sea – each missing their home. Lothíriel was familiar enough with Evandor from Amrothos that they had a few shared memories. But she became more appreciative of his experience and reflection as they spoke, gaining a deeper understanding of his life in the small city without the privilege of being the Prince’s child.

Gaelen provided her with similar tales, though his rank was above Evandor’s and thus lived a different lifestyle. But she came to know of the challenges and misfortunes foreign to a woman of her rank from both men. She compared this to her experience as a healer, aware that she was able to interact with folk throughout the social stratus while in the pursuit of her craft. But her conversations with Gaelen and Evandor gave a different perspective on their day to day lives and Lothíriel found herself shocked by the lack of understanding she had about the realities they faced.

By the end of the third day they were at their destination, the sound of the Anduin’s waters breaking brightly on the rocks heard before the island came into view. Dusk settled overhead as the party halted at the river’s edge to behold Cair Andros stretching out before them. The moorings on the eastern edge held boats, some of which were being unloaded as they arrived. Despite the hum of the river foaming against the rocks at the ‘prow’ of the island the waters were calm between the shores.

Verondil informed the party they would be able to cross while mounted, provided the horses were quiet. He hailed soldiers on the island and preparations were made to traverse the Anduin. Neither Lothíriel nor her horse were strangers to water crossings, but several mounts appeared less than enthused to enter the river, snorting and refusing to walk toward the bank. They began to group the riders by pairing an uneasy horse with a relaxed one to encourage a smooth transition. Evandor and Lothíriel petitioned to assist in crossing several times to ensure no horses would startle and throw their rider.

Guiding her chestnut into the river, Lothíriel offered an encouraging smile to the young squire whose rouncey was tossing his head uneasily. She moved ahead of him a few steps and loosely held one side of his reins near the bit, urging her gelding further. The water had not yet turned to spring, the cold biting at her beneath the clothes as they moved into the Anduin. Beside her Evandor was escorting another skeptical horse. The Princess soothed her companion’s horse with quiet words as she used her seat and legs to guide her own mount toward the opposite shore. Verondil had picked a fine spot to cross, the water only reaching her hips at its deepest and allowing the horses to still pick their way along the riverbed. Once they were near enough to the island she gave the boy control of his mount, who was emboldened by the nearness of land.

Thrice did Lothíriel make the trek from shore to shore, her palfrey providing quiet and calm to the others as they forged the river. Elfhelm and Gaelen’s horses also assisted, though Gaelen’s mare was not pleased with this turn of events and stayed rooted on Cair Andros once she’d crossed. Lothíriel and the chestnut emerged for their fourth and final trip across, awaiting Verondil’s direction to be paired with the final riders. Disappointment settled in her heart when Baranor’s gelding was instructed to her side, his expression relieved if not slightly smug. Evandor had already started into the water ahead of her and the other two were safely installed on the island. With a resolute sigh, Lothíriel positioned her horse a step ahead of Baranor’s gelding, barely offering him a nod.

“Ready?” she queried with a glance back at him.

“Yes, my Lady,” he replied congenially. Again she urged her horse forward, grasping the leather of Baranor’s reins loosely enough to guide the courser into the river. To her surprise he followed obediently, stepping into the water without resistance. As they moved into the crossing she cast a frown over her shoulder at the man.

“He seems well conditioned to cross water,” she observed as the water rose to their thighs. Baranor shrugged and encouraged the horse forward until they were beside one another, Lothíriel’s hand releasing the reins.

“He’s had his fair share of rivers.”

“Why did you wait until the last to come across, then?”

“For the pleasure of your company, my Lady. I’ve hardly had a chance to converse with you. Your guards are so protective this was my only opportunity.”

Lothíriel regarded him with disdain as their horses pushed against the current unaided. She adjusted her expression to mildness to avoid Baranor catching on to her irritation. No longer focused on the task of coaxing an anxious horse she felt the cold of the water and damp clothes more fully, especially as the chill of night took hold.

“You must be freezing, Lady Lothíriel. Crossing the river… what, three or four times now?”

“Nothing a fire and dry clothes cannot remedy, Lord Baranor.”

“I hope your other garments are not soaked. Though I have a spare cloak fastened high on the saddle,” he patted behind him to the pack sitting just rear of the cantle, which did appear dry.

“I have more clothes, thank you.”

Baranor nodded in response, his horse stepping gingerly to the side, such that their knees touched. Lothíriel ignored this, focusing on the opposite shoreline. Gaelen and Elfhelm were staring at them, the latter’s expression thunderous as he sat rigidly in the saddle, glaring at Baranor. Gaelen’s visage was unreadable at their distance but he positioned himself to be immediately at their side once they reached the island.

Evandor also snuck a peek over his shoulder but his eyes found hers first. She canted her head a touch to indicate she was alright, which he returned before focusing on his task. The ride somehow felt longer this final time, her own horse fatigued from so many crossings, lagging behind Baranor’s slightly. To her annoyance the man slowed his mount to stay with her, careful of the three horses behind them – the last of their party.

“I expect we’ll have more opportunity to enjoy one another’s company when we arrive,” he commented affably. Lothíriel glanced at him with a puzzled expression, trying to keep her teeth from chattering against the cold. The Lord continued anyway: “You’ll not need the constant attendance of your guards, ever so dedicated have they been until now.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, hoping a noncommittal answer would satisfy him.

“And I should think your Lord Father would like to hear of his daughter’s fine accomplishments.”

“And you will share these accomplishments with him?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve had the opportunity to observe you firsthand! And it will mean more hearing from a man of his peerage.”

The Princess said nothing to this, wishing she could urge her gelding faster to get away from the man. He was watching her as they neared the shore, his gaze trailing down her torso to her legs where the fabric clung to her skin. Gaelen urged his mare partially into the water – against her wishes – to join them, reaching for Lothíriel’s reins to guide her tired horse from the river.

“Lord Baranor,” he murmured with a nod of his head. To his credit the other man responded in kind before addressing the woman.

“Thank you for your assistance with the crossing, my Lady. It was appreciated.”

She gave a half smile as Baranor rode away, passing Elfhelm without a glance. The Captain kept his gaze level until the other man was well onto the island before looking at Gaelen and Lothíriel, who was patting her horse’s neck.

“He’s a leech,” Elfhelm remarked before dismounting. She didn’t have the energy to respond, instead depositing the rest of the reins into his hand and pausing to wring out her cloak. Evandor joined them as well, dismounting and shivering once.

“It’s a warm spring but it seems the Anduin hasn’t received the missive.”

“Nor will she for a few months,” Gaelen replied, offering Lothíriel his arm. She accepted it, her boots squelching in the pebbled sand as they moved toward the fortifications hidden behind the tree line. They were joined by the soldiers manning Cair Andros, a warm oversized cloak set upon to her shoulders and a torch provided to light the way.

The narrow island was abuzz with activity, horses being untacked and rubbed down with towels, folk moving barrels and provisions from the boats and still others leading the newly arrived company into the island’s heart. Smoke from various fires lifted into the night sky, darkness shrouding the landscape of the island. It was difficult to make out the other side of the river where the camp of Cormallen lay but her heart quickened at the thought of being so close.

After some moments she was safely installed in a barrack type building, a small room afforded to her and her bag from the wain deposited in the corner. A bed, table and chair were all that fit in the confines but it was homely enough. Lothíriel dropped the heavy cloak on the bed and peeled the cold wet garments off. Shivering with only the light from the torch in its sconce on the wall, she shoved the single spare pair of stockings she’d brought onto cold clammy feet and wiggled into the other pair of britches.

Squeezing the remaining water from the garments she laid them over the chair. The stays and short chemise were damp but tolerable. She donned a dark green tunic and laced it up with trembling fingers. Sitting on the narrow bed Lothíriel took a breath, flexing her cold hands and toes alternately. Her boots were too wet to put back on but she felt silly in her sock-covered feet. A growling stomach roused her from the bed and she slung the loaned cloak back over her shoulders, its heavy mass enveloping her like a funeral shroud, and went to door of her little room, hoping to find the hallway empty. Instead, she beheld Evandor resting against the wall opposite her door. He’d changed his trousers but still wore the soggy boots and shirt.

“You ought to change into dry clothes,” she remarked as he looked toward her with a grin.

“I would if they weren’t wet. I slung my pack too low on Bael’s saddle and got my spares soaked.”

“Surely you can borrow something?”

“I’ll ask. Could say the same to you, though,” he indicated with a jerk of his head to her sock feet. She agreed with a nod and pulled the borrowed cloak from her shoulders.

“Here.”

“No, my Lady.”

“You’ll catch a fever between the river and the gloom of night,” she argued, pushing the large woolen mantle into his hands. “My spares are dry.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No, my Lady,” Evandor paused, Lothíriel frowning at his unusually stubborn response. He handed the cloak back to her before adding: “This is a captain’s - perhaps even a lord’s cloak. I’m not fit for it. Ill words would be spoken if I went about in it.”

A scowl replaced her confusion but she accepted the warm garment back. Again she was confronted by a social expectation she had no experience with – if someone offered her an item of clothing she did not have to consider how her class affected the ability to wear it in public. Sensing her unease Evandor smiled as he led her away from the rooms.

“I’ll catch one of the lads in the yard once I’ve taken you to dinner. There will be unused clothes enough for me, I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry,” she intoned quietly. He shook his head and offered her a simpering grin reminiscent of Amrothos.

“No need, my Lady. I’ll find you a pair of boots while I’m at it.”

She was deposited in the feast hall, if indeed one could call it that. It was a long room with several benches and tables where most of her party was seated, enjoying warm food and conversation. She was directed to a shorter table where Elfhelm met and joined her. Baranor also sat at this table but there were other men of the gentry who stood as she approached and he kept his distance, giving her a nod and smile. It felt ridiculous to attend a meal in naught but her stockinged feet but she smiled politely and sat beside the Captain of the Rohirrim. The leader of their company, Verondil, sat opposite and offered her a mug of ale.

“My Lady,” he greeted her as she accepted the tankard.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m afraid my shoes were too waterlogged to be passable in a feast hall.”

“Understandably,” he replied with a quick smile. “It was good of you to aid in the crossing. We can find you a warm pair of boots without delay.”

“You are very kind. When, if I might inquire, will we journey to other side?”

“I suspect most will cross in the morning. The horses are not fit for another attempt and I’m sure you might prefer a rest. But I can commission a small boat if you – ”

“No, Captain, no need,” she assured him with a raised hand and a smile. “A good night’s sleep would be lovely. I’ll reach the banks of Cormallen with everyone else tomorrow.”

“Good timing, I’ll wager,” Verondil remarked, shifting his gaze between her and Elfhelm. “I am told the King and his men have been afield for some days and return tomorrow or the day after.”

“Who goes with him?” Elfhelm inquired between bites, green eyes watching the Gondorian captain.

“I know not. Reports only came to me when we arrived that the King has been absent in pursuit of orcs and Easterlings in the valley. Perhaps scouting at what remains of the Morannon.”

Lothíriel wasn’t sure how she felt about these tidings. The thought that her father and brothers may not even be at the camp when she arrived tomorrow was disappointing. But she reasoned she was there as much to provide healing as to selfishly see her family. And they would return. She learned Merry had already made the crossing the day his boat moored so she looked forward to seeing him, and hopefully Pippin as well. She was quiet the rest of the meal, thoughts springing ahead to the reunion with her kin. And Éomer. He was not explicitly mentioned among the captains who’d accompanied the King but it seemed unsurprising he would join Elendil’s heir.

After dinner she narrowly avoided an exchange with Baranor when Evandor showed up with a pair of sturdy boots from the stables. Excusing herself the woman put the slightly oversized shoes on, lacing them to her calf and flexing her feet. Big, but they would suffice. Gaelen raised his cup to her as she passed him with a nod, Evandor and Elfhelm both escorting her to her room.

“I’ll be just yonder,” the Horselord stated, nodding to the short end of the hallway where a chair and table sat. Lothíriel’s brows rose as she opened the door to her room.

“Surely you needn’t keep guard here?”

“I promised the Lord Steward I would see you to the Camp of the King. We are not yet there and I am not convinced you are free from danger. Once you are safely with your kinsmen I will consider my charge completed.”

“I do not know what I would do without you, my friends. Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Her feet in their too-large boots stepped carefully upon the shore, a line of oaks, beech and yew standing between her and the Field of Cormallen. The sound of an active camp was heard beyond and the rushing of the river was at her back. Lothíriel hesitated beside Gaelen as others joined them at the banks.  She lifted the skirt of the helfdaer, its brown fabric the color worked leather, to keep the hem from grazing the top of the boots and stones as she moved along the shore. The dark blue cloak hung at her shoulders, its hood nearly hiding the curve of a thick braid pinned in a bun to the base of her skull.  A boat had ferried her, her trio of guards and several others across the narrow channel as dawn broke along the eastern horizon.

“Are you well, my Lady?” Gaelen regarded her with a furrowed brow, his words quiet as she stared ahead.

“Yes.  Yet, I do not know… I am caught between what I’ve wanted for so long… and fear of what lays beyond those trees.” Her voice had dropped to a murmur as Gaelen leaned toward her. He took a breath as Elfhelm came to her other side, having heard the tail end of her comment.

“Have heart, Lady Lothíriel,” the Horselord commented with a quirk of his lips into a smile. She returned it and followed them up to the bank where soldiers from the Host of the King greeted them. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to Cair Andros she felt relief wash over her. She’d made it. She adjusted the smaller bag over her shoulder and followed their guides through the trees.

Initially she planned to wait until the horses were moved across, riding with the group in the later afternoon. But Evandor and Gaelen encouraged her to take the little boat in the morning, joined by Elfhelm and a handful of their company. When it was made known that Baranor was not among this small group she was even more enthused by the earlier arrival.  

The Field of Cormallen opened before them, a vast meadow of grasses and wildflowers blooming in the morning sun. Tents, stables and small pavilions gave the appearance of a tiny city; pathways cut through the grass and carefully defined sectors marked by standards and sigils. The main road down the center of the site was wide enough for two or three horses to ride abreast, the smaller lanes bisecting it leading to various camps. She saw the pavilion of the King of Gondor, his standard flying above the pinnacle of the tent.

Men were at work around them, farriers, carpenters, a butcher, weaponsmiths, cooks and other laborers moving about the field as though it were a town. Each seemed to have their own stalls for their craft and it was bustling. It was strange to behold, though Lothíriel imagined this was standard for the court of a King at war to maintain such a functional camp.

The fellow leading their small party pointed to this and that as they went, pausing to gesture to a long shelter off to the side, straddling the boarder of the camp and the woods: the medic’s tent. Lothíriel wavered between breaking away from the group and installing herself with the healers or remaining for the tour and arriving at the pavilion of Dol Amroth, whose banners she’d seen earlier near the King’s. She paused, gazing at the tent as the rest of the company walked on.

“My Lady,” Evandor’s voice broke her from the hesitation, looking immediately to him and seeing he was gesturing toward the eastern corner of the camp. There the pennant of Dol Amroth shone in the morning sun, leveled lower than the King of Gondor’s but no less resplendent. She looked back at Evandor, prepared to share his joy at their shared banner but realized he was indicating to something – someone – else.

The Prince of Dol Amroth was cutting through the crowd on a diagonal from their location, parting men as he strode toward them, an elated expression on his usually stern face. Lothíriel’s heart and visage were delighted to see her father as she moved toward him. They met at the edge of the wide lane, his arms around her immediately as they were given space.

“Lothíriel!” he murmured against her hair as she felt his hand on the back of her head. Pulling away she caught the glimmer of tears in his grey eyes as he looked upon her.

“Ada,” she whispered before stepping back and smiling fully.

“I scarce believed the words of the Halfling when he said you were on the road! But here you are!”

“Father, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see you. Are you well?”

“I am.”

“And the boys?”

“Mithelphe!” Amrothos’ voice cut across the bustling camp as he followed the path cut by their father, practically running to join them. He swept Lothíriel into a hug that swung her off her feet. Setting her down he grinned. “I knew it was no tall tale,” he commented with a glance to Imrahil.

“What brings you to us, dear one?” her father asked after Amrothos released her. Her group of companions took this opportunity to depart, leaving the woman with her kin. She caught a kind nod from Gaelen and Elfhelm as they followed the guide further into the camp. Evandor seemed to have disappeared entirely, but she wasn’t able to look for him as she returned her attention to her family.

“The generosity of Lady Éowyn,” she replied, glancing between them. “She encouraged me to take her place in the company riding to Cair Andros. She remained in the city to continue her recovery but kindly offered her spot to me so I might see you and continue healing in the court of the King.”

“I am grateful to her,” the Prince remarked with a smile. Amrothos studied her for a moment before speaking.

“You rode from Minas Tirith to the island?”

“Yes. Faramir was good enough to send me with three fine guards. Travel was uneventful.”

“We shall have to thank them personally,” her father commented as he put his arm about her shoulders. Looking at the men it then occurred to her that they were missing a fourth.

“Where is Erchirion?”

Imrahil and Amrothos shared a look that quailed her heart, their smiles fading. She pulled away from her father’s arm as her eyes darted between them. Gripping the strap of her bag the woman took a breath as her father took the responsibility of answering.

“Recovering.”

“What happened?”

“He fought as valiantly as you would expect. He received a grievous injury as the battle was concluding.”

“He is alive, though?”

“Yes,” Amrothos assured her gently. “He has a nasty wound across his head.”

“Is he with the healers?” Lothíriel was already backtracking toward the medic’s tent, trailed by her father and brother.

“He is, but he’s resting. Loth,” Amrothos reached for her upper arm but she skirted away, making it across the thoroughfare and weaving her way to the tent. Her brother shadowed her steps as he tried to slow her down, to no avail. She reached the opening, the flap already pulled back and secured to allow easy entrance and air to circulate within. Cots were set up in the same manner of the House of Healing, with rows and bays to allow the healers access to the patients. Pausing just inside, Lothíriel turned to Amrothos.

“Where is he?”

Amrothos reluctantly pointed to a corner in which sheets had been hung vertically to provide privacy for recuperation and surgery, informing her Erchirion was in the third stall. Imrahil joined them at the entrance of the tent, a hand on Amrothos’ shoulder to stay him from restricting Lothíriel from approaching the private division of the makeshift ward. As she drew closer fear gripped her chest, unsure of what she would see when the partition was pulled back. Swallowing the trepidation she entered the space, drawing the curtain away as she slipped inside.

There her middle brother lay upon the pallet, bandages wrapped snuggly around his skull. Unbidden, the memory of Halgeir flashed before her with his marred face and paralyzed body. Erchirion’s torso and legs appeared relatively uninjured but his face was partially swallowed by the crisscrossing of dressings. As she came closer it became clear the bandage shielded his right eye and cheek, extra padding evident beneath the cloth. His breathing was measured and his other eye remained closed, even when she approached the pallet and knelt at his side. Imrahil joined her then, standing at her side.

“He has lost the eye,” he murmured as she gingerly touched her brother’s wrist. When he did not stir she slipped her hand into his, unable to control the tears from welling in her eyes. His skin was clammy, bordering on feverish but his breath remained steady. Dropping her head Lothíriel forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose to avoid a sob. Composing herself she released his hand and stood, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Imrahil stood close but did not embrace her, knowing his daughter well enough to give her the space she required.

“I should like to get to work,” she mumbled after a moment, grey eyes meeting his to implore his approval. The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded with a tight-lipped sorrowful smile.

“I’ll have your belongings brought to our chambers.” They departed Erchirion’s small quarters, returning to the wider bay and rejoining Amrothos at the entrance. “Continue your occupation here, Daughter. The King is expected to arrive this evening – will you join us then?”

“Yes, Father. Let my hands be put to good use in these walls and I will return in the evening to greet the King.”

TTTT

Lothíriel tossed the cloth over her shoulder as she stood up and wiped her hands on the linen apron protecting the front of her gown, the soldier on the pallet before her shifting his attention to the entrance. Both of them were caught by surprise at the sound of horses and trumpets announcing the arrival of someone of great import. It was barely midday, well before the King was expected, but the fanfare was unmistakable. Joining the other healers leaving the tent, Lothíriel shielded her eyes from the immediate brightness of the day, squinting to locate the source of the commotion. Down the main thoroughfare of the camp rode the heralds of the King, few in number, followed by the standard of the Elendil. Just behind Gondor’s sigil was the banner of Rohan, its white horse on a forest green field and golden embroidery glinting in the sunlight.

Following the heraldry rode the King of Gondor, uncrowned but mighty in his saddle. He was the selfsame man who’d healed her cousin, Éowyn and Merry, among many others. He was dressed in the attire of royalty, so unlike her introduction to him in the Houses of Healing. But he was immediately recognizable, his eyes sparkling and expression placid as he nodded to the men greeting him with bows and welcomes.  Removing the cloth from her shoulder, Lothíriel began wiping the remnants of salve from her hand in case her father called for her to attend the King of Gondor, her gaze upon him as he rode toward his pavilion. But her attention was drawn to the rider who trailed him, now in full view as the standard that shielded him departed.

Éomer’s dapple grey trotted several paces behind Aragorn, the Horselord’s helm removed as he surveyed the crowd. He and Lothíriel locked eyes with a suddenness that caused her heart to beat erratically as she froze, towel still enveloping her hand. He too seemed to hesitate, sitting the strides of his horse with wide eyes fixed upon her. There was enough distance between them that she couldn’t quite identify his expression. Her eyes stayed with him as he regained his wits, dark brows furrowed with confusion and… disbelief? She had the sense to eventually nod her head to him and he was forced to break their gaze as he caught up with the King of Gondor, passing her in mere seconds.

The moment, which felt like an age, passed as the rest of the company rode in behind the Kings. She caught sight of the Elven twins, Elrohir and Elladan, bearing the sigil of their house moving through the line to flank the two kings. Turning away from the riders, Lothíriel took a deep breath. This was not how she anticipated seeing Éomer, nor how she wanted him to see her without explanation. Slowly her heart regained an acceptable cadence as she returned to the healer’s tent, unsure of her next move. Go at once to the court of the King? Stay in the tent? Await word from her father? She felt paralyzed by indecision and overthinking.

Eventually she chose to remain in the healer’s tent – if she was expected to attend the arrival of the Kings she would be summoned. Returning to her prior activity of making a poultice, the woman took the opportunity to collect her thoughts. The tent had emptied to attend the host’s arrival and she was cut off from the patients in their cots by a closed flap of canvas serving as a doorway; the solitude was welcomed.

After many minutes of immobilization, she set to crushing the herbs in the mortar, breathing in the sharp scent of camphor and kingsfoil that soothed her nerves. The pestle worked methodically as the woman stared ahead of her at the beige wall. The sound of folk eventually returning to their activities barely stirred her for she was left unbothered. When the makeshift entrance opened behind her Lothíriel continued her task, awaiting the order from the fellow healer who’d joined her.

“Lothíriel?”

His voice was soft and tentative, halting her work. Her head turned first before her body pivoted to face the King of Rohan. He was dressed for war, the burgundy plates of armor punctuated by the silver the maille beneath, both contrasted by the golden hair loose at his shoulders. Hazel eyes watched her with puzzlement and something else she could not discern. She tilted her head in a small downward arc, dropping her gaze to offer the King the respect he was owed. The pestle remained in her hand as she looked up at him once more.

“King Éomer,” she greeted him. Here she was; without the missive from Éowyn and in the midst of her task, unprepared to properly greet him and without the company of her father. “You seem to find me when I least expect it.”

“Your being here is unexpected.”

“Yes,” she agreed, rotating slightly to set the pestle on the table. “I have a letter for you from the Lady Éowyn in my –”

“So she has not come?”

“No.”

Distress and bemusement flashed across his expression, gaze shifting away. He appeared to collect himself, resting a hand on the crossguard of the sword at his hip. Lothíriel smoothed the front of her apron, considering an explanation before he spoke again.

“She is still cross with me?” though his words were spoken with firmness, the tone of his voice exposed a measure of hurt.

“No, my Lord,” Lothíriel replied gently. “She is not. She regrets being unable to join you here.”

“Then why hasn’t she come?”

“I cannot say,” the woman answered carefully, catching and holding his sharp gaze as she spoke. “But I imagine the letter will explain.”

“It was good of you to convey it. Did your father send for you?”

“No. Your sister bade me come in her stead.”

Éomer frowned again, this time the bemusement was replaced with displeasure. Lothíriel observed how a muscle in his jaw tightened, barely visible beneath the beard. His brows furrowed as he took the information in, seemingly contemplating how these events transpired.

“Éowyn did not come but sent you in her place?” Before she could respond he turned away, as if looking at the woman was unsettling. “I cannot fathom a reason she would decline to ride forth and then send you in her stead like a squire to bear her decision.”

“I think you misunderstand her intentions,” the lady countered, nearly stepping toward him, though she thought better of it and remained still. “She has reason to stay in the city. She offered me her place out of charity. That I might see my family and continue my work as a healer.”

“Hmm.” The King seemed unconvinced but his posture softened and he turned back to her. “Perhaps her letter will illuminate this further for me. Forgive my intrusion. I’d hoped she would be here and did not think of the impropriety of bursting in on you. You must believe me most ill-mannered.”

“I take no offense,” she assured him with a smile. While he did not return it his expression relaxed as they stood together.

Both seemed to realize their proximity and, with the topic of Éowyn’s absence resolved there was a weighted silence that lingered. Thoughts of stepping closer to him passed through her mind but it would be both unseemly and possibly rejected. But she could not deny the impulse to move nearer to the King, even if she would not act upon it. It was Éomer who spoke first, his voice capturing a courtly tone.

“And are you well, my Lady? Was the journey smooth?”

“Yes. Notably uneventful. I was fortunate to have the company and protection of Lord Elfhelm, along with men of Gondor and Dol Amroth. The Steward made sure I was well guarded on the road.” The King’s brows rose, an amused visage replacing the usual stoicism.

“I am glad for it.”

“And you, my Lord? Are you well?”

“I’m alive and for that I am grateful. A few more scars and bruises since last we met but I count myself fortunate to be standing. Have you… How fares your brother?”

“He is managing. He has a long road toward full recovery.”

“That is the fate of many.”

Lothíriel studied him as he broke her gaze, looking about the small room. Her heart felt full to behold him again, unable to ignore the pull between them. She recalled their parting words to one another, promising to reunite in Minas Tirith. To be here felt peculiar, as though she were trekking through an unfamiliar land. He seemed to notice her watching and he offered her a slight smile.

“I’ll not trouble you further, Lady Lothíriel. When you are able I should like to receive Éowyn’s letter.”

“Of course,” she answered with a nod, wiping her hands on the apron and starting toward the exit. Éomer stepped toward her as he interjected.

“No, not now. I meant – ”

They halted within such proximity she could observe flecks of gold in the irises of his eyes as they stared at each other. His face tilted toward her as the negative space seemed to draw them even more near, threatening to close the gap entirely. Her hand drew up to his chest to assert space as she had in their last meeting but once she connected with his armor-bound body she could not push him away. His scent of leather, horse and smoke triggered the memory of their parting in Minas Tirith and she recognized the same look in his eyes.

“Ever do you catch me like this,” she breathed, hoping levity would bring them to their senses before the impropriety continued. The corners of his lips pulled into a slight grin that only made her desire to see his full smile.

“I am incapable of decorum around you,” Éomer answered quietly before disengaging and stepping back, causing her hand to fall to her side. It felt painful to extract themselves from this momentary intimacy but far too dangerous to linger in such a space. Clearing his throat the King of Rohan looked away from her and rubbed his jawline. Lothíriel also took a step back and willed her heartbeat to resume a healthy rhythm.

“I will join my father tonight when he attends the King’s court. Your sister’s letter will be with me, if that suits you.”

“It does. Thank you.”

“Good day, Éomer King.”

He stared at her as if he were stunned by this apparent dismissal. Then the woman canted her head respectfully he recovered from his surprise and responded with a low bow. Lothíriel returned to the mortar and pestle, positioning her body so she wasn’t completely turning her back on him. Catching him in her periphery she noted Éomer lingered for another moment, his eyes on her hands as she worked. Before he took his leave he bid her adieu, his voice marked by fondness that warmed her.

“My Lady Lothíriel.”  

Chapter Text

For a field far from the majesty of the White City the court of the King was remarkable. Fine carpets were laid out, banners draped, long tables dressed in finery and numerous place settings. It seemed this was Cormallen’s most level landscape allowing a “feast hall” to be established and a dais erected for the King’s table. It was no Merethrond of Minas Tirith, or Ifrond of Dol Amroth but it took Lothíriel a moment of gaping to take it in as she arrived for dinner.

She’d concluded her day in the healing ward, affording only a short time to prepare for the meal with the Kings of Rohan and Gondor respectively. Her accommodations at the Dol Amroth pavilion were small but she had a chamber of sorts to herself, an extension of the Prince’s quarters, which he shared with Amrothos. She was afforded a tented room with a bed, table and chairs and space enough to feel welcome.

Although she was not dressed in attire befitting the daughter of a Prince she’d discarded the apron and unbound her hair from the circlet, braiding twin plaits down her back in the style of a Minas Tirith noblewoman. In Dol Amroth it was common practice for women of her station to have their hair loose or partially braided. But Minas Tirith, per Ioreth’s instructions, encouraged ladies to keep their hair in neat braids or pinned in elaborate buns and updos.

The plain brown dress would have to suffice for this dinner, the time it took to brush and re-plait her hair leaving no spell to switch to a dining gown. She had the wherewithal to secure a finely braided belt around her waist, fastened in the middle with a small pin, the excess hanging almost to her feet. The thin golden cord matched the simple embroidery on the hem of the dress, edges of the tight sleeves and modest neckline. She’d brought no jewelry to adorn her person but she figured no one would be expecting her to be garlanded by necklaces or finery here.

It was too warm for the dark blue cloak and she had to make do with the borrowed riding boots, which were occasionally visible peeking out from the bottom of the dress. Hardly Lothíriel’s most put together outfit, but suitable. She slipped the thin letter from Éowyn into the hidden pocket of the dress’s skirts, unwilling to be caught alone with Éomer again without it.

She was joined by Amrothos, who escorted her to dinner. The two Kings of Gondor and Rohan respectively sat together at the high table. Mithrandir was placed on the right of Aragon, the elf, Legolas and dwarf, Gimli beside him. The elven twins were split on either end of the table, one beside the dwarf, the other next to Imrahil. The Prince himself was installed on Éomer’s left side, and he raised his glass to Amrothos and Lothíriel as they stood before the kings, bowing and curtseying in unison.

The siblings were seated just below the high table with Elfhelm, Verondil, Merry and Pippin and other men of the gentry – seemingly the row highest in honor after the Kings’. Lothíriel noticed Baranor was on the opposite side of the aisle at the other table in that rank. He was engaged in a discussion with his neighbor and she was quick to avert her glance lest he saw her.  

Her seat faced the Kings’ table and she caught occasional glances from Éomer, his expression softening just a touch each time they locked eyes. He and Imrahil were caught in conversation for most of the dinner, which pleased Lothíriel, though she knew not why. The distance between her and the King of Rohan was probably for the best, feeling unable to trust herself in his immediate vicinity.

The dinner had little fanfare, Aragorn offering a thank you and welcome to the newly arrived party before entreating his guests to enjoy the food and their victory. It was at this meal Lothíriel learned more of the mysterious mission that led to the downfall of the Dark Lord. Merry and Pippin were at liberty to tell the tale of their fellow Hobbits, Frodo and Sam, and they indulged in this freedom, regaling the table with information that perhaps bordered on oversharing. Lothíriel found herself laughing more at that table than she had in a month, a lightness returning to her personality. She tried not to dwell on Erchirion or his injuries, trusting in the healing hands of the King, which had already been upon him, and the strength of his character to recover.

She observed throughout dinner that she was the only high-born lady at the camp, though she noticed a few maids and female servants refilling cups and ferrying plates to the kitchen tents. She knew there had been laundresses in the wagons and suspected more were en route from Minas Tirith to attend the camp. It relieved her not to be the only woman, though she realized she missed Éowyn’s presence. She dared not consider the pair friends just yet, unsure of how Éowyn would define their relationship. But Lothíriel had more than a glimmer of hope she might call the shieldmaiden a companion if they had more time together.

Once dinner concluded most parties were left to linger and chat or see to their evening activities. Lothíriel and Amrothos were joined by their father who sat in the seat recently vacated by Elfhelm. Out of her periphery she saw the Captain approach Éomer and they departed the table together. Refocusing on the Prince she caught the tail end of his words to Amrothos.

“… with the King and complete the survey of Morannon.”

“How small will this one be?” her brother queried before taking a sip of wine.

“The King has requested twelve riders for this outing. I’ll supply Swan Knights. I am certain Éomer will provide Rohirrim.”

“Is the King entering Mordor?” Lothíriel asked.

“Not at this time,” her father replied, shifting in the seat to look at her. “He wants to ensure no wayward Orcs or men of Sauron convene in Dagorlad. Mordor will be its own campaign, I suspect.”

“Is this what it has been like since the victory?”

“For the most part. Groups have been assembled, led by the King, Éomer, the sons of Elrond or myself to rout the remaining enemy from Ithilien proper. The Black Land is too dangerous to traverse. But once the King is crowned and affairs are settled in our kingdoms Aragorn will begin the long work of removing the stains of evil from this land.”

“Long work?”

“Yes,” Amrothos answered this time, glancing at Imrahil who nodded. “The Dark Lord was our greatest foe. His defeat does not guarantee peace, though. There are evils yet in the world, Loth.”

“But under whose banner would they assemble?”

Amrothos shrugged, as though her inquiry were too stupid to provide an answer. Frowning the Princess turned to her father who watched the siblings with a placid if not amused expression. Torches and fires were being lit around them, the field shifting from the brightness of day to a warm and golden glow as night settled in. They were the only ones left at the table, though there were still folk milling about around them.

“Am I asking a foolish question?”

“Not at all,” Imrahil assured her with a pat on her hand.

“Well,” Amrothos put in with a pinched expression, causing his sister to raise her brows expectantly. “To think evil would be wiped off Middle Earth with the defeat of the Dark Lord… it’s a bit simple minded.”

“I never said that,” she protested with an indignant tone. “I only asked who the followers of Sauron would align with now that he’s gone.”

“We cannot know,” Imrahil replied gently, attempting to smooth the tension between brother and sister. “And if the King can finish them off fully it won’t matter.”

“And can he?” Lothíriel challenged, focused on Amrothos for an answer.

“Without question,” he returned with tilt of his head, accepting her challenge. She leaned toward him, mimicking his earlier tone.

“Good. And with that we can expect the end of all evil. Across Middle Earth.”

“You’re a halfwit.”

“At least I’m not a prick.”

“You’re acting – ”

“Children!” Imrahil did not raise his voice and indeed there was an undertone of merriment in his exclamation. Grey eyes looked between Amrothos and Lothíriel, a smile on his lips, though his words were firm. “You forget yourselves. We are not in Dol Amroth where your tormenting is commonplace. We may be some distance from Minas Tirith but I trust you to comport yourselves as though you were the heirs of a Prince.”

“Yes, Father,” Amrothos stated immediately, wiping the smirk from his face at once. Lothíriel rolled her eyes skyward, resisting the impulse to provoke him to further name-calling.

“Lothíriel?” she turned to Imrahil with an innocent expression. Shaking his head the Prince pushed away from the table and stood, regarding his children with a sigh. “It does my heart well to see you two teasing each other again – though I’d deny it to anyone else. Do attempt some semblance of propriety, especially before Gondor’s first king in a nearly a millennium. And Mithrandir. And the sons of the house of Elrond. I beg you.”

 “I will do my best,” she replied as the Prince smiled warmly. Tilting her head toward Amrothos she added: “The best I can given I’m a halfwit.”

TTTT

Lothíriel lingered there after Imrahil and Amrothos wandered away from the tables, assuring them she would not be long. She sat upon a bench overlooking a dip in the field, the meadow below dotted with flowers and tall grasses, evident even the moonlight, which shone richly from the cloudless sky. The rest of the encampment lay at her back, the sounds of folk moving about their business and closing the camp down for the night. Lutes and soft pipes were heard lilting on the breeze some distance behind her but it provided dulcet music as she surveyed the meadow. Although she was waiting for someone it was a welcomed deviation from her usual schedule of checking patients and falling exhausted into bed.

Eventually he did join her, sitting at the end of the bench a few feet from her. The moonlight washed his golden hair with a silvery sheen. He’d removed the armor for dinner and now wore a burgundy and dark green tunic, its collar and borders decorated with gold thread. The sword remained at his side but he appeared uncharacteristically exposed without the maille and armor. Resting his forearms on his knees Éomer leaned forward, looking at the shallow valley beyond.

“I’ve not seen your hair down before,” he remarked after a moment. This surprised her, grey eyes catching him as she tilted her head to the side.

“I suppose not,” she agreed. “Though it is strange you have only known it pinned up. At home that is a rare sight indeed.”

“Will you return home now the war is over?” he asked, again catching her off guard. His voice was quiet, seemingly making conversation but there was an unspoken question beneath the one he voiced.

“I’m sure we shall in due order. As will you, I suspect.”

“Aye. The bones of my uncle need be interred as summer arrives. And Rohan has much rebuilding to do.”

“And a king to be crowned.”

Éomer said nothing to this, dropping his gaze from the valley to his clasped hands and the ground beneath his feet. Lothíriel winced internally at the sting that comment must’ve rendered. The silence was heavy between them and it seemed he wanted to speak further but they remained quiet. After several moments Lothíriel shifted her position to draw the letter from the depths of her pocket, turning it over to him with its golden wax seal glinting in the moonlight. Receiving it, Éomer looked from the missive to the woman, tilting his head to look over and up at her from his position.

“Thank you,” he murmured, sitting up straight and placing the letter on his knee.

“I’ll give you privacy,” she stated, starting to rise but his voice arrested her.

“Is she really so angry with me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Éowyn. I had expected – hoped, really – that she would come. Is she so outraged that she does not want to see me?”

“No,” Lothíriel answered quietly, sitting back down and positioning her body toward him. “It is not you.”

“Then what, Lady Lothíriel? What could keep her?”

Lothíriel studied him, the lines in his face deepening as he stared out at the field. His voice was resolute, but his expression seemed on the verge of breaking to tears. Again the muscle in his jaw twitched as though it alone fought to maintain control.

“We are all each other has,” he murmured so softly she had to lean closer to discern his words. “We are our only family. I do not understand… Does she not think this would wound me?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, following his gaze out to the valley. “Your sister’s reason for staying in the city is sincere. She believes she made the right choice. But it was not made to hurt you, Éomer.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she divulged it in this?” he held aloft the unopened letter before dropping it on the bench between them.

“If she did I think you would understand her heart better.”

“And if she didn’t? am I to just take this as though it doesn’t cut me so deeply?”

“Your sister loves you,” she stated with gentle firmness. The King shifted to look at her, propping a hand on his knee as the other rested on the bench beside him. “I understand you cannot fathom her rationale right now. And I am sorry her decision causes you pain. She does not wish that for you. I know this to be true.”

Éomer shook his head, his visage somewhere between disbelief and regret. The vulnerability left his face, pain lingering in his eyes alone as he stared at her for a moment before looking away. She wished to tell him about Éowyn’s unrequited love to ease his suffering. She wished even more that his sister had done so herself in the letter.

But she knew the shieldmaiden had not. When the letter was passed between them the Lady of Rohan informed Lothíriel she could not bear to reveal her secret, one she kept with shame, to her brother. Lothíriel’s vow to maintain confidence with Éowyn felt like a weight within her now as she beheld his hurt and confusion.

“Your loyalty to my sister has not gone unnoticed,” he murmured at length, gazing at his feet with furrowed brows. “But I trust you would not deceive me. That her denial to come is not intended to hurt.”

“I would not have agreed to her place on the trip here if she were cross with you. I lie about as well as I use a sword.”

“I’ve not seen you with a blade, Lady Lothíriel. You may be a master.”

The woman’s immediate snort caused Éomer to look at her, the smile on his lips unbidden in response. She caught his eyes and smiled in return, shaking her head.

“My brothers would piss themselves with laughter if they heard such words. If you’ll pardon my crudeness.”

“You are pardoned, my Lady.”

The mood between them lightened at once and Lothíriel’s posture relaxed slightly, mirrored by the King’s. Éowyn’s letter sat between them, heavier than stone despite the shared amusement. The woman’s looked out upon the meadow, a cool spring breeze passing through the valley causing her to shiver. Éomer looked to her and seemed ready to speak when she stood up.

“Please excuse me,” she stated as he looked up at her. “I told my father I’d return to our tent shortly and I’ve lingered here well past that time. I’m surprised Amrothos hasn’t readied the Swan Knights to collect me.”

“I can understand his protectiveness,” Éomer answered, standing as well. “You’ve been on the road alone for some time. Any brother worth his salt would be concerned about your wellbeing now that he can assure it.”

“Not alone,” she reminded him with a glance to the camp behind them. “Lord Elfhelm was instrumental in guaranteeing my safe arrival.”

“Yes, he informed me of the happenings of the journey here.” The King paused, watching her with a vexed expression. “If I might keep you a moment longer… Elfhelm expressed a measure of difficulty regarding a Lord of Minas Tirith who joined the party late.”

“Baranor.”

“Yes. Baranor.” Éomer’s hazel eyes narrowed as he drew out the syllables of the man’s name. “Do you share Elfhelm’s concern?”

“Lord Baranor is an annoyance to just about anyone he comes into contact with,” she answered. “As the only woman in the party I suspect he was just looking to preen his feathers. Bothersome, yes. Concerning, I do not believe so.”

“Are you certain? I would easily bring this to Prince Imrahil and deal with Baranor’s poor conduct without a second thought.”

“I do not think that is necessary. If he becomes more persistent I will notify my father. As it stands Baranor has had a handful of opportunities to pester me today and he has not. I imagine his arrogance is limited to being the highest-ranking lord in our small party. Now he is outmatched and outwitted.”

“The threat stands.” Éomer’s tone implied he would not be dissuaded. Lothíriel nodded and watched the King of Rohan relax barely a fraction.

“If he becomes unruly I will inform you,” she affirmed. At this Éomer released a breath and dipped his head slightly. Not wishing to depart on the topic of Baranor the woman looked toward the meadow a final time. “Will you depart tomorrow with the others?”

“No,” he replied, following her gaze, his features softening. “The next scouting party will be mine. But I’ll stay in the camp for a spell so you’ll have to suffer me for a few days yet.”

“Then suffer I shall.” They shared a brief smile before she gave a small bow. “Goodnight.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he replied with a glance to the letter on the bench, offering a bow as well. “Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

“How many days?”

“Two, for my party at least,” Imrahil replied as he secured the belt with his scabbard around his waist. They stood in the drawing room of the Dol Amroth pavilion, the Prince and his son preparing to ride out. Lothíriel assisted her father in buckling the pauldron while Amrothos secured the vambrace around the Prince’s forearm.

“We’re only running a sweep along the stream past Henneth Annûn and back,” her brother commented, stepping away from their father. The men were dressed in the traditional regalia of the Swan Knights, the sigil of their home emblazoned on the azure tunic over their maille.

“I will be glad to see you return,” she remarked while cinching the second strap of the pauldron, her father speaking as she worked.

“It will be good for Erchirion that you are here should he wake while we’re away.”

“I am hopeful he will.”

“Loth, have you need of Evandor’s service?” Amrothos inquired as he buckled his sword belt firmly. Lothíriel shook her head.

“He was a wonderful companion on the road, but I do not think there is need for protectors now that I’m here.

“Perhaps not a retinue,” Imrahil intoned with a frown. “But I would have at least one person to safeguard you, especially while we’re away.” At this Amrothos’ grin shifted from warm to mischievous.

“Between the Hobbits, Gaelen of Minas Tirith, Captain Elfhelm and the King of Rohan himself I think Lothíriel has enough to rotate throughout the week.”

“The King of Rohan, hm?” Imrahil’s dark brows rose as he looked between the siblings. Amrothos began fastening his cloak, glancing at his sister with a good-natured smirk.

“He can hardly keep his eyes off her.”

“I am a mere replacement for his sister,” she answered as she moved away from the pair. “And not a promising one. The King was hoping to share the victory with the Lady of Rohan and he was sorely disappointed when I came in her place.”

“No, I do not think Éomer was disappointed to see you, little swan,” her brother replied with an affectionate tone. Lothíriel shot him a look, to which the Prince’s son threw his hands up. “I was only asking if I might steal Evandor for this expedition.”

“It seems Lothíriel has protectors enough here and the extra man wouldn’t hurt our cause.” Imrahil gave his approval with a nod to Amrothos, who excused himself to find his friend. Once alone the Prince regarded his daughter with an appraising albeit relaxed visage.

“So then. Is Rohan’s king partial to you?”

“Not by my reckoning,” she answered carefully, resting her lower back against the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ve been brought together by providence as I attended the Lady Éowyn in Minas Tirith. And now, I came hence bearing her tidings for him. That has been the extent of our exchanges.” She intentionally omitted their meeting the morning the host departed from the details, knowing it would only incur questions about propriety and decorum. Imrahil studied his daughter for a moment before speaking, hands clasped before him, his expression still serene.

“Very well.”

Lothíriel couldn’t read her father’s intention but didn’t press. If the Prince of Dol Amroth wished to share his thoughts he would not hesitate. She also knew if he did not believe her he would announce it. After a moment he opened his arms and she came to his embrace, his beard rough against her head.

“I am pleased you are here, melethel,” he murmured as he held her a moment longer.

“I am too, Ada,” she replied, his arms loosening for her to step away. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the Princess picking the adorned helmet up from the table, ready to offer it to her father.

“You know,” he began, his gaze focused on adjusting the sleeve of the tunic around the vambrace, “Faramir was wise to send you with those guards.”

“I am grateful,” she replied tentatively, unsure of his meaning.

“Lothíriel, you have been raised under the protection of three brothers in a land renowned for its laws against harm toward women.” Imrahil then leveled his gaze with her, his expression stern, though his eyes were tender. “You have been sheltered from the ways of men – the thoughts and pursuits of the those who would do a lady harm. And for that I am thankful. But I cannot protect you from all that exists outside our walls.”

“Have I disappointed you in coming here, Father?” she felt immediately like a little girl again, facing gentle but firm reproachment for foolish behavior. The Prince smiled, his face holding some deep unfamiliar sorrow.

“No. You have done Dol Amroth and your family proud as a healer. You are young, my daughter. Capable in many ways but unlearned in the world and though I wish to keep this education from you as long as I can it would be my failure if anything were to happen to you. Faramir, your brothers, myself… we would forever shield you if it were in our power.”

“What would you have me do?” her voice was meek, gaze dropping to the ground. Imrahil shook his head and stepped forward, taking her hand.

“It is in your nature to trust without thought. What I ask will be foreign to you, but you must be vigilant. Aware. Careful. The three guards tasked with your protection did so not simply because Faramir requested it but because they know dark thoughts lurk in the hearts and minds of the wicked. Put your trust in those venerable men and your brothers. In the Kings, Aragorn and Éomer. They are good and noble. I do not mean to scare you, Lothíriel. I cannot, however, leave you here tomorrow without armoring you with knowledge.”

“I understand,” she murmured, raising her gaze to his. She observed the grey mingling with her father’s dark hair suddenly seemed more abundant than when they’d left Dol Amroth. The lines of age across his fair face looked deeper and his eyes, ever bright and shining in her estimation, now held a depth of weariness. She squeezed his hand, aware that she did not comprehend the true magnitude of his fear, though she wished to be a dutiful daughter. “I will heed your words, Father. Do you believe me safe here when you depart?”

“I do,” he nodded resolutely. “There are none in this camp in your immediate vicinity that give me pause. I ask only that you be aware of yourself, especially in the healer’s ward.”

“I shall.” He released her hand, and she offered him the helmet, which he tucked under his arm. “I look forward to your return in a few days.” The mood shifted as he briefly put a hand on her cheek and smiled.

“I believe we’ll have a span of a few days without sorties after this, which will be a relief. We’ll have much to discuss in that time – I wish to hear about your time in the White City. And perhaps you might play the harp for the King.”

“Harp?”

“Aye,” Imrahil stepped to the side and gestured to a large item covered in a sheet in the corner of the room, which she’d assumed was another piece of furniture for their pavilion. “I requested it specifically from Faramir when the provision lists were made. I did not guess he would send it so quickly. But I thought – if we’ve had a victory we ought to celebrate it properly.”

Lothíriel smiled and followed the Prince out into the morning light. The woman felt a sense of contentment and familiarity she had not experienced in some time. Excluding their location it was as though she was bidding her father and brothers farewell at home, seeing them off on an expedition a common occurrence in Dol Amroth. She joined the Swan Knights at the main thoroughfare where their grey horses stood waiting. She raised a hand to Evandor who was mounted beside Amrothos, a vision of them as boys on their ponies flashing before her.

The King of Gondor then rallied his men, the companies a mixture of soldiers from across Gondor and Rohan, the Swan Knights split between them to aid both captains. They rode out together, though Imrahil’s group would head northeast along the stream off the Anduin while Aragorn would take his party along the river proper toward the Mouths of the Entwash. There was no fanfare to see them off, just a dusty trail kicked up from under-hoof as they disappeared through the valleys of North Ithilien.

Once they left Lothíriel took herself to the healer’s tent, securing the linen cap to her head and fastening the apron about her. She wore the same dress from the day prior, though Imrahil had assured her a bath would be available in the evening and she would be able to send her clothes for laundering if she desired. Even after fording the river two days ago the thought of a soak sounded delightful. The Princess was entirely sure she carried enough dust in her hair from the road to Cair Andros that her tresses might appear as fair as Éowyn’s if she unbound them.

Upon arriving at the tent she was informed Erchirion had been awake for several hours and was lucid enough to talk. She found her middle brother on the pallet, propped up slightly by extra blankets beneath his head and shoulders. He turned when she entered the space, the bandages over his head nearly covering all his dark hair. The visible eye had dark circles beneath, the hollows of his cheeks shadowed, and the bridge of his nose was swollen if not broken. But he smiled when he saw her as she knelt beside him.

“Are you a dream?” he asked, his voice dry as though he hadn’t had water in days.

“No,” she whispered, finding his hand with her own. “I am here. And I’ll take care of you.”

“Did Father send for you? When did you arrive? How –”

“Shh,” she quieted him with a smile and squeeze of his hand. “Worry not over these questions. I’ll not be leaving until we all depart for the White City.”

Erchirion seemed placated by this response, resting back against the makeshift pillows. He touched the fabric covering his right eye, finding her with his left.

“They said there was no saving it,” he explained dully, his voice hoarse. “They’ll be calling me Chir-One-Eye.”

“Perhaps we’ll fashion you a patch.”

“Like the pirates from our stories.”

Lothíriel smiled as he adjusted his upper body, the effort causing him to close his eye and release a sigh. She watched him with the critical judgment of a healer, setting aside her sisterly affection to assess him properly. She couldn’t tell how much awareness he possessed and to what extent his injuries affected his mind. It was unclear just how he’d been wounded, whether it was a result of a quick slash to the face or blunt force to his skull. Regardless, he was in no shape for anyone to determine his prognosis.

“Can I go home?” he murmured, eye still closed as his head lolled toward her.

“Not yet. Soon, though.”

“Will I behold Dol Amroth once more, Loth? See the sun on the far tower? Remember when we spilled the wine on the beach in our finery? Elphir nearly skinned our hides. I’ve never run so fast...” His words tumbled forth with a rasping voice as his eye remained shut, speaking as though he were still in that moment in the past. She held his hand as he trailed off, a haunted smile on his lips.

“We’ll get you home,” she promised, running her thumb across the palm of the hand she held. He nodded slightly, his breathing slowed until he was snoring lightly. She placed a hand on his uninjured cheek, waiting to make sure he wouldn’t stir before standing. Lothíriel then convened with the master healer to determine Erchirion’s care. They decided to give him another few days in the ward before moving him to the family’s pavilion. His recovery, besides the head wound, was straightforward. But neither healer could determine the outcome of his mind, especially with his semi-lucid states being so inconsistent.

She spent the rest of the morning tending to other patients and assisting with the more menial tasks of sweeping, making ointments and establishing order and organization to the healer’s storeroom. Midday brought Merry and Pippin to her company, requesting she join them for lunch. They sat together outside at one of the dining tables enjoying a light meal. The Hobbits inquired after her trip to Cair Andros and she learned a bit more from Pippin about the battle. They were joined toward the end of the lunch by Éomer and the dwarf, Gimli.

“Well met, my Lady,” the warrior addressed her with a curt bow. She dropped her gaze and canted her head as he sat opposite her. Éomer offered a grin as he took a seat beside the dwarf. “The Horselord tells me you’re a healer then?” Horselord was spoken with such affection Lothíriel could not help but smile.

“You doubt my word?” Éomer put in with feigned offense. The dwarf shrugged and popped a slice of cheese into his mouth.

“Not hardly! But I’ll tell you, my Lady, anyone who spends that amount of time on the back of a horse – brains must be addled something fierce!”

“Were you not mounted behind your Elven companion for the battle?” she inquired nonchalantly as Pippin nodded enthusiastically. Gimli paused in his drink of ale, looking at her over the rim before swallowing.

“Not because I wanted to be, lass. And whosoever is telling folks that I enjoyed it – falsehoods. Utter slander.”

“I’ll be sure not to believe a word,” Lothíriel promised with a smile. He nodded and finished the ale off.

“And you’re someone important’s daughter, isn’t that right?”

“Imrahil of Dol Amroth,” Éomer answered, his eyes on the Princess.

“A fine man,” the dwarf confirmed as he set the mug down with a thud. “With fine sons – stout warriors the both of them. How fares the one with the,” he wiggled his finger at one eye, thick brows raised.

“Regaining strength,” she replied amiably. “He’ll be adjusting to the loss of the eye for some time, though.”

“Ah, he’ll adapt. My mother’s cousin lost his eye and hearing in both ears and he swings the meanest axe you’d ever see with astounding precision. Though, that could be owed to him not being able to see or hear anything softer than a horn. Just goes around thwacking things.”

They sat together a bit longer, Gimli sharing tales with Merry and Pippin as Éomer and Lothíriel listened. She couldn’t help but notice the affection the dwarf showed not only the Hobbits but the King of Rohan as well. There were undertones of shared deference between them, and the teasing was a welcome change for her to witness from Éomer. Although he wasn’t altogether mirthful it was clear he was at ease with Gimli and let his guard down some.

Their prolonged lunch ended when Gimli brought up sharpening his weapons, with the Hobbits exclaiming that neither of their blades had been honed since leaving Minas Tirith. Friendly disapproval was written on the dwarf’s face as he harried Merry and Pippin to their quarters to fetch their swords for sharpening. The King and Lothíriel were left to share a grin as the plates were cleared from the table.

“I ought to return to my duties,” the woman announced, standing as Éomer joined her. “I doubt the other healers are afforded such a long break.”

“The other healers are neither women nor Princesses,” he pointed out as they fell in step, offering her his forearm as they walked, which she accepted. Polite and brief bows were given as they walked the field in the direction of the medic tent.

“All the same,” she replied amiably. “I don’t wish for a reputation of idleness.”

“I somehow doubt that’s anyone’s complaint of you, my Lady.”

She caught his glance toward her out of the corner of her eye. She willed her heart to maintain a healthy rhythm, the closeness of their bodies and her hand on his arm giving her cause to feel flustered. She smiled in response to his comment.

“Oh, I’m sure my brothers could list their complaints and it would rival the Anduin in length. Amrothos alone has enough gripes to fill Orodruin. Well, what remains of it.”

Éomer smirked, and she thought she almost heard him chuckle but it was faint and fleeting. They walked the final yards in easy silence. When they arrived at the healer’s tent Éomer turned to face her with a slight smile. Suddenly Lothíriel caught sight of Baranor over the King’s shoulder, still at some distance, approaching the tent. But as Éomer took her hand and gave a small bow, the Lord from Minas Tirith adjusted his course elsewhere.

“My Lady?” Hazel eyes watched her with puzzlement and she directed her attention back to the King with an apologetic smile.

“Yes,” she answered. “Something caught my eye – forgive me.” Éomer glanced over his shoulder but Baranor had disappeared and in the time it took the Horselord to look and return his gaze to her, Lothíriel adjusted her expression to diminish suspicion.

“I shall see you at dinner, then?”

“Yes.”

“My Lady,” they bowed to one another before parting ways.

Lothíriel was surprised at how pleased she felt that the sight of Éomer was enough to send Baranor away, if only to afford her peace from the Lord’s pestering. Baranor had been largely absent from her since they’d arrived, which buoyed her hope that he was smart enough to leave her be now that she was surrounded by her menfolk.  She could not help but reflect upon his behavior with the warning from her father earlier that day. While Lord Húrin’s stepson was far from virtuous, he did not, by her estimation, possess the qualities one might deem malicious.  

Thoughts of Imrahil’s warning persisted throughout the Princess’ day in moments of calm or consideration. They especially endured while washing herself that evening. Where and how the attendants came by the sizable tub she found in the Dol Amroth quarters after supper was a mystery, but it was soon forgotten as she indulged in the warm water, cleansed her skin and hair and enjoyed a soak. The solitude gave her more than enough time to reflect upon her father’s words.

While she was not entirely ignorant of that which he feared it was clear she had not the awareness her father and brothers possessed. Exposure in her twenty years to the subject had been limited to allegorical fables of wicked men and the few cases her father had presided over in which a husband was punished for foul deeds. But the details were never shared with her. She wasn’t entirely sure what her father wanted her to be vigilant for beyond a generic outline.

There were attributes she could immediately identify as malicious and evil – perhaps it was for those traits she should be cautious. It also seemed prudent to ask the opinions of other women when she had the opportunity as they could bestow wisdom even her father could not. But that would have to wait until they left the camp.

Once clean she donned a new chemise and overdress for the night, noting the solitude of the rather large pavilion. There were Swan Knights and Gondorian soldiers alike stationed mindfully around the tents and Lothíriel spared only a brief thought for safety. Having Éomer, Mithrandir, Gimli and the contingency of the Western Host was more than reassuring. To say she felt peaceful was not entirely true, but for the first time in months Lothíriel drifted to sleep without the grip of worry or distress.

Chapter Text

“That’s the last of the Goldenbell,” the healer’s apprentice, Radhrion, announced regretfully, holding the jar aloft. Once filled with golden petals the vessel had only debris from the plant. “Alas, I’ve only completed three of the liniments the master asked for.”

“Let me see,” Lothíriel answered, discarding her stitching of a sling and approaching the table to join the boy. Indeed, there sat three of the five pots containing tallow mixed with the various herbs, the other two uncorked and empty. With a nervous glance at her Radhrion, who was perhaps in his twelfth summer, set down the empty jar and began checking the hanging herbs strung above the table.

“Will dry Goldenbell suffice, m’Lady?”

“Not for a burn ointment. The freshness of the petals is required, the healing properties released when we mill and preserve it in the salve.”

“I’m a mouse on the gibbet if Master doesn’t have these by day’s end,” the boy muttered, sinking onto the stool he’d occupied earlier.

“What other chores does he expect from you today?” four more tasks were laid out, each tedious but not terribly difficult. Lothíriel nodded and clicked her tongue, lifting the empty jar he’d left on the table.

“I’ll harvest the Goldenbell. It’s abundant in the woods beyond the field. Need we anything else to refill the stores?”

After several minutes of inventory Radhrion and Princess had a short list of herbs and plants she could easily collect in the vicinity of Cormallen. She arranged a beveled reed-cutting knife, squares of cheesecloth and small jars in the oblong basket and assured the apprentice she’d inform the master and return before late afternoon.

Checking on the patients, including a slumbering Erchirion, Lothíriel made good on her word to speak to the master healer, a makeshift warden in the camp, before departing the tent. The sun was at the highest point in the sky, warming her skin beneath the kirtle. The host remaining after Aragorn and Imrahil’s departure was spread out across the large field and it felt almost quiet walking down the makeshift lanes.

She intentionally took the long way to the edge of the camp where the small wood divided the field from the Anduin, hoping to see a friend she might coax to join her. Although she very likely heard Pippin at one point she was not met with any familiar faces as she reached the border of the encampment. Tucking the basket in the crook of one arm she greeted the guard at the edge, his silver helm shining brightly as he turned to look upon her.

“Hail, Lady,” he stated, glancing at her basket.

“Good afternoon. I am on errand for the healing master to replenish our stores. I need only a few herbs and plants.”

“How far will that take you, my Lady?”

“Just about the woods thither.”

“Shall I call for an escort?”

“Nay,” she replied with a kind tone, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked at the tree line before them. “I needn’t go far. If I cannot find a plant beyond this vicinity I’ll come back for an attendant. Thank you, though.”

The guard looked uncertain for a moment but she added a bit more sweetness to her smile. While she would not travel far afield without a guard, the wooded edge of their camp seemed reasonable enough. And there were enough armed men nearby that one cry would bring an entire garrison.

With a nod the guard let her pass, an appreciative smile applied to her lips as she walked away from the camp. The shade of the woods dropped the temperature significantly, Lothíriel’s sun-warmed skin cooled under the canopy. She began the hunt for herbs, finding the first two barely a few paces from the field.

She kept a leisurely pace as she walked along the deer path cut between Cormallen and the river. It was narrow but occasionally she spied hoof prints from the host’s horses and figured it would allow her a quick road back to the camp. She deviated from the path to seek out her quarry but always returned. Her basket was nearly filled, and it had taken less than a bell. The last herb, however, was proving a bit more difficult. She’d spotted the leaves of henbane when they made the trek from the river to the camp a few days prior but now it evaded her.

Pausing to swivel her head, neck cramped from gazing at the ground, Lothíriel pulled the linen hood off and tossed it into the basket at her feet. She wove her fingers through the dark hair at the crown of her head, massaging her scalp. She could feel wisps and frizz from the heat ruining the careful plait she’d put her hair into and knew she would need to re-braid it when she returned. Pulling a pair of pins from her pocket, she put them between her teeth and coiled the dark plait into a bun at the nape of her neck.

She’d secured one fastener into the chignon when the sound of approaching footsteps in the underbrush caused her to turn. Grey eyes were met with bright blue; Lord Baranor approached, pausing to offer a half bow. Her hands were still holding the bun in place, a hairpin between her teeth as she dipped into a polite curtsey. Attaching the second fastener she moved to pick up the basket once more, greeting the Lord with some degree of hesitancy.

“Lord Baranor.”

“My Lady,” he replied with a charming smile. “I was given word you were here alone.”

“Given word?” a single brow arched unbidden, disbelieving that he didn’t pry for the information.

“The sentry informed me you were wandering the woods without a guard.” He paused to gauge her reaction. Lothíriel did not deny or rebuke this, instead canting her head slightly in acknowledgement, though she privately took offense to wandering. “I would not be so dishonorable to leave you out here on your own.”

“I am completed in my task,” she responded with a lift of the basket. She’d forgo the henbane to get away from him. He studied her for a moment before grinning and nodding.

“Then let me escort you back to camp.”

Lothíriel could not figure a way out of this. Had he been watching her so he might catch her alone? She felt more irritated than concerned as she reluctantly accepted his hand. He also reached for the basket but she tilted it away with a sidelong glance.

“I can carry it,” she quipped with a frown. She did not like his attentiveness and even less his blue gaze as they skimmed along her person. They were near enough to the deer path that she could see the parting of the trees and quite close to the field beyond. If she could suffer his nuisance to get back to the encampment she would confer with any number of the men who expressed disgust and displeasure with Baranor to assure this did not happen again.

“I confess I do not understand your reluctance,” Baranor announced after a moment with a scowl, stopping their forward progress and surprising Lothíriel with the shift in tone. She turned to face him and slipped her hand away, brow furrowed as he regarded her with simmering displeasure. “I have only ever been humble and courteous in my comportment and it seems you’ve kept me at length.”

“Length befitting our stations,” she answered with a bemused expression, unsure what he was angling at. He grunted at this, crossing his arms over his chest.

“These games are tedious, Lothíriel.”

“I’m afraid I do not know what games you refer to.”

“You would welcome me with one glance and rebuke me with the next. I grow weary of the ambiguity.”

“It is ambiguity of your own making,” she replied guardedly, feeling a tightness in her lungs as he leveled his cold gaze with hers. If she convinced him she was not worth his attention he might look elsewhere. “Not once have I given leave that you should assume is more than polite discourse.”

“Polite discourse?” he repeated sharply with seemingly genuine disbelief and ire. “My Lady, your very glances are heavy with intent. Have I not been on your mind as you have been upon mine? The day you tended to my arm it was evident you were enticing me to further our relations. And now you push me away like a disobedient hound, though I only seek to please and avail you.”

Lothíriel was at a loss, stunned to momentary silence by the man’s testimony. She couldn’t tell if he truly believed his words or merely meant to justify his behavior. The woods about them were strangely quiet and she felt the closeness of the trees pushing in against her. She knew in that moment she had to evade Baranor’s company and never again find herself alone with him, her father’s warning suddenly replaying in her head.

“We ought to return,” she started with a glance in the direction of the field, focused on maintaining a measured tone to not alert him to her growing dread. “This is hardly a discussion we can have in such a manner.”

“Yes, we may go speak to your father about it when he returns. He will give further credence to my account.”

“My father?” Lothíriel halted, glaring at him with unconcealed confusion and disdain. It was this reaction that caused Baranor to smirk and shrug lightly.

“Of course. He and Lord Húrin are the architects of our courtship, after all.”

“We are not… you are mistaken!” her heart pounded heavily in her ribcage as she tried to make sense of his words. She fought to keep her tone level and guarded, the urge to panic coursing under the surface.

“Courtship is a nicety, really,” he continued, his voice softening as though he were explaining a change of the seasons. “Informal betrothal? Expected engagement? I suppose there isn’t a term for it.”

“We are not betrothed.”

“Lord Húrin was given assurances by your Lord Father that his service to the city would be rewarded with a marriage for his only unwed son.”

“You are not his son,” she reminded him, struggling to follow his logic.

“Nonetheless, Húrin secured a valuable marriage for me. And you are the only woman of age and of the appropriate breeding for my station. Imrahil knew this when he accepted the accord. Perhaps that is the clarification you require to adjust your conduct around me.”

“I will not accept this until I hear it from my father,” she stated, barely capable of a polite tone as she turned away from him. Disbelief clouded her thoughts as she resumed picking her way back to the path.

A hand around her arm arrested then pulled her back as she turned to face Baranor, basket falling with a thud. He jerked her into his arms, expression assured as he brashly attempted an embrace. Lothíriel stepped back, pushing her hands against his chest in clear displeasure and effort to leave again. The man scowled then, his hands on her upper arms as he pivoted her to the side, shoving her back against a tree and closing the distance between them.

His mouth covered hers, not quite aligning with her lips as he kissed her, his teeth raking across her skin. His hands both pushed her against the bark and tightened around her arms as his body confined her between him and the tree. She twisted her head to the side, lurching against his restraint. One hand released her arm and shot up to her neck, his thumb and finger holding the corners of her jaw still as he applied pressure against her throat.

Her breath was trapped as he bit the edge of her lower lip, sharp pain bringing tears to her eyes. Shock and fear held her in place as he pulled his mouth away, keeping their faces close. The hand around her neck slackened a fraction as his other released her arm, a finger catching the tear that trailed down her cheek as she shut her eyes.

“Was that so difficult?” he breathed against her, his body still pressing her into the tree as she opened her eyes. His knee and thigh attempted to wedge between her legs as he pinned her to the trunk. He looked down at her chest and she tried to will slower, less exaggerated breaths, trying to minimize her movements. He looked back up, lust fading in his gaze, and pulled away slightly.

“You’ll forgive the suddenness of my passion, my Lady. I didn’t mean to leave a mark.” He smoothed a thumb along the left corner of her lip to the location he’d bitten. Despite the apology Baranor was smiling and his tone was conversational.

After what felt like an age he extracted himself from her, releasing her throat and stepping back. She stood stiffly against the tree, knowing she should flee. But all she felt was resentment and shame that she hadn’t employed the defensive techniques her brothers had shown her over and over again. Baranor wiped his hands together and put more distance between them.

“When your father arrives we can discuss our plans further,” he commented pleasantly. “I suspect he’ll be relieved to know you are so amenable to me. To think, you could hardly keep your hands off me. It will set his mind at ease that he gave his approval. I’ll leave you to make yourself presentable. We must be careful of these interludes, my Lady. Folk will talk.”

Walking toward the path Baranor departed her, the woman now alone with her shaking breath in the quiet of the woods.

Chapter Text

Lothíriel stood at the worktable, staring vacantly as the other healers moved around her. She’d returned some time ago, depositing the basket and forcing herself to complete menial tasks to soothe the chaos in her head. She was supposed to be stocking the shelves with herbs and preparing poultices, but she was immobilized.

Her arms burned where his hands had seized them and the cut on her lip was slightly swollen, pulsing dully with an ache. Although it no longer hurt she could still feel his fingers pressing into the flesh of her jaw, his palm pushed against her throat. She instinctively drew a hand to her neck, fingers grazing cautiously over the skin. It was surprisingly not sore but the memory of his grip made her anxious.

More inscrutable to the woman were the words that Baranor uttered with such confidence, claiming she was owed to him for Lord Húrin’s service. There had to be a mistake – her father would not promise her and say nothing of the arrangement. She couldn’t believe he would even offer without first speaking to her. That Lord Húrin would even agree to such a proposal seemed untenable – from the way Baranor spoke of him it seemed neither cared much for the other. How could this be his “reward” for service?

Perhaps it got him rid of Baranor, she thought darkly, sympathizing with Húrin’s imagined circumstance. But it still felt absurd to entertain. Had Baranor been assessing her this entire time? Calculating her worth and waiting to put her in a compromising position? Questions flooded her mind and no answer seemed acceptable.

Eventually she quitted the healer’s tent, unable to provide the care patients deserved or rid herself of Baranor’s words. She wandered about aimlessly, eschewing her family’s pavilion if only to avoid being alone within the confines of the empty tent. She intentionally put aside thoughts of the Prince’s return tomorrow, knowing it would bring more complexity than she was equipped to manage, at least for the moment. As much as she longed to see Imrahil she was also terrified Baranor was telling some version of the truth. Confirming it would wreck her.

Lothíriel found herself in the makeshift stables standing before her chestnut gelding. There were a few barn lads darting here and there but it was mostly quiet, the sound of the river rushing nearby soothing her nerves. Running her hand along the palfrey’s shoulder she inhaled the scent of horse, hay and manure, comforted by the familiarity. She pressed her forehead to his neck, his coppery coat smooth against her skin. The gelding stood still; head held aloft as she wound her fingers through his coarse mane.

She considered, then, finding Éomer – his arms around her would certainly pacify the racing thoughts. Baranor would be no match for an angered Horselord. But even as she reveled in the image of Éomer’s fist crashing across Baranor’s face she felt ashamed to reveal these tidings. If there was any truth to Baranor’s claim the King of Rohan would be ill advised to assault the man, even if the Lord had trespassed upon her.

And the smallest, most persistent voice in her mind cautioned her against telling anyone of Baranor’s attack at all, fear that she might be blamed prevailing over the truth. She considered her own naivete and stupidity; the cavalier attitude about Baranor and being alone proving both Imrahil and Faramir’s words about safety all too true. Would the encounter be fashioned as her fault? Even Baranor himself suggested it was she who leapt upon him in a fit of passion.

“No,” she muttered, affirming it to the horse as he shifted weight from one hoof to the other.

Pulling back she used the heel of her hand to blot the wetness from her eyes, shaking her head to rid herself of false thoughts. She would need an excuse to explain away the cut on her lip, for she could tell no one of this until her father returned. Settling on a simple justification Lothíriel smoothed the front of the grey dress and composed herself. If her arms bruised it would not be seen by anyone. And her neck seemed to remain unblemished despite the ferocity of his attack.

After giving the gelding an appreciative pat, she departed the stables to return to camp. It was nearly time for the evening meal, which meant she only had to suffer the company of others for a short while before she could retire. She was mindful of avoiding Baranor, who she glimpsed at the edge of the smithy’s tent, discussing something intently with the farrier. Slipping quickly from his presence Lothíriel made her way to the feasting tables, which were dressed for dinner. Pippin and Merry sat together at their usual spot and she joined them with a nod, seating herself so the bruised lip faced away from the Hobbits.

“Evening, Lady Lothíriel,” Pippin greeted her with a raise of his mug. She smiled, the pulling of her lips causing the cut to sting. Intentionally turning her profile to them she accepted a mug from a cupbearer who approached once she’d seated herself.

“My Lady,” Merry intoned with a smile.

“Good evening,” she replied, compelling her voice to remain level and congenial.

“Have you seen all the pipeweed Merry’s collected?” Pippin inquired, continuing with a drawn-out declaration about the plant’s abundance in Gondor. Lothíriel was grateful that he was carrying the conversation, her nods and occasional murmurs of agreement encouraging the Hobbit on. She need only listen.

“Are you well?” Merry’s voice cut through Pippin’s explanation about drying sweet galenas, the younger Hobbit stopping abruptly midsentence to look at his companion and then Lothíriel. For her part the woman raised her brows and nodded.

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“What happened to your lip?”

“Ah,” she waved her hand casually, “I collided with the hard skull of a patient. His head came up when mine came down to assist him.” This exact scenario happened with regularity in the House of Healing so she felt confident in her ability to carry it. Pippin was none the wiser, making a comment about knocking heads with Samwise some months ago. Merry, however, seemed less convinced. He watched her with drawn brows, barely registering his companion’s monologue. 

Lothíriel shifted in her seat, hoping Merry would leave it alone. She took a sip of the ale, grey eyes watching him over the rim. When his attention was drawn away she exhaled a quiet sigh, the tension she hadn’t realized she held releasing. It was the arrival of Éomer, Mithrandir, Gimli and the Elven twins that had caught the Hobbit’s notice. Lothíriel followed suit as the host stood. It was somewhat sparse with the King’s and Prince’s contingencies still absent. Mithrandir welcomed the group that remained and they were seated as the meal arrived. For their own table, it remained the Hobbits, Lothíriel, and two other men of Gondor. Discussion was minimal, leaning heavily on Pippin’s jolliness. Merry was uncharacteristically reticent.

Furtive glances to the other side of the aisle during the meal confirmed Baranor was still seated with his cohort. She was grateful he hadn’t moved to her table but figured it was only a matter of time. He was laughing loudly and the sound made her flinch, turning her head to the side. Her plate was largely untouched, appetite diminished as she counted the moments until they were released for the evening. She avoided looking at the dais where Éomer and the others sat, focusing instead on the companions around her.

When the meal concluded Lothíriel resisted the urge to jump up and run to her chambers. She shared light pleasantries with the lords at her table before excusing herself and bidding the Hobbits a good night. She caught sight of Éomer skipping steps as he hurriedly descended the platform in her direction but she quickly skirted around a group of soldiers and when she looked back he’d disappeared amidst the small crowd. Slowing her steps she wound her way through the sleeping tents, hoping to get to Dol Amroth’s before she was waylaid. Success felt hollow, however, as she slipped into the narrow causeway between her quarters and her kinsmen. A servant greeted her, his gaze caught by the sight of her lip.

“May I bring you something for the cut, my Lady? A healer perhaps?”

“No, thank you, Fian,” she replied kindly. “That will be all for tonight.”

Pulling the flap serving as a door shut and securing it with the tie Lothíriel let go a heavy sigh. Imrahil and the others were expected tomorrow. All would be put to right and she could forget this entire incident. If she never saw Baranor again she would be ecstatic.

Stripping the kirtle off she stood in the boots, stays and long, sleeveless chemise; tilting her arm to the side to ascertain the damage in the muted light. Blueish-grey and brown bruises bloomed across her fair skin. They weren’t quite in the shape of hands but appeared more like cuffs on her upper arm. She expected they would darken by the next day.

Lothíriel approached the water basin on the table, leaning over it to see her neck in the low light of the torch. The skin just below her jaw was greyed but far from the flowering bruises on her arm. It was barely discernible, which was an immediate relief. The cut from his teeth on her lip, however, was unsightly and likely caught the attention of anyone she was in proximity of that day. She would need to lay a layer of salve upon it on the morrow to speed up healing. Ready to pull the boots off and collapse in the bed she was stopped when a voice on the other side of the fabric wall came forth.

“My Lady,” Fian called cautiously. “The King of Rohan has come to call on you.”

Damn, she grimaced inwardly. Weighing her options in a split second she figured it would be better to see him and send him on his way rather than deny him and ignite suspicion.

“I’ll be out momentarily,” she answered, pulling the dark blue cloak from the back of the chair and arranging it around her shoulders so her upper arms were hidden. She drew the bottom of the cloak up and tucked it in the crook of her arms like a shawl to afford her more modesty and protection from his gaze.

Once she departed the room Fian led her to the sitting chamber of Dol Amroth’s pavilion, the sleeping quarters off to the side of the main “room”. The swan ship banner hung in the center of the back wall, flanked by smaller standards of Gondor. Four chairs were set upon the carpeted ground, patches of grass poking between the edges of the rugs. Two tables sat on either side of the long walls of the tent and her father’s harp rested in its corner near the entrance. Éomer stood beside a table busy with maps strewn about its surface along with quills and parchment left by the Prince upon his departure. Lothíriel dipped down quickly as the King bowed as well, Fian exiting after his own genuflection.

“Good evening,” she began, hands held at her midriff, gripping the edges of the cloak carefully. Éomer’s expression seemed conflicted, his dark brows drawn as he looked at her.

“You left swiftly,” he stated with a concerned visage. “I’d hoped to speak to you after dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied honestly. “I am fatigued from the day and wanted to retire early.”

“What happened?” he gestured to her mouth with a cant of his head and raised brows, taking half a step toward her.

“Clumsiness with a patient.”

“So Merry said.” Lothíriel reacted with a frown, studying him carefully.

“What can I do for you tonight, my Lord?”

“Tell me why you are acting so unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“Not yourself.”

“I am myself.”

“Béma’s blade, Lothíriel!” he breathed emphatically, a scowl replacing the worry. “Will you not tell me why you barely looked upon me at dinner? Merry said you were curiously quiet at the table. And you fled like a colt from a storm when the meal ended.”

“I am tired, Éomer.”

“You truly are terrible at deceit.”

Lothíriel gave him a dirty look as she tightened the cloak about her. She knew he was right. But she couldn’t begin to tell him the source of her strange behavior. Nor could she articulate the predicament she found herself in. But he was examining her now with tempered features.

“I trust you would express it to your father were he here.” Before she could remind him the Prince was not here Éomer followed it with: “But as he is gone, I hope you can confide in me. If it is in my power to fix, I will.”

“It’s not.” She scrunched her nose with irritation, speaking before she could think. Éomer’s brows rose as he took another step toward her, offering his hand.

“Will you not tell me?”

“I cannot. I am not at liberty to do so. It’s not…” she trailed off, consternation written on her features.

Instead of taking his hand, she moved away, sitting heavily in one of the chairs and pulling the cloak firmly against her body. She was in treacherous territory, fatigue and the desire to be comforted wavering dangerously against her decision to keep this burden to herself. Éomer watched her for a moment, dropping his outstretched hand before approaching her carefully. He crouched before the dark-haired woman, keeping enough distance that she did not feel crowded and stared at her.

“What happened to your lip?” his voice was soft, gently imploring. She raised her gaze to his, suspicious of his demeanor and change in tone. He waited patiently, hazel eyes regarding her with a warmth that nearly undid her. It was then she realized what he was doing, grey eyes flashing with wrath as she stiffened away from him.

“I’m not a fucking horse to be broken and coaxed under saddle,” she snapped, ire pulsing through her veins as she straightened in the chair. Éomer made no movement to stand or dispute her.

“I am only asking you to trust me. As you asked me to trust you concerning Éowyn.”

Lothíriel said nothing, aware that he made a fair point. But this felt too perilous – too uncertain. And there was naught he could do about it anyhow. They sat in weighted silence, watching each other. Her chest felt tight, a part of her wanting to share with him all that she’d spent these past hours mulling over and fearing. But another part – the rational and cautious side of her was loathe to let him in. Loathe to admit she’d been guileless and unawares, despite the warnings of others to be more guarded.

She shifted in the chair, her brows furrowing slightly as she considered how to send the King on his way, breaking her gaze to look at her knees. She heard him move up and away from her, raising her eyes when he’d seated himself in a chair not too far from her. His back was straight as though he was ready to stand in a moment, and his expression puzzled her.

Was there a purpose to this shift in demeanor or had he given up on prying for information? After a moment the man stood, maintaining a respectful distance. When the Princess did not stand with him, instead fixing him with a cautious gaze, the King gave a small bow.

“I take my leave,” he spoke softly, raising up and watching her in the torch and rush light. Letting him go, staying silent, even seeing him to the entrance seemed appropriate. This was not his matter. But as he looked down and brushed invisible flecks of dirt from his green tunic Lothíriel stood, almost against her own will.

“Éomer,” she began, a painful lump in her throat. His gaze returned to her, expression warm, expectant and encouraging. She closed her eyes and spoke, fearful she’d never get the words out otherwise. “I - I ran afoul –”

“With who?” his interjection was low and harsh, her eyes opening to see the softness gone from his visage. When the pause lagged the King adjusted slightly, though only in tone. “Lothíriel. Who was it?”

The woman’s jaw tightened; her lips parted as the aching lump in her neck seeped into her chest. His hazel eyes were trained on her and she could discern the control he was exacting, the fierceness of his visage making her uncomfortable.

“Lord Baranor.”

Éomer swore softly in his native tongue and looked away from her, brows drawn. Lothíriel felt both a weight lifted and a new one settle in its place as she pulled the cloak about her firmly. The King of Rohan wavered for a moment as though he couldn’t decide his next course of action before stepping toward the entrance of the tent, maintaining distance from her.

“Call your house’s man here.” Restraint clipped his words as he stood in profile to her, waiting at the door.

“Fian,” she requested tersely, the loudness of her voice out of place after their quiet conversation. After a moment the servant pulled the flap of the tent away, stood in the entryway and ducked his head to both King and Lady.

“Fetch Men of the Mark and bid them come,” Éomer stated clearly, his body angled away from both her and Fian.

“Yes, my king.”

When he disappeared Lothíriel sat back down, exhaustion overcoming her. The King of Rohan turned to face her, his expression now unreadable. Shame curled in her belly as she stared at the ground, regret and relief intermingling.

“Did he strike you?”

Grey eyes raised to find Éomer standing before her, their distance still carefully marked by a few paces. When she did not immediately reply the man pulled a chair over and sat before her, arms resting on his thighs, fingers linked together. Lothíriel shifted anxiously, dark brows furrowed as she worked on the words she would use to convey the situation.

“No.”

“He will be held to account for his conduct, I promise you. Where did this exchange happen?”

“The woods just beyond the field. I went…” a breath, “I was gathering herbs for our stores…” another breath, “I should not have gone alone. I didn’t think myself in danger.”

“He followed you there?”

“I suppose. He wished to escort me back. When I rebuked his offer he became cross.”

“What did he do to your lip?”

It was a painful extraction, a battle of wills within her head between maintaining shameful privacy and telling this man how she’d been wronged. Her courtly training took over as she crafted a diplomatic response, looking him in the eye.

“He briefly lost his composure but regained it and departed the woods.”

“But he did not raise a hand to you?”

“No.”

“Then what – ”

“Éomer King,” came a voice from the other side of the tent, the flap peeled back to reveal two men of Rohan and Fian. Éomer’s visage shifted as he stood and permitted them entry. Lothíriel took a breath and adopted the composure of a Princess, standing as well with a schooled expression. The three men bowed and looked to the King as he addressed them.

“Fastred, find the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. Tell them I request their counsel. Alheort, locate Lord Baranor of Minas Tirith.”

“Yes, Éomer King,” the first soldier said with a curt nod, disappearing as fast as he arrived. The other, an older man, hesitated as he watched his liege.

“What would you have me do with this Lord Baranor?”

“Nothing,” Éomer replied with a measured tone. “I need only know where he is. Alert him not to your presence if you can.”

“As you command,” he answered with a nod, sneaking a quick glance at the Lady of Dol Amroth. Once he departed Fian regarded the pair with an uncertain expression.

“Thank you, Fian,” Lothíriel put in when it was clear he wouldn’t leave on his own accord. She offered him a reassuring smile, which assuaged his concerned features and he bowed. Once gone, she turned to Éomer with a frown.

“Why the Elven lords?”

“It would be wise to take advisement on this,” he replied reflectively, though his expression was dark. “Were we in Rohan this would be dealt with immediately and with due justice. But I am in a foreign land with rules to which I am unaccustomed. As neither your father nor Aragorn, who both eclipse my judgment in this, are here I am compelled to seek the guidance of others.”

“I fear there is naught that can be done, at least tonight,” she lamented as Éomer turned to face her directly, unable to hide his bewilderment. As she continued her tone dipped into a murmur. “He is the son of a high lord of Gondor. And he might deny.”

“Deny what?”

“That he acted untoward.”

 “You said he was cross. That you ran afoul with him. What did he do?” when she did not answer he pressed again. “I will not be the only one to ask this,” he explained gently as she glanced nervously at him. “It might be easier if you tell me and I can relay it.”

Lothíriel’s lips pressed into a line, the cut aching as she frowned. She shifted and pivoted her body away from the King and took a breath before speaking.

“It was not just his conduct. He spoke of things I cannot make sense of. He said, claimed, when the Host left Minas Tirith his mother’s husband, Húrin, was given command of the city. But it was for a price. A price my father agreed to. That Baranor would be granted betrothal to a lady of his station.”

“He cannot think you are such a lady!” The King exclaimed incredulously. When her expression confirmed this Éomer snorted angrily, looking away with a scowl. “Your father would do no such thing. A minor lord assuming he – it’s laughable.”

“Not so as Baranor took his pleasure under this assumption.”

“Took his pleasure?” Éomer’s tone quieted to a perilous murmur as his sharp gaze caught her. “Lothíriel, if you do not tell me what this man did to you, I will beat it from him. And I would not be alone.”

“He embraced me. When I pulled away he put me against a tree and kissed me. Roughly.” Her words were stiff and she lifted her chin in defiance of appearing weak, despite the humiliation and fear lurking beneath. “It was this action that resulted in the abrasion on my lip. But if he speaks the truth he may be above reproach.”

“No truth would save him from –” Éomer stopped himself, his appearance one of anger and tenderness coalescing as he looked at her. “Lothíriel, even if he is deluded in this belief it is no excuse for his comportment. To seek you out, speak to you so brazenly… to lay his hands and mouth upon you – nay. There is no truth in all of Middle Earth that would permit this.”

“What will you do?” she asked quietly.

“Speak to Elrohir and Elladan, perhaps Gandalf. Were it up to me I’d serve justice upon him without remorse.”

They were interrupted once again as Fian announced the arrival of the Elven twins, who joined them with bows and worried visages. Not long behind them came Alheort, also with a troubled expression. Lothíriel took this pause in discourse to take a breath and calm her beating heart, willing her muscles to ease as she surveyed the now crowded tent. The soldier of Rohan bowed to the various parties before speaking.

“Forgive me, Éomer King. The Lord Baranor has departed. Some time after dinner. He took his horse and rode east.” The King and Princess shared a concerned glance as Alheort looked from one to the other. Elrohir and Elladan had equally bemused looks.

“What has happened, Éomer?” the closer Elf queried.

“Lord Baranor assaulted the Princess of Dol Amroth,” the king answered darkly, shock and anger blooming across their faces.

“Assaulted?!”

“When did this occur?”

“This afternoon,” Lothíriel answered, feeling the insistent ache of fatigue. She remained composed but felt tiny in the room amidst the men as they looked at one another.

“He took liberties with the Lady,” Éomer continued with a gesture to her mouth. “While Rohan would be swift in response I would not overstep Aragorn. I’ve asked you here for your wisdom and discretion. The Princess has been through enough without the entire camp knowing of his villainy. And now he has fled.”

“Sit, heruinín,” Elladan said gently, gesturing with an extended arm to the chair she’d recently vacated. She acquiesced, silently dropping the chair as he came to join her, crouching beside her as his brother approached.

“Such misconduct will not be tolerated by Estel, nor the Prince, I wager. But we can do nothing about it tonight.”

“We might send a rider after the knave,” Éomer put in with a scowl, crossing his arms as Elrohir glanced at the two Rohirric men lingering at the entrance.

“He went east?”

“Yes, my Lord,” came Alheort’s response, to which Elrohir shook his head.

“He’ll surely meet the Prince’s company coming west from their scouting.”

“He is stupider than I imagined,” Éomer muttered.

“No,” Lothíriel murmured, Elladan tilting his head closer to hear. “No. He is hoping to speak to my father. He believes the Prince will or has already consented to our betrothal. If he is riding east he must expect to come upon them. He spoke of my father’s awareness that we would be… engaged.”

“Feckless shit,” the King of Rohan spat, though he was calmed by Elrohir’s placating gesture before the Elf addressed Lothíriel.  

“How could he come to believe this?”

She recounted Baranor’s words to her, explaining what he’d so confidently shared with a bit more detail than she’d initially provided Éomer. The sons of Elrond listened with sympathetic expressions while Éomer stalked the tent, arms crossed and brows in their characteristic furrow. When she concluded the twins shared a glance before Elladan placed a hand on the arm of her chair, taking care not to touch her.

“Let this burden you no longer, heruinín. You must rest. We, along with Rohan’s King, will take this matter to Mithrandir and confer on a decision. But you need not worry further. All will be revealed on the morrow when the Prince returns.”

“Yes,” Elrohir put in, “give us the evening to talk further. Rest will befit you.”

Although she knew they meant well and correctly deduced her exhaustion she felt dismissed from her own tent. With a collected expression, Lothíriel nodded and stood, Elladan joining her. She dropped a careful curtsey to the men before speaking.

“Le fael, my lords,” she murmured, avoiding their gazes. “You are right, I am tired and should retire. Your concern in this matter is appreciated.”

The Elven twins bowed in kind, moving to the entrance as Elladan looked to Éomer, who had not ceased his pacing. When he realized they were waiting for him he paused.

“I’ll join you in a moment. I should like a moment to speak to the Lady.”

They nodded and stepped out, followed by Éomer’s countrymen. Now alone again, Lothíriel sighed and looked at the King who was studying her with a guarded expression.

“This will be sorted,” he assured her.

“One way or another,” she answered tiredly. Éomer looked at the exit before returning his gaze to her.

“Permit me to station a few extra guards at your tent.”

The woman regarded him as he spoke, the strong features of his face juxtaposed the softness of his gaze, hazel eyes searching hers. It would’ve been easy, then, to lose her composure. She could fall into his arms and weep, not only for the violence of Baranor’s hands and the forced kiss but for the accusations he’d made about their engagement. The fear that – somehow – he spoke the truth. Lothíriel wavered for the span of a breath but Éomer saw it. She knew as his eyes flashed with… hope… or perhaps it was anticipation that she would fall apart. Instead, she stiffened.

“If that is your wish.”

“I wish you might grant me leave to guard you myself.”

“That won’t be necessary. As your man said, Baranor is gone.”

“But the wounds he gave you are not,” the King murmured, almost to himself. She instinctively pulled the cloak closer, as though he could perceive the bruises on her arms. Éomer seemed to shake himself of the words he let slip, regarding her again with the decorum befitting their stations.

“I will send for the guards at once.”

“Thank you,” she replied, approaching the King to escort him to the exit as expectation dictated. He turned to her as she came close enough for him to reach for her hand, which released the cloak as his skin brushed against hers. She froze, grey eyes snapping up to his as he retracted his hand immediately, watching the left side of the blue mantle drop to the floor. Though her arm remained hidden among the folds of fabric she felt exposed.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, hazel eyes watching her with an emotion she couldn’t name.

They were close enough that he reached down to grasp the lower part of the cloak, draw it up and set it in her hand once more. She received it by leaning forward slightly and ducked her head toward him to adjust the fabric. Éomer’s hand, still extended, touched her face, fingers barely brushing the skin below the cut. She expected it to hurt but the sensation was so soft it felt equally intimate and chaste. His expression seemed constricted, as though he wished to say something but was fighting to maintain propriety. He stepped back and in the direction of the entryway, offering her a stilted bow.

“Farewell, Lothíriel.”

Before she could respond he departed, leaving her in the tent with the tingling reminder of his fingers on her skin.

Chapter Text

It was well past midmorning when Lothíriel opened her eyes, the content of her dreams and enduring fatigue weighing heavy, such that she might remain in bed forever if given the opportunity. Sleep had been plagued by memory and nightmares, though she could not recall waking from them. She lay on the thin mattress staring at the vaulted alabaster ceiling, her head swimming with thoughts of the day prior. Apathy and resentment lingered in the corners of her mind, despite the urging of duty and expectation attempting to rouse her to get dressed and move on with the day. Eventually the need for something to soothe her dry throat was enough to stir the Princess. Swinging her legs to the edge of the bed she practically dragged her body vertical, a quiet throbbing in her head giving her a moment’s pause.

Eventually Lothíriel got up and went about her morning activities, noting a newly filled pitcher had been left on the table near the entrance of her room. She cleansed her face with the fresh water and wiped her teeth with the linen cloth soaked in marjoram water, returning it to its small basin to steep again. Dressing felt arduous, fastening the soft jumps over the chemise to afford a bit of modesty before pulling the walnut-colored gown over her head. Her arms were sore and made simple tasks uncomfortable, so she unpinned the plait and left it braided down her back, lacking the energy to re-plait and fashion it into a coronet again. Once finished she sat down, feeling utterly exhausted and ready to return to bed.

It occurred to her, then, that she wasn’t sure what to do with her day. Elladan, Elrohir and Éomer had appropriated the responsibility of her plight, brought it to even more men and she had not been apprised on the plan yet. When was her father expected to return? What would happen to Baranor? Should she continue her day as though none of this had occurred? The latter question was answered in short order when Fian appeared at the entrance of her tent, likely informed of her waking by the rustling and moving about.

“My Lady,” he called quietly. When she permitted him entry he joined her with a quick bow. “The King of Rohan asked that you meet him in main tent once you awoke. Shall I send for him?”

“Yes,” she answered dully, a small if not unenthused smile offered to the man. He bowed and disappeared.

Lothíriel sat in silence, staring at the opposite wall as she felt a stir of anger in her breast. It crept across and laid over her heart like a dragon covering its horde. As much as she wanted to parse through the feeling to uncover the reason it felt better to let it brood and grow. By the time she was alerted to the King’s arrival the dragon had enveloped her thoughts and settled itself firmly in her ribcage, such that her expression was darkened as she followed Fian to the main chamber.

“The Lady Lothíriel,” Fian announced before bowing. Éomer looked as tired as Lothíriel felt and she offhandedly wondered if he had slept. Though he was dressed in a dark tunic his sword was secured to the belt and he wore bracers and greaves; perpetually ready, it seemed, to go to battle. He smiled at her, which she returned to the barest extent. His visage shifted to concern, those brows at once furrowing over his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she answered, gaining a measure of composure enough to quiet the dragon. “What news do you bring?”

“Oh,” his surprise at the formality of her tone and comportment was brief before he too adopted courtly disposition. “We await the return of your father. It was decided Baranor will be apprehended when they arrive and the Prince shall be appraised of the situation at which point further decisions will be rendered.”

Situation. The word made the dragon grumble as she looked away from the King and nodded.

“That is good.”

“My Lady,” Éomer began, expression uneasy, “you seem… different.”

“I am not,” she assured him with a cool gaze, chin raised slightly. “Thank you for the tidings, my Lord.”

They stood in what would have been an awkward silence had the Princess’ visage not been one of carefully constructed aloofness as she surveyed the King. Éomer was no stranger to fitting this role but concern was evident in those hazel eyes watching her carefully. After a moment his expression broke and he reached into the pocket of his trousers, procuring a tiny pot as he spoke.

“Here.” He extended the earthenware container, small enough that it fit in the palm of her hand. She recognized the item at once, detachment breaking in her gaze as her eyes darted up to him.

“Thank you,” she answered, receiving the balm with an immediate half smile, which he returned. She was ready to remark on his thoughtfulness when he spoke first.

“How do you feel today?”

“Well enough.” The aloofness returned as she moved away from him to set the salve on the table.

“This will be taken care of,” he repeated his reassurance from last night as Lothíriel looked at him, expression trained in politesse. The dragon curled its tail, and she felt the heat of ire rising in her chest, though she tried to tamper it.

“That is good.”

“What else you would have me do?”

Éomer was more perceptive of her mood than she’d given him credit for, though it felt ridiculous that she should have to spell it out for him. Averting her gaze she rotated to the side, unsure whether she could hide her frustration. She looked down at her hands, which had come together before her, fingers interlacing.

“Given the situation I suspect you’ve done everything you can.”

“Tell me what more you need – I will do it.”

“Agency,” she whispered, unbidden. He stepped toward her and she could sense what he would say before the words came out.

“I couldn’t hear y –”

“Liberty to make a decision,” she snapped, though her tone remained controlled as she beheld his stunned face. Then the dragon stretched, its tail flicking against her heart and its fire heating her tongue as the words came tumbling forth. “Sovereignty in this situation that has been handed over to men. I do not wish to sit by and let others speak for me.”

“Lothíriel, we did not mean to treat you so. Baranor has committed a serious offense and we –”

“Didn’t think to involve me in the resolution? Didn’t imagine that I would have thoughts or concerns about the outcome of his behavior?” She turned to face him now, the dragon of wrath stretching its wings. “Am I expected to wait here until you’ve decided what’s to be done so I can nod my head and say, ‘thank you, my Lords’?”

“No,” Éomer answered, irritation saturating his voice and expression as he held her gaze with a frown. “But you were hardly in the position to be making any decisions last night.”

“Then I am confined to chambers, wringing my hands and waiting for someone else to determine his fate? My own?”

“What would you have me do?” The King of Rohan’s voice was quiet but no less confrontational. Lothíriel’s visage matched his as she squared her shoulders and tilted her chin.

“Grant me a seat at this table you’ve assembled without my consent. You and the sons of Elrond departed last night to take counsel with Mithrandir. Who else was involved? Gimli? The Hobbits? Perhaps the horses?”

“Lothíriel –”

“I don’t want your easement to assuage my tender feelings, Éomer.”

“Baranor’s conduct must face penalty and the enforcement of that penalty is the responsibility of men.”

“Why so?” Éomer released a frustrated grunt and broke their gaze, looking away as he shook his head.

“I do not know how Dol Amroth handles such indiscretion but I have never heard of a council of women bearing the obligation of managing these charges.”

“Considering women are often the victims perhaps there should be.”

“Mearas’ manes, woman!” He hissed with a glance to her. While he was clearly exasperated she detected a softening in his posture, though she could not discern if there was a touch of respect or mere exhaustion of the topic. His response did soothe the dragon residing in her chest, its fire extinguished. Though unwilling to depart it tucked itself away, curling lithely amongst her organs, awaiting the opportunity to ascend.

“You asked what I needed – I have told you. Do not leave me here waiting for news as though I am not wholly affected by whatever the lords decide.” A short silence followed as the King faced her once more, releasing a sigh before speaking.

“If that is what you wish of me… I will do so. But this may be out of both our hands when Aragorn returns.”

“Indeed,” she agreed with a slightly milder tone, “but I do not want to be the last to know.” Éomer nodded once and the remaining tension between them dissolved. Hazel eyes caught her as he shifted his stance, the hint of a grin on his lips.

“Do you speak to the Prince in this manner?” grey eyes met his as she tilted her head, his tone more curious than accusing.

“If he gives me cause to do so,” she answered cautiously. “Though I confess I am more likely to temper my words before my father.”

“No temperance before a King, though, hm?”

“I’m afraid I have no excuse,” Lothíriel conceded with an embarrassed furrow of her brows. Éomer smiled slightly, his posture relaxing further.

“For a moment I could’ve sworn I was having words with Éowyn.”

“Then surely you are used to criticism.”

“Yes, though I did not expect it from you.”

Lothíriel made no reply, instead distracting herself with the salve left on the table. Opening the lid she inhaled the scent of lemon and subtle chamomile from the pot, applying a fingertip’s worth on the cut. She dabbed it gently, the abrasion slightly swollen and tender against the light pressure. But there mere scent of the balm was soothing and she inhaled deeply. Returning the lid she looked back to find the King studying her as she spoke.

“I appreciate you bringing this. I shall return it to the healer’s tent today when I resume work.”

“No need,” he replied with a slight wave of his hand. “As it stands I suspect your attention will be needed elsewhere. Your father and his company are due soon.” 

“Baranor with them.”

“Yes. Have you given thought to seeing him again?” Lothíriel froze and looked at the King as he followed the question up quickly. “Your intention to be a part of the counsel means you’ll be facing him. Unless you do not wish to be present for their return.”

“No,” she answered with a frown. “I will be there.” She caught the shadow of a smile from Éomer as he nodded.

“I was on my way to meet with Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf when your fellow caught me. Will you join me?”

“Yes.” Lothíriel canted her head and smoothed the front her dress. “Give me a moment to collect myself.”

“Of course.”

She excused herself to her chamber, releasing a heavy sigh once they were parted. By all rights she should’ve been hungry at this point, judging it was at least midday. But anxiety quelled her appetite, the realization of her quarrel with Éomer setting in. She was not, in fact, prepared to face Baranor again. But neither could she renege on her adamant insistence of joining the lords.

Casting an appraising glance at her reflection the Princess frowned. She looked more worn than was acceptable. She hastily wound the dark braid into a bun and pinned it, though wisps soon escaped and coiled around her face. Smoothing as much of the hair as she could the woman then pinched her cheeks to bring some color to her wan complexion. If she was to face the bastard she would do so looking as stately as possible. She fastened the gold belt at her waist and tightened the laces on the boots. Were she home she would don a silver circlet denoting her status as daughter of the Prince but she was without such mantles of nobility at Cormallen.

She returned to Éomer with a nod of her head and they departed. He walked silently beside her, navigating the way to the tent of the Elven twins. Though anxiety chewed a hole in her stomach she was grateful the King was at her side. They arrived with formal salutations, mild curiosity written on the brothers’ fair features. Mithrandir was seated at the narrow table in the chamber, though he raised to give her a bow, which she returned.

“My Lady,” he greeted with a warm smile. If he was surprised by her presence he did not show it, indicating with an open palm to the chair beside him. She accepted as Elrohir brought her a goblet of wine. Éomer remained standing on the opposite side of the table with Elladan.

“Lady Lothíriel will join us as we await the Prince,” Éomer explained with a glance her direction. “She would know the arrangements made regarding the Lord Baranor.”

“Apprehending him is the first order,” Elladan put in.

“Do you expect that will be difficult?” she asked, brows raised at his tone.

“No, though I cannot imagine what he has said to the Prince to give his tale credence.”

“I doubt Prince Imrahil would take his words without speculation,” Elrohir replied sagely, sitting opposite Gandalf. “But this is a matter for Estel. We will detain this Lord Baranor and await the King of Gondor.”

“Do you expect, my Lady, that he will defend his actions?” Mithrandir shifted in his seat to gaze at her.

“It seems within his character,” she answered slowly, pausing to consider the question further. “But I know little of him, I fear. If some pact was made regarding Lord Húrin’s stewardship of the city then he will expect it is honored.”

“If – and I do mean if – there was an oath given,” Elrohir put in, dark eyes locking upon hers. “He has surely renounced it with his behavior.”

His words and reassuring tone did much to comfort her as the others provided nods of agreement. While it was probably not so straightforward, she felt the tug hope for the first time since Baranor spoke to her yesterday.

“What should be the punishment for such an act?” Elladan queried to no one in particular.

“It would be to Aragorn’s advantage to make an example of the fellow,” Mithrandir commented. “His kingship, barely in its infancy, would benefit from a firm ruling.”

“I have no concern on that account,” Éomer announced, standing beside Elladan with his arms crossed. “Neither Aragorn nor Imrahil are men who let such evil deeds transpire with impunity.”

The flap of the tent opened as the King of Rohan finished his statement, a Gondorian soldier entering with a bow.

“My Lords and Lady, the Prince’s company arrives.”

Lothíriel and Elrohir stood at once, Mithrandir looking up at them for a moment before rising as well. Éomer caught the woman’s gaze as the twins also shared a look. After a moment of silence the White Wizard glanced between the four before speaking.

“Shall we not meet the Prince?”

Following his lead, they quitted the tent and stood in a line at the impromptu road bisecting the camp. The sounds and sight of Imrahil’s small faction already making way down the center quickened her heartbeat. They rode two and three abreast, her father at the head. Beside him was Amrothos with a drawn expression. They bore down upon the thoroughfare, the twins’ tent among the final ones before the King’s. Lothíriel felt the color leave her face as the soldiers riding behind the Prince came into view. The line was lengthy, the number of his coterie in the twenties and she could not discern anyone besides her kin yet. She felt Éomer’s arm against hers as he shifted his stance. Pressing her lips together she took a quiet breath through her nose, hoping to appear as dignified as she intended despite the quailing of her heart.

As they came closer she inadvertently sucked in a breath, the faces of the men becoming more distinguishable. A hand immediately encircled her hand and wrist, hidden from view by their bodies, and Éomer gave her a gentle squeeze. The pressure and warm touch brought her back to her senses, her muscles tensing before relaxing. Her fingers curled toward his hand, not quite holding it, but acknowledging his gesture. It lasted only a breath and he released her, still standing close as they waited.

Imrahil’s expression as he closed the gap was both apprehensive and perplexed. He halted and dismounted, Amrothos following suit. Behind him was Evandor, who appeared uneasy, looking first at Lothíriel before turning to survey the men behind him.

“My Lords,” the Prince greeted the group, his horse shadowing his footsteps as he held the reins in one hand and approached them. Grey eyes found Lothíriel with unabashed curiosity and concern. “Daughter.”

“Well met, Father,” she greeted with a curtsey, her voice hollow.

“Hail, Prince Imrahil,” Mithrandir took charge then, with a practiced smile. “A welcomed return. We have much to discuss.”

“What is it?” Amrothos questioned tensely, looking first to Gandalf before settling on Éomer as he came up beside his father. Lothíriel could not look directly at him, instead dropping her gaze with a polite bow.

“Let us come inside,” Elladan announced, indicating to the tent. A stable lad came to take the Lords’ horses, leading them away as the rest of the company dismounted and seemed to go about their respective business.

“First,” came Éomer’s polite yet sharp voice. “Where is the Lord Baranor?”

Although still behind the Prince and his son Evandor’s gaze found Lothíriel’s at once, realization settling on his expression as she felt him stare at her lip. Brows furrowed as he whipped around, murmuring something to man beside him. Amrothos must have heard this, glancing at Evandor before approaching Lothíriel.

“Will you not speak plainly?” this question was directed at Éomer but Amrothos was looking at his sister.

“Fetch Lord Baranor,” came the Prince’s authoritative order, which Evandor accepted with a nod. He began backtracking through the party that remained, moving from man to man. Imrahil settled an astute gaze on his daughter before nodding to Elladan. “By your leave, Lord Elladan.”

The small group re-entered the tent, Imrahil and Amrothos joining them. Lothíriel felt weighed down by boulders as she moved inside, unable to look her kinsmen in the eye. She repeated silent mantras to herself to bolster the threadbare confidence she had left but all she felt was small and fearful. Though he did not stand right at her side she observed Éomer positioning himself near her as they circled the table, the silence heavy.

“May we speak openly here?” the Prince began, dark brows raised expectantly over eyes the color of storm clouds.

“Whilst we await the Lord Baranor we will apprise you of the tidings,” Elrohir began before looking at Lothíriel. “Will you grant me leave to share this, my Lady?”

The woman nodded mutely, unable to trust her voice. The Elf flashed her a calm smile before retelling the prior day’s events. Imrahil absorbed the information with a stoic visage but Amrothos reacted to each word with growing ire, his lips pressed thin as his brows drew together in anger. Disbelief played across his features to compete with the rising fury. Though he was circumspect in his recitation Elrohir looked mildly discomfited as he concluded, his gaze moving from the men of Dol Amroth to the Princess.

“This is unacceptable,” Amrothos proclaimed harshly, looking then to his father. “I suspected his foul purpose  when he arrived so hastily. Evandor warned of him as well.”

“There are many threads to unravel,” the Prince answered with a measured tone. “But first, I would speak to my daughter.”

“No,” Lothíriel found herself saying, raising her gaze to him with an expression of resolve. “I know what you will ask. I am alright. I want only to know what is to be done.”

“Did Baranor join your party?” Mithrandir asked before Amrothos could speak, cutting in gently before the young man had a chance to respond to his sister.

“Yes,” Imrahil replied, still looking at Lothíriel before addressing the White Wizard. “He came late in the evening, seeking my attention, and bearing a letter from Lord Húrin. He came too with assurances about the affectionate nature of your feelings toward him.”

“Imagined and delusional,” Éomer murmured, though he seemed to regret this immediate response, glancing at Lothíriel and tempering his expression. The group was looking at him then so he continued in a more measured tone. “We sought to apprehend him last night but learned he’d left. The Lady suspected he intended to come upon you and distort the truth.”

“He was intent that you two held a fondness for one another,” the Prince continued, unable – or unwilling – to conceal his distaste now. “I was guarded in my response and made it clear it would need to come from you if that were true. He referred to the letter and called it ‘fortuitous’ that the agreement made about a marriage for him would align with the mutual attachment felt by Lothíriel and himself.”

“A snake!” Amrothos grimaced.

“There is no attachment,” the woman stated, the words clear as she held her father’s gaze. “Ever has he been a menace. But… it is true, then. You and Lord Húrin came to your arrangement for Minas Tirith by way of a betrothal for Baranor.”

“That was a portion of the accord. But never were you mentioned, melethel.”

“Baranor does not seem to think so,” Éomer put in.

“Or rather, he assumed the Lady was an acceptable prize,” Elladan answered, to which Elrohir and Éomer nodded. Amrothos was becoming impatient, rhythmically tapping his boot against the leg of a chair as he crossed his arms, shaking his head.

“He is a bastard,” the Prince’s son muttered. “I fail to see why we are standing about and not apprehending him.”

“He will answer for his behavior,” Imrahil replied calmly, though an element of anger was evident in his tone. “Aragorn will preside over his sentence. Until he returns, we will have the Lord confined to await the King’s justice.”

“Give me leave to secure him myself, Father.”

“That will not be necessary. Evandor undertook the task. He will bring Baranor forth.”

Amrothos made a disapproving noise but said no more, looking away from the others with a contemptuous scowl. Lothíriel could feel herself shrinking again, the moment of confidence and clarity behind her. Fear awoke the dragon nestled in her stomach, its serpentine body moving along her insides as she frowned. This was not the same feeling she experienced earlier with Éomer, though she recognized the familiar way it slid up to her ribcage, wedging itself between her lungs.

Anger had been replaced with an icy alarm – what if Baranor escaped again? What if he claimed the oath made in the agreement committed her to him? Her mind tried to reason with the dragon, but it was to no avail. She took a shaky breath, turning away from the men to recover her composure. They were speaking in low tones behind her, though she was unable and uninterested in their conversation, focusing instead on breathing and quelling the creature clutching her heart.

Lothíriel sensed someone move closer to her. She prepared to compose herself as the tent was entered. All parties turned to behold Evandor flanked by two Swan Knights, the three men breathing heavily, brows slick with sweat from their errand. Once turned she saw it was Éomer who’d approached her, but they were now focused on Evandor as he bowed.

“We have Baranor in custody.”

Chapter Text

“You tackled him to the ground?”

“Something of that nature,” Evandor answered with an unabashed grin as they stood in the twins’ tent, pausing in his tale to confirm Amrothos’ question. “His horse was already fatigued from the mad dash to our camp last night, I wager. The old boy wasn’t nearly fast enough to outrun Gledhril, especially on uneven terrain. I came along his flank and expected he’d pull up, knowing he was bested. But he kept that poor courser on so the lads moved up to block his path. When he drew his sword and we slowed I loosed my stirrups, sprang from Gledhril’s saddle and knocked Baranor to the ground. He had a far rougher landing than I, I reckon.”

“A most daring capture,” Elladan quipped with a barely hidden smirk.

“Aye, there were a few more theatrics than I was anticipating. But we hauled him back and he awaits you, my Lords. I’ve had him manacled and kept under guard at the Dol Amroth garrison.”

“Well done, the three of you,” the Prince praised, to which Evandor and the knights bowed before the latter two departed.

Lothíriel was unsure how she felt about this news, the thought of Baranor in the camp making her uneasy but also buoyed by the hope that this would be over in short order. Imrahil began discussing with Amrothos and the Elven twins how they might manage the prisoner, their body language seemingly releasing the Princess and Evandor from the conversation. She watched them move closer to the table, dropping their voices as plans began to evolve. Mithrandir had excused himself some time ago so she was left to stand near Evandor some distance from the others. Éomer remained in closer proximity to her but his attention seemed dedicated to the machinations of the other men.

“Is that Baranor’s work?” Evandor murmured with a nod of his head to her mouth. She stared at him for a moment, his words registering some moments after they were spoken. She nodded and he shook his head. “Cur. I had a feeling he was up to no good when he appeared without notice last night. Told your brother as much.”

“I’m grateful you thwarted his attempt to flee.”

“The Lord Elfhelm will be glad of it too, I suspect.”

“He rides with the King of Gondor.”

“Then he’ll return to celebrated tidings. Baranor will trouble you no longer, my Lady.”

“Thank you, Evandor. Truly. You have been among my most ardent protectors, and I am appreciative of the lengths you’ve endured.”

Evandor tilted his head as his cheeks reddened, averting his eyes with a nonchalant shrug. They shared a smile before the man resumed his Knightly comportment, the attention of the Lords suddenly turning to the pair. Five pairs of eyes settled keenly on Lothíriel, to which she stared back, bemused.

“Loth, did you hear me?” Amrothos asked with a quirk of his brow.

“No.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Oh… no.” The Princess assessed their expressions and gathered the topic of Baranor was concluded for now. Her brother glanced at the other men before speaking.

“We are meeting with Mithrandir in a moment to discuss supplies. I can see you back to the tent and –” before he could finish and she respond Éomer spoke, gesturing politely to acknowledge the interruption.

“Forgive me but it would be my honor to conduct the Lady to the Prince’s tent and send for food,” he began with a look to Imrahil then Amrothos before settling on Lothíriel. “On the way I will apprise you of the next steps with regard to Lord Baranor.”

Lothíriel agreed with a nod, ignoring her brother's raised brows. Imrahil assured her he would join her shortly and gave his approval that Éomer escort her. They departed with Evandor who swiftly bid farewell to attend to his duties. Despite his assurance to tell her more, the walk to Prince’s tent was silent, Éomer matching her pace. When they were within the drawing room she turned to face him, Fian having been sent on errand to fetch her food.

“Baranor will be kept a prisoner until the King returns, then?” Grey eyes leveled with his as she crossed her arms protectively about her torso.

“Yes. The span of a day or two I would guess.”

“Will others be apprised of his detention?”

“No. Your father and Gandalf feel it wiser to limit the dilemma to only those who need know.” Relief flooded her mind as she visibly relaxed. The thought of the entire camp knowing she’d been a victim of her own naïveté, Baranor’s behavior notwithstanding, was paralyzing. “We serve as wardens until Aragorn can dispense justice.”

“What justice do you imagine he will serve?”

“I’m not sure,” the Horselord replied with a frown, a hand on his sword as he regarded her carefully. “The penalty for his crimes in Rohan would be a sound lashing and banishment.”

“Banishment?” Lothíriel’s brows rose, unable to hide her surprise. “He is a Lord.”

“He abused his power and influence. And causing you – any woman – bodily harm… there is no tolerance for such malicious actions. He would know the consequence of his behavior promptly and without remorse, were we in my homeland. It is prudent, I think, that I do not look upon him until Aragorn arrives.”

The Princess did not respond, instead nodding as silence filled the space between them. The dragon in her chest was simmering, slinking back to wind itself along the steps of her vertebrae. She did not know how to vanquish it, instead resigned to relief that it no longer clenched her lungs and heart. Éomer was regarding her with a look suggesting he wanted to say more but instead canted his head.

“I take my leave.”

Impulsively she looked up, words caught in her throat asking him to stay. Stay for what? It was edging on scandalous that he’d been alone with her so many times already. And now there was no war or trauma to excuse such indiscretion and speculation would abound. She was reminded, then, of Baranor’s snide remark about how folks talked. Éomer did not need ill-timed gossip impacting his new reign. And she did not need the pressure of wagging tongues on her conscience. Closing her mouth and swallowing she nodded.

“Thank you.” She walked with him to the entrance but he paused, catching her with a worried gaze.

“I am sorry this happened,” he remarked quietly. She frowned, perplexed.

“It was neither your actions nor will guiding Baranor.”

“No,” he agreed, also frowning. “And yet I find myself wanting to apologize for not guarding you against such wickedness, though I wonder if you might find that patronizing. So too do I regret the manner with which I handled yesterday’s plight. I have made this mistake time and again with my sister – I do not wish to repeat it with you.”

“Mistake?”

“Long has Éowyn endured my unintended condescension of her skill and, perhaps even, her heart. I am,” he paused, trying to find the words. The dark-haired woman waited patiently as he worked through his thoughts, watching him with a placid expression. “I have always protected her, as surely your brothers have done for you. But in that protection I have relegated her to the role of my vulnerable defenseless little sister, even when she has proved herself more than capable. I have wondered in the time since the battle on the fields of Minas Tirith, if it was my grip on her that caused her to act as she did.”

“I doubt it was the sole influence.”

“No, she has said as much in our talks and in the letter you bore. But I am… I am trapped between what is expected – I am the elder brother. Her safety is my responsibility. I have failed if I allow harm to come to her. But when I beheld her lying on that field I…” a pause, “no. I cannot linger in such dark thoughts,” he looked away then. His eyes were glassy and she witnessed the same Éomer from that night in the House of Healing, a silent sentinel at his sister’s bedside. Sniffing and looking to the ground the King took a breath, the muscle in his jaw clenching before he spoke again. “I fear to make the same mistake. With her. With you.”

“I hold no resentment and, though I cannot speak for Éowyn, I believe she would feel the same.” Éomer raised his gaze, the tears gone from his eyes and his expression was pensive if not a bit hopeful.

“You are most forgiving, my Lady. May I call upon you later to see how you are faring?”

“I would like that,” she answered with a smile. With a small bow the King of Rohan departed, his words replaying in Lothíriel’s head well after he disappeared.

TTTT

The afternoon and evening were uneventful, Lothíriel finding time to rest and converse with her family. She wished to attend the healing tent but was dissuaded by Amrothos. Little was shared about Baranor and she was uncertain if that relieved or bothered her. Imrahil took his dinner in the tent with her, excusing themselves from the formal atmosphere of court. They’d nearly finished their quiet meal, seated at a small table opposite one another, when the Prince spoke.

“King Éomer has inquired if he could check in with you tonight.”

Lothíriel looked up from her plate, grey eyes catching his as he appraised her in his solemn shrewd manner. Taking her time in responding the woman sat up a bit straighter, wiping the corner of her mouth and taking a sip of wine before answering.

“Yes, Ada. He mentioned he would visit.”

“Is this amenable to you?”

“It is. He has been the portrait of kindness and decorum,” she replied carefully, gauging her father’s objective. “It is fortunate he is so magnanimous considering the predicament I laid at his feet last night.”

“Indeed. He has shown the utmost tact in this situation. Beyond the most recent events, however, I am curious for your thoughts on the King.”

“My thoughts?”

“You have been thrown together in a most unexpected and uncourtly fashion. The war, your position as a healer and his sister’s circumstances have allowed you two interactions which would otherwise be considered indecent.” He raised a reassuring hand to her open mouth, anticipating the objection ready to be voiced. “It is no fault of yours or his that this has happened. But the war is won and we will all be settling back into our expected roles.”

“What are you asking me, Father?” There was a lengthy pause as his expression shifted, and she wasn’t entirely sure where he would take the conversation. At length he adjusted his seat in the chair to a more relaxed position, looking to the side at the Dol Amroth heraldry hanging in the tent.

“Do you recall… when you were a girl you requested permission to join the Maidens?” he asked wistfully, ignoring her expression as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the topic switch. “As your father my heart was warmed to know you found such a worthy calling. As a Prince, however, it was a challenge to balance your desire with the expectation of duty.”

“It is no longer my calling,” she asserted as he leaned back against the chair, goblet stabilized by a hand on his thigh. She was intentionally buying time to understand the purpose of this discussion and he knew it. They’d done this dance many times over the years.

“No. You’ve found a better one as a healer.” Brows rose over stunned eyes. She was not expecting him to give in so quickly. Imrahil smiled. “Our hearts and responsibilities are often in conflict, melethel. It is the burden of our birth. We are granted countless privileges, many of which those we rule over do not know in their lifetimes. We are obligated to remember these advantages lest we become vain and ignoble. Yet there is a small counterbalance in the grand design; our decisions have great impact and therefore we are charged to lean away from our desires and into choices that uphold duty.”

“You’ll forgive me, Ada, if I do not understand how this relates to the King of Rohan.”

“Perhaps it does not,” he conceded with an enigmatic smile, waving his hand as though the prior conversation was a cobweb in his way. “When Aragorn is crowned and the realms of Men begin to rebuild we will all be expected to do our part. Forgo old grievances, build new bridges, enter new roles.”

“Forgo old grievances sounds like an entreaty to forgive those who have wronged us.” The dragon stirred as her brow furrowed, a slow breath taken to quell looming panic. For his part her father tilted his head, confusion written on his weathered face. “You cannot mean for me to pardon Lord Baranor?”

“Certainly not, Lothíriel!” Shock rarely touched his quiet gravely voice but now he leaned forward, shaking his head, and set the goblet on the table. “That man does not deserve the space he occupies, much less your forgiveness.”

“Oh,” she sat back, feeling foolish. “I just… I do not know if he has ruined me in the eyes of our peers. If that is why his arrest is being kept confidential.”

“No,” Imrahil replied, reaching across the table with an open hand. She regarded it for a moment before acquiescing, his hand enveloping hers. “His actions speak only of his own heart. The secrecy of his confinement is owed to a consideration of privacy. That you might not wish the camp to know of his shame. It has nothing to do with you, dear one.”

“It relieves me to hear this, Father.”

“Baranor wanted, or perhaps expected, that he should get his way because he fooled his Lord father and myself into an ambiguous agreement for a betrothal. The onus lies upon him, Húrin and myself. You have not, nor will be given to any man without your consent.”

“What of our expectations? Obligations to station and rule?”

“They tax heavily the shoulders of kings and princes,” he answered, still holding her hand. “But I’ll not rob you of choice. If you told me on the morrow you’d be joining the Order of She Who Weeps I would kiss your cheek and send you to their cloister in Edhellond with all haste. When I speak of obligation and responsibility it is as much my own decision as it yours to make. I have resolved to accept the mantle of Prince and the lofty burdens it carries. If you too determine your life is in service of the crown and our King then you will have to make those decisions.”

“I understand.”

“You must be weary, my daughter,” he said after a beat, squeezing her hand before releasing it. “Will you retire?”

“In time,” she replied, the dragon quieted for now as she smiled at the Prince. “I should like to see Erchirion and perhaps complete a shift at the healer’s tent.”

“It is late in the evening, melethel.”

“I have not had the space or wellness of mind to attend patients and that alone will keep me from sleep. The situation that withheld me from my duties is sorted so I wish to put my hands to good use.”

“Ah, Lothíriel,” the Prince stood then, looking at her with a warm smile. “I would like to think you’ve outgrown sneaking off to do things you were expressly told not to, but I fear it would be naïve of me. You will at least allow an escort between here and the healer’s tent.” The woman nodded dutifully. “And not a full shift, if you please. The night draws in and I suspect there will be much to parse through tomorrow if Aragorn is returned.”

“Yes, Ada.”

TTTT

“You can’t just do a quick sweep of the patients?” Amrothos eyed her skeptically as they walked. Lothíriel was tying the apron at her waist, glancing at him with a strained, unimpressed expression.

“Everyone else has done their part. A mere sweep, as you call it, wouldn’t relieve the other healers for nearly enough time. I agreed to a shortened shift.”

“Father never could say no to you.”

“Shove off,” she quipped in a harsh albeit quiet tone. She stopped, which forced him to double back a few steps, coming close to her to keep their voices hushed, a scowl on his face as she spoke. “You, Elphir and Chir do whatsoever you please. Let me have this.”

“I’m not taking it away from you, Loth. I’m just –”

“Baranor is detained. You have brought me hence and someone will collect me at the end of the shift. Who is my escort, by the by?”

“Oh, ehm,” Amrothos’ visage shifted as her tone adjusted to a query. “Éomer. Well, he’d asked Father to call on you but when the King was told you were attending your patients, he requested leave to bring you back to the tent at the end. If anything you should be reprimanding him! He suggested attending you at the healer’s ward like a damn shadow.”

“For the love of – is not Baranor in custody?”

“Yes…?”

“And who is on guard?”

“Soldiers of the White City.”

“Very good.” She began walking again, her brother falling in stride with a frown. “Then is it permissible for me to see to patients for a spell?”

“You don’t need my permission.”

“Don’t I?”

“Forgive me the crime of love and esteem for my sister.”

Lothíriel stopped again, an annoyed grunt coming from Amrothos as he too stopped. She regarded him then in a waning light, torches illuminating his features as she considered his words. She regretted her tirade then, hearing his (semi-mocking) apology and knowing he was right. Her features softened as he stared at her with expectant and raised brows, no doubt ready to combat her next chastisement.

“You do love me. I was wrong to reproach you for it.”

Her brother stared at her with an astonished visage, flustering for his next words. She did not give him time to revel in her apology, taking off again. Amrothos seemed to think better about poking at her and instead walked in step, nudging her shoulder ever so gently. She smiled as they walked and the tension was no more. When they reached the entrance of the healer’s tent Imrahil’s youngest son faced his sister, his hands placed on her shoulders.

“Work your wonders on those poor bastards. If Chir is awake give him flak from me.”

“I will see you in the morning.”

“Aye. The King of the Horselords will collect you in an hour’s time.”

Chapter Text

The evening proved blessedly uninteresting for Lothíriel. She made her rounds and attended to stocking of herbs and salves as the patients were mostly settled for the night. She’d heard Erchirion had been lucid for a few hours earlier in the day and even attempted to get up but now slumbered deeply, according to the Master of the Healer’s Tent.

She intended to check on him at the end of her partial shift, his sequestered chambers at the back of the tent, along with two other men in private rooms owed to either their injuries or status. The long tent was quiet, most of the handful of healers either off shift or working quietly in their craft. The apprentice, Radhrion, tailed her for most of the night, assisting with this and that. As the closure of their shift came around the Princess instructed the lad to check on the segregated patients as she finished inventory. She was setting tonic bottles on the makeshift shelf when she realized he hadn’t returned from his checks.

The dark tent, lit dimly by rushlight, was nearly quiet as she wove between the pallets to the even darker back of the tent. She poked her head into Erchirion’s room, avoiding shining the light from her thin torch into the room but hearing his measured breathing as he slumbered. The other patient was also asleep and she could hear whispered voices from the final chamber. Not wishing to disturb Radhrion by making a grand entrance if he was helping the patient, Lothíriel ducked into the room silently, nearly dropping the candlestick when her light illuminated the pair.

Baranor was sitting upon the narrow bed, left arm in a linen sling. In his right hand was a thin paring knife, common in a healer’s kit to snip dressings and cut through clothing. It wasn’t much as a weapon but the blade was leveled at the boy, glinting in the warm light. Radhrion’s dark eyes flicked to Lothíriel as she entered, his hands raised. The residual of his worn candle sat on the tiny bedside table casting daunting shadows across the small room.

As she appeared in the space Baranor jerked the knife across the strap of his sling, the fabric tearing as he freed his left arm. Standing at once, he simultaneously switched the knife to the other hand and grabbed Radhrion’s upper arm, pulling the boy to his torso and directing the knife pointing upward at his throat. His limited range of motion ensured he could not bring the blade horizontally to the boy’s neck but this seemed to suffice.

“Why are you here?” Lothíriel asked dumbly. Baranor stared at her for a moment, as though neither of them could quite grasp the reality of this meeting. No answer came as he yanked Radhrion’s arm and brought the blade closer to his skin. The woman raised a hand to indicate supplication, the other still holding the candle. Who thought to bring Baranor to the healing tent and leave him unguarded?

“We are incapable of avoiding one another,” he whispered with a pained grin. She was able to observe him better, though the light was poor. His clothes were smeared with dirt, portions of his tunic ripped and frayed from Evandor’s airborne assault. His face was haggard, blue eyes wild.

“Your quarrel is not with the boy,” she murmured, maintaining eye contact with Baranor.

“I have no quarrel with anyone save you, good Lady,” he hissed. “I need safe passage from camp. This boy ensures that. Are there not woods bordering the back of this tent?”

“Yes. Let him go and you may slip out through there,” she indicated with a nod to the tent wall behind him. Baranor seemed to consider this for a moment, feverish bright eyes moving from her to the side. But he changed his mind, tightening his grip on the terrified apprentice’s arm.

“And give you leave to call your dogs on me? Nay. I’ll take him as a token for safe passage.”

“Your transgressions multiply with each decision you make. Let the injury of this boy not add to them,” she warned him, hoping he would hear reason. “The King will not look kindly on harm to a child.” Baranor regarded her with a confused expression before speaking, dropping his tone.

“The King, which he is not yet, has no power that Gondor has given him! A charlatan parading as a Númenórean. He’ll not be my King and the Steward will not welcome him!” Lothíriel couldn’t help but raise her brows at his incongruous lecture. “I’ll s – surely be victim to his grab for power. Nay, I’ll not be strung up for false claims and outrageous accusations.”

“Your guilt is not only in the King’s eyes but those of his counselors.”

“Guided by your tongue, I’ve no doubt! What did you tell them, eh? What l – lies did you spin of me, Lothíriel?” She did not want to have this conversation, less so in this setting with Radhrion safety at risk.

“Let free the boy,” she encouraged again, her tone gentle in the likeness of speaking to a frightened animal. “No good comes from holding him hostage.”

“No. I seek… only escape.”

“They will hunt you if you bring him hence.

“If – if I am captured I would do better to have b – both of you to bargain,” sickly blue eyes focused on her as he huffed quietly. Her observations had been careful during their discourse, discerning useful information with a healer’s eye. His arm had likely been dislocated by the fall and his position and breathing indicated at least one or two ribs were bruised. He would be tiring from the exertion. Already the knife wielding hand wavered, though he recovered some strength as he moved the blade to the boy’s neck once more.

“Your arm must hurt something fierce,” she posited as he frowned.

“Bastards didn’t set it right,” he muttered, looking down at the ripped sling on the floor. “I haven’t the time for this d-drivel.”

He pivoted slightly, keeping her at length, to look at the fabric wall. He seemed to calculate his options as Lothíriel gestured to Radhrion with what she hoped was a calming extension of her upheld hand. Baranor turned back to her and tugged the boy’s arm toward him.

“I’ll cut the tent. Either of you make this diff – difficult and I’ll spill his blood.” Radhrion and Lothíriel nodded apprehensively. Baranor drew the knife away from his prisoner, jerked it back to him to prove a point, before slashing downward against the wall. The fabric proved tougher than any of them guessed as Baranor whuffled and readjusted his body to slice again. As he worked Lothíriel examined their positions. If he was distracted enough in his endeavor she could use his injuries to her advantage. Baranor, still gripping Radhrion, was putting more effort into the wall, sweating as he tried to fashion an opening while remaining cautious not to make too much noise.

They were mere steps from one another, but she had to take care not to knock the candles over and set the tent ablaze. Her flame was close enough that she decisively blew it out and deposited it on the table, the shadows growing as the room dimmed. Baranor looked at her with a surprised scowl as she hastened forward. Radhrion instinctively pulled back and away as Baranor released him to react to her. Her hand grabbed the wrist wielding the knife as he swung it toward her, slowed by her opposing momentum. Her wrist bent as the blade tried to make contact but he was off balance enough that Lothíriel could push her weight against him. He stepped back as her other hand latched onto his forearm to subdue the knife and avoid having her wrist snapped.  Two hands held the swiping blade as the back of his legs met the bedside.

Baranor’s equilibrium wavered, his other hand grabbing her arm before disengaging to flail for balance. Once stabilized he crashed his fist against her collarbone, aiming for her face but missing as she arched away. As he bent toward her to leverage his knife hand she jerked a knee up to make contact with his abdomen. He swore and grunted in the same breath, her knee not quite landing in his ribs but close enough. Anger distorted his features as his injured shoulder gave up, the knife slackening his grip. He dropped it and grabbed her upper arms, wrenching Lothíriel’s body off balance and onto the small bed.

She hit it with a thud, eyes wide as she found him looming above her, uninjured hand grasping at her neck. She shimmied her body further onto the bed to allow her feet purchase enough to prepare to knee him again but he was suddenly no longer there. His weight and hand were removed with force that bewildered her.

Sitting up immediately she was met by the sight of Baranor being thrown to the floor, Éomer only barely releasing him before crouching above him, fist contacting Baranor’s face in drawn out succession. Éomer’s back was to her as she stood, the tiny room feeling even smaller.  Baranor called out, his voice heavy with liquid as his legs jerked and spasmed.

After the third or fourth punch Lothíriel leapt forward grasping Éomer’s shoulders and pulling back. The Horselord tensed against her, fist drawn up but relented quickly, allowing her to draw him away from the man. Baranor’s face was fraught and bloodied, his nose and mouth bubbling blood as he moaned and curled away from Éomer.

“No more,” she called out, pivoting as Éomer stood to face her. The whites of his eyes glistened in the low light and at first she did not recognize him but his expression settled, respiring heavily with either exertion or anger.

“Are you hurt?” he breathed, brow furrowing as he looked her over. Behind him came guards of Gondor and Rohan, filling the limited space and heaving Baranor up.

“No.”

“What evil brought him to you?”

“Now is not the time,” she answered with a frown. Éomer nodded and turned away, directing the guards to remove Baranor to the makeshift prison. Lothíriel’s head was swimming with questions and, despite the intensity of the moment, she felt enlivened as her heart beat erratically. As they exited the small room she saw Radhrion coming forward, his visage vacillating between worried and relieved.

“Are you alright?” she asked, taking his forearms and inspecting him.

“I am, Lady, thank you. I shouldn’t have left but I didn’t know what – ”

“You did well,” she assured him with a smile.

“The lad made a fine racket, which alerted me,” Éomer replied, wiping Baranor’s blood with a rag offered by another healer as they moved through the tent. The disturbance had woken many patients as soldiers moved along the aisles to bear the prisoner away.

Lothíriel walked beside the King, trying to quiet her mind as it tried in equal parts to process what had just transpired and reflect on her poor melee skills. They departed the tent, Radhrion returning to his quarters with the other apprentices with encouragement from Lothíriel to rest. The camp was surprisingly quiet given the cacophony in her head. She’d expected more movement but aside from the men who’d absconded with Baranor it seemed the rest of Cormallen was unmoved. Éomer rounded on her then, hazel eyes staring at her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

“How did this come to pass, Lothíriel?” he asked softly, still some distance from the tent of Dol Amroth. When she frowned the King of Rohan crossed his arms. “I would know as much as you can tell me before I bear these tidings to Imrahil.”

Although it vexed her to hear his reasoning she explained what she knew, watching his expression remain stoic throughout. But his eyes held both anger and concern. When she concluded he averted his gaze, looking to the side before speaking.

“I fear we are missing some of the truth. Why Baranor would even be permitted access to the tent is beyond me, but I will find out what transpired.”

“An error of communication, perhaps.”

“In what capacity?”

“Evandor mentioned Baranor was being kept by Dol Amroth’s soldiers. Amrothos said only hours ago he was attended by guards of Minas Tirith. With the changing of men and the ambition of secrecy I suspect it was tolerable to treat his injuries. His shoulder and ribs were in poor shape, which is likely the only reason I had half a chance of contesting him.”

“Which you shouldn’t have done to begin with.” Lothíriel’s expression darkened, and she saw in Éomer’s face that he regretted his words at once.

“And let him hurt the boy? Give him leave to flee into the woods?” The tremulous energy she experienced earlier rose again as the dragon in her chest breathed smoke into her lungs, the back of her eyes stinging. “I did what I could because I could. He was injured enough I had sufficient opportunity to subdue him. Your admonishment is unwarranted.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed with a nod, eyes holding her gaze. “I should not have spoken thus. Nor should I have responded so brutally. I reacted to seeing him on top of you and it was… I was deprived of reason.” They stood in silence for a moment before Lothíriel sighed, breaking their gaze to look down.

“I am grateful you arrived when you did, Éomer. As, I’m sure, my father and brother will be.”

“In all frankness I don’t think I assailed him enough for Amrothos. I ought to have thrown a few more hits, though he’ll probably want his own go at Baranor.”

“There will be no more violence against him,” she cautioned. “Let the King decide his fate and let him have the health to suffer it.”

“If that is your wish I will abide by it. Your brother may need further convincing.”

“Then let us delay no longer, for I am tired.” They resumed their walk, the banner of Dol Amroth looming in the moonlight before them. Before they were at the entrance Éomer paused once more, halting her progress with a gentle hand on her wrist.

“Before we meet them I would know how you wish me to convey the information.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t wish to take your words from you by detailing the events of earlier. Would you have me stay silent until the end?”

“Oh.” Despite the somber topic Lothíriel couldn’t help but smile slightly, which seemed to surprise the Horselord. “I will tell them as much as I told you. Then it might be best if you step in. Thank you for your consideration. It is… thank you.”

Éomer smiled then, the seriousness of his expression breaking as he canted his head. Lothíriel could not help but desire to see this smile more frequently from him. He glanced down, realizing her wrist was still in his possession. He released her and they lingered in proximity as though neither was ready to separate. The longing to touch him was amplified by her exhaustion, wishing to feel his arms around her so she could close her eyes and neglect responsibility. She believed herself mistaken when she caught the same yearning in his eyes, vanished only when he looked away, adjusted his visage and looked back to her.

“My Lady,” he extended a hand to bid her walk ahead of him to enter the tent. She gave a small polite smile and followed his gesture, steeling her heart to face her father and brother.

Chapter Text

“And Amrothos has not yet killed this man?”

Lothíriel regarded her middle brother with a barely hidden simpering grin, pausing in her needlework take in his incredulous expression. The bandage covering his eyeless socket shifted as his brows rose, seemingly disbelieving.

“Not for lack of desire,” she replied as she resumed stitching the torn shirt. She’d been seated there for nearly an hour relaying the events of the past several days. Erchirion shook his head gently, reaching up to adjust the placement of the makeshift eyepatch before speaking again.

“And what did King Elessar decide for this rat in silk stockings?”

“He has been hauled off in irons back to Minas Tirith this morning, where he awaits judgment.”

“What need is there for waiting? He has enough offenses to sentence him for an age.”

“It is not for him that they wait but for the King to be crowned. Aragorn would announce his verdict whence he has been anointed and given the city by Faramir.”

“Hmm.” So alike was the noise her brother made she could have sworn it was Amrothos responding as he had the day prior when the decision was wrought. Neither man was overly elated that Baranor would wait for punishment and even less enthused that he would be transported back to the White City. But it was Aragorn’s decree and none opposed it. 

“They didn’t grant Amrothos authority to bear him hence?” When Lothíriel shook her head her sibling grinned slightly. “Likely for the best. The poor bastard wouldn’t see the city or his punishment if our dear brother was in charge.”

“His small company was led by Gaelen,” Erchirion’s puzzled expression gave Lothíriel pause. “One of my guards on the road to Cormallen,” she finished as Erchirion nodded approvingly.

“And does Father accept this?”

“He does. It was he who explained to Amrothos in more than one way the legitimacy of Aragorn’s decision and why it was more appropriate than delivering judgment now.”

“And what of you, little swan? Does this decision settle your heart on the matter?”

“Yes,” she answered, laying the shirt on her lap to meet Erchirion’s gaze. “I was privy to the council yesterday and Aragorn gave me leave to not only provide testimony but offer my opinion on the matter.”

“I am glad of it. I suspect he will be a mighty king.”

“Aye,” she answered with a solemn nod, her thoughts cast back to yesterday’s gathering. “Were it up to Amrothos or the King of Rohan I suspect Baranor’s punishment would be more severe.”

“It may yet be. Aragorn is wise to delay until he is seen as the rightful king by the people of Gondor. Baranor is no mere man of the city but the son of a Lord.”

“How is it you and Father posses such prudence and Amrothos cannot be bothered with it?”

“Ah,” Erchirion smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness. “He is young, yet. And he loves his sister. Can we fault him for such things?”

“No.”

“And the Rohirrim have different customs and expectations,” he continued. “I imagine the King of Rohan would deliver a different verdict entirely, were we in the land of the Horselords.”

Lothíriel nodded as silence filled the small room. Erchirion lay back against the pillows, closing his one eye. This had been the most cogent and lengthy interaction they’d had since she arrived at the camp. She was grateful he seemed more like himself and guilty to give him such ill tidings. But he’d been adamant she explain not only the cut on her lip but the rumors he’d heard the day before about a lord attacking the daughter of the Prince. She’d provided the mildest most concise relay of events, pausing to answer the occasional question.

Her brother had taken the information as she expected, easily the most thoughtful and measured of her three siblings. She watched him relax, his posture and awareness taxing given his condition. After a few moments she began to gather her items to let him rest. He opened his eye and caught her hand gently before she stood.

“I am glad you are alright, Mithelphe.”

“And I am glad for the same, Chir.”

“Do you know what they plan to do with me?”

“What do you mean?” she settled back into the chair, brows drawing together as she watched him.

“Will they send me to Minas Tirith?”

“I don’t know. I believe Father would have you moved to the Dol Amroth tent as soon as you are released.”

“I want to go home, Loth.” The grief in his voice froze her, his grey eye drifting away from her face as his fingers twined about the blanket. “I know there are many great deeds and celebrations awaiting the host as the lands of Men rejoice. But I want to go home. I long for the sea.”

“I am sure Father will understand.”

“Will you tell him?” Erchirion’s voice was small, as though he was a child again begging her to beguile Imrahil into acquiescence. Yet his tone was not mischievous but pleading. She reached for his hand, stopping it from tensely winding the blanket.

“Yes,” she answered with a smile. “I will make your wishes known.”

“Thank you.”

“Rest now. I shall return soon to see how you fare and if you might be ready to join us in our tent.”

TTTT

Lothíriel finished her shift and departed the healing ward as she had agreed to, pausing only to check on the young apprentice, Radhrion. Assured he was well and recovering from their escapade two nights ago the Princess stepped out into the bright sun, shielding her eyes as she surveyed the camp.

Although she’d expressed her confidence in the decision to send Baranor to Minas Tirith she was secretly uneasy about it. During the council it was discovered Baranor entreated his guards to bring him to the healing tent that night to fix his shoulder, convincing the unknowing men that he was merely a deserter. His guards had not been soldiers of Dol Amroth but rather Minas Tirith and had not been apprised of Baranor’s deeds nor the nature of his confinement.

She felt certain Gaelen, who’d volunteered to escort the Lord back to the White City, would bring him there without delay and would be immune to trickery. But she feared what could happen once he entered the city and gained Húrin’s ear. Her unease was soothed by Imrahil’s assurance that, not only would Gaelen see to the secure passage of Baranor, but Faramir would be intimately apprised of the situation, as Gaelen bore a letter to her cousin from the Prince. She reminded herself of these promises as she walked the narrow lane toward the Dol Amroth tent.

“My Lady!” came a voice off to her left. Éomer appeared striding toward her, raising a hand in greeting. She dipped into a curtsey, holding the sewing kit in one hand as she rose with a smile.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted him. The blond man glanced in the direction she’d come from with an expression she could not place, stopping before her with a bow. “I was hoping to find my father and brother.”

“Fine timing,” the King replied with a small smile. “I just departed their company for they have been in council meetings with Aragorn and the Elven lords.”

“Well that dashes my plans to pester Amrothos,” the Princess quipped with mock disappointment. “Am I permitted to know what keeps them? I thought they’d only be occupied in the morning.”

“The Halflings, Frodo and Sam, have roused from the slumber set upon them by Aragorn,” Éomer answered, nodding to a pair of soldiers bowing to them as they walked past. “Now they have awoken and plans will be set in motion to return to Minas Tirith.”

“This must please you.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” His expression faltered for a breath but he recovered before she could remark on it. They stood there for a moment longer, Lothíriel becoming aware that he was lingering intentionally, though she could not guess his purpose.  “Would you care to walk with me? I snuck a molasses cake for my horse,” he procured a small, wrapped item from the depths of his cloak. “And he does not tolerate waiting.”

“It would be my honor.”

Lothíriel deposited the sewing kit into the pocket of her skirt and accepted his offered arm with a smile. Despite the warning they tread at a leisurely pace, the King setting the stride as they moved through the camp. As much as she wished to see her kinsmen the Princess was delighted to walk with Éomer, so much so she had to school her expression to not appear overly elated.

“Your sister will be glad to have you returned to the city,” Lothíriel remarked at length. Éomer instinctively looked down as they walked and gave a half shrug.

“Perhaps.”

“Are you still put out with her?”

“I’m not put out,” he answered with a shade of indignance, which was followed up quickly. “I do not comprehend her reasons for staying. I suspect our reunion will be rife with explanations on both sides.”

“She will be grateful of your return.”

“How well you seem to know my sister’s heart after so few days with her.”

Lothíriel paused then such that Éomer turned to look at her, mirroring her frown. She began walking and he followed suit as she spoke.

“I do not claim to know her heart in full. But I recognize the love she holds for you. Whatever your quarrel before departing it will be put aside when you are reunited.”

“Your conviction leaves little room for doubt.”

“Her decision to stay behind was hurtful. Mayhaps more so than she anticipated. But it was not done with the intention of wounding or creating strife between you.”

“I know this,” he conceded quietly as they walked down the makeshift barn aisles, the Gondorian steeds giving way to horses of Rohan. “I suppose I expected her to come at once simply because I requested it.”

Lothíriel nodded, unsure if he was looking for her to divulge more or simply listen. He did not press and the silence between them was placid. They reached Éomer’s dapple grey destrier, who came to him immediately, dropping his great head into the King’s outstretched hands. It was not long before his soft muzzle was snuffling at Éomer’s sleeves and into the recesses of his cloak. A smile unlike one she’d beheld upon him lit his features as he procured the molasses cake, unwrapping it under the dutiful eye of his horse.

The Princess positioned herself to the side to give the pair space and not interfere with the holy act of treat giving. The King looked to her as the cake all but disappeared from his palm, the merriment enduring in his hazel eyes.

“A hound for sweets, is Firefoot.”

“He is most deserving,” she answered as the stallion, disinterested by the lack of cakes in Éomer’s hands, approached her. He sniffed her person, ears pricked forward as he investigated. Once he deemed her hands bereft of treats as well, he allowed her to stroke his long face, her fingers running gently over his closed eyelids. 

“You’d never know he was a warhorse,” Éomer remarked with an affectionate tone as he watched them. “A lady’s palfrey, more like.”

“Even the bravest horses merit a soft hand. Isn’t that so,” she murmured to the grey. She spoke then in Elvish to the great horse, complimenting his courage and noble bearings. Looking to the King she smiled warmly, which he only returned after a moment, hazel eyes trained on her hands as they stroked the animal.

“You are fluent in the language of the Elves,” he observed quietly, his gaze finding hers. She tilted her head, unsure if there was disapproval in his statement.

“Sindarin is the mother tongue of Dol Amroth,” she replied, pulling strands of the horse’s dark forelock away from his ears. “It is habit I fall into, especially when speaking to such a magnificent beast.” At this the King smiled again.

“It is a melodic language. My uncle had command of Elvish, though little chance to use it in his final years.” Lothíriel’s brows rose as she observed him, the man’s expression softening at the mention of Théoden.

“A learned man,” she chanced and he nodded.

“His father – my mother’s father – knew more than just our language and passed it to his children.”

“Your mother spoke Sindarin?”

“At times,” he answered distantly, focused on the horse as he spoke. “She would sing Elvish songs when we were young. But neither Éowyn nor I were given a proper education – something I suspect my sister regrets.”

“Well, you both surpass me as I have little knowledge of your language,” the Princess smiled, hoping to turn his thoughts away from the sadness underscoring his words and visage. “Though I should like to learn. With the darkness vanquished it seems both Rohan and Gondor will renew close ties and I may have need to master it.”

“Oh?” dark brows rose as he leveled his gaze upon her, resting his arm on the horse’s back. “Have you plans to visit the Riddermark?”

“Your sister was generous enough to extend an invitation, which I heartily accepted. By your leave, of course.”

“If Éowyn bid you come then you need no permission from me.” The shieldmaiden’s brother stared at her with a hint of a smile on his lips, which faded before his next words. “We will bear the remains of my uncle to his resting place. A funeral procession, as is his due, will be arranged once Aragorn and I sort the details. Your father has already agreed to ride to Edoras when the time comes. Will you ride with him?”

“That is an exalted offer,” Lothíriel replied, warmth spreading from her chest up to her neck and cheeks. “I would be honored to attend your uncle’s funeral procession.”

He nodded and they fell into a comfortable silence, the Princess pulling small burrs and debris from the stallion’s mane as the King worked on a spot of dried mud on the horse’s haunch with his fingernails. It seemed to her that Éomer had more to say but focused instead on the task, his determination unbefitting of such a minor labor. The warhorse was content to be doted upon, his great head dropping and posture relaxed as the pair worked.

“When we took leave of Minas Tirith,” he began quietly, pausing to brush the loose dirt away as she gave him her full attention, brows suspended with curiosity. “I’d told you I would think of you as Mithelphe, for it was all you gave when first I asked.” Lothíriel resisted a playful reminder that she too recalled this exchange. “But as we were on the road it occurred to me I could not call you by a childhood epithet. That would not do. After some carefully worded inquiries with the Elven members of our party I came to understand what Mithelphe meant. And I resolved to find a name in my own language for you.”

The Lady of Dol Amroth tilted her head when he stopped, unable to hide her interest. Éomer watched her for a moment before smiling, ever so slightly, before continuing, averting his eyes as he spoke.

“Eala,” he murmured with a brief pause. “Our word for swan. Perhaps a bit crude compared to the harmony of Mithelphe. Rustic, even.”

“It is a gift,” Lothíriel interrupted, unable to hide a warm smile as she looked at him. “I would gladly be bestowed such a lovely sobriquet.”

“I’ll not use it in the company of others, as we established before. Your name is beautiful enough. But I… I thought you should know. As you perhaps wondered why I did not fulfill my agreement to call you Mithelphe.”

“In truth I had not considered it with all that transpired. But you honor me with such a title. And I rather prefer it come from the tongue of your homeland.” Interest flourished as he raised his brows and lifted his chin slightly at her comment. “It is more thoughtful.”

“Well I am nothing if not thoughtful,” he answered. Lothíriel looked at him then, surprised by his playful tone as he returned his gaze to the horse. After a moment of quiet the King turned to face her, the mud spot forgotten as he regarded her. “I expect events will transpire quickly now that the Hobbits have woken.”

“Was their slumber stalling events?”

“Somewhat. Matters had to be dealt with here regardless, and the wounded needed healing. But it became clear once the Ringbearer and his companion awoke the host would depart for Minas Tirith swiftly. Plans have long been in place to quit Cormallen when such a time came.”

“You sound distressed by this. Do you think it unwise to return to Minas Tirith?”

“No,” he answered with a sigh and glance at the horse, dark brows knitting as he considered his words. “But I reckon all will move with great haste. And with that haste it will be difficult… I will not… we may be… prohibited from meetings such as these.”

“Ah,” she nodded then, understanding his meaning as she turned her attention to the horse. “Propriety.”

“Propriety.”

“How fortunate you found me when you did,” she commented with a sly glance to the King, which he received with a frown before a sheepish grin pulled at his lips.

“I did not know when I might have this opportunity again. I beg your forgiveness if I’ve made you feel deceived.”

“Hardly. I am fond of time in your company.”

Éomer did not reply but instead nodded once. She did not press it as he appeared concerned. She noted that he maintained their physical distance, remaining at Firefoot’s haunches while she continued her ministrations at the horse’s head. The King rubbed his jaw as he seemed to consider his next words.

“Your brother, Erchirion,” he began, avoiding her gaze, “I am told he will return to Dol Amroth?”

“Yes. If the court is to be dissolved, I imagine my father will send him home to continue his recovery.”

“And you?” Éomer looked at her with hazel eyes that guarded the vulnerability that was audible in his voice, if only faintly.

“I do not know. I hadn’t given it much thought.” Lothíriel stopped petting the horse and regarded him with curiosity. “If the Prince bids me stay with him, I shall return to Minas Tirith. But if I am tasked to travel with Erchirion I will obey.”

“I had hoped – assumed you would ride with us – rather, the host of the West.” The King was uncharacteristically concentrated on his words, pausing and adjusting as he frowned. “My sister would be glad to see you, I am sure.”

“If I am not directed to escort my brother to Dol Amroth I would be pleased to return to Minas Tirith. For Éowyn.”

“For Éowyn,” he repeated with an almost imperceptible smile.

“As it stands, I much desire to know what becomes of Baranor once the king is crowned and it would be a disappointment to wait for word in Dol Amroth.”

“Execution, castration, public flogging. I can think of a number of suitable punishments for that cur,” Éomer answered darkly. Before she could respond he took a step toward her, his voice lowered to match the seriousness of his statement. “He will not evade judgment again.”

“No, he would be lucky to piss in private after the affront he pulled – if you’ll forgive my indecent tongue.”

“I rather like your indecent tongue,” he replied smoothly before clearing his throat and adopting a polite if not strained expression. His words caused her to look away as her skin warmed and her heart jumped. He managed to conceal the flustered look with a light cough and adjustment in tone. “I suppose I’ve kept you long enough, my Lady.”

“It was generous of you to share your time with Firefoot with me, my Lord,” she stated with a courteous cant of her head and smile. “I can see myself back, as I have a number of errands to complete before the day ends.”

“Of course.” Éomer nodded and walked with her out of the makeshift stall. Although they were still alone in the wooded aisle, they adopted the courtly demeanor expected of their status, both standing a bit straighter. The King looked as though he wished to say more but swallowed his words and bowed instead. Lothíriel dropped into a formal curtesy as he rose up. He offered his hand, which she accepted, and he brought the back of her hand to his mouth.

“Thank you for joining me,” he murmured, her hand near his lips. “I will not forget this.”

“Nor I, my Lord.” He placed a soft kiss on her hand, gaze holding hers before lowering their hands.

“Farewell, Eala.”

Chapter Text

“Does it grieve you?” The Prince of Dol Amroth queried as he stood beside his daughter, two pairs of grey eyes taking in the country before them. The woman looked down, considering her words before raising her gaze once more.

“I mourn many things,” she replied softly. “We have much to be thankful for but I cannot divorce the grief from joy.” She paused, dark brows furrowing before looking to him. “Is it folly to think thus, Ada?”

“Nay,” he answered, covering her hand with his own on the balcony’s marble edge. “Our victory has come at a cost. One that you have seen most intimately, dear heart. The days are renewed! We have witnessed the King returned and crowned – but haunted are we that survive. Two truths may live in our hearts, no matter how disparate they may feel.”

Lothíriel nodded silently, looking back to the Pelennor Fields below. Their return to Minas Tirith had been as Éomer predicted, made swift once Frodo and Samwise awoke. There was little time for idle talk or quiet moments as the house of Dol Amroth sent soldiers south with Erchirion, though the Prince entreated his daughter to remain and behold the anointing of King Elessar. She was relieved he’d given his blessing for her to attend his side with Amrothos, not ready to return home without taking leave of Faramir or Éowyn.

But their time in the White City was brief, for the rest of the Swan Knights were due to depart ere the morning broke, four days after Aragorn’s coronation outside the gates of the city. The Knights were eager to return home and, though she wished to tarry and spend time with her companions, she was expected to return with her brother and kinsmen.  

“I saw you walking the gardens with Faramir yesterday before supper,” Imrahil commented as he kept his gaze on her. “Your fondness for one another does my heart well.”

“We share a closeness now much stronger than in prior years,” she agreed. “It was good to take counsel with him before we depart. The brightness in his eyes gives me hope.”

“Borne of hope and victory?”

“Of love.”

“Indeed?” When his daughter did not answer the Prince grinned, looking back to the fields beyond their balcony. “Faramir is more my sister’s son than his brother. Love and light. Duty and boldness were ever the masters of Denethor and Boromir. Is your cousin’s love returned?”

“I believe so,” she replied, glancing at him with an uncertain expression. “That is, from my observation. The Lady Éowyn has not confirmed it to me but none can deny the adoration and tenderness shared in their glances. I am happy for Faramir. If anyone deserves the devotion of a partner, it is he.”

“You’d not be far behind in my reckoning,” Imrahil murmured, his gaze shifting southward. Before his daughter could inquire the Prince adjusted his visage and smiled warmly at her. “In any case, Lady Éowyn and Faramir will not be apart long, I imagine. She makes for Rohan soon with her brother but when we reconvene again in Minas Tirith they will be reunited and together on the road.”

“Faramir will attend the funeral procession?”

“Aye, I suspect he will. Éomer has personally welcomed him to join. And more time with his beloved is likely enough encouragement for your cousin. Which reminds me, you will extend the King’s invitation to Elphir personally? I would entrust it to Amrothos but it may be lost under hoof or to the sea.”

“Yes,” she answered with a grin. “Though I doubt he’ll make such a journey with Nenniel so near to her labors.”

“Aye. All the more reason for you to attend. You may be his proxy – if you are willing to make such a journey.”

“Yes. The thought of departing tomorrow with so many farewells left unspoken is devastating. I should like to return and have more time with these friends. And see Rohan.”

“You aren’t alone in that sentiment. There will be a grand host riding with the Kings to inter Théoden. Elves and Men alike. Hobbits, wizards, at least one Dwarf. It will be a procession of the Age. And I expect you’ll be among the honored guests by the Lady and King Éomer’s side.”

“The Lady Éowyn, mayhaps,” Lothíriel mused, her voice dropping. The Prince took note but did not push, instead leaning forward, his forearms resting on the balcony rail. Silence fell between them until he spoke again, several moments later

“We didn’t speak after the King’s proceedings yesterday,” he paused as she looked away, seemingly distracted by something in the distance. “Baranor’s sentencing came swiftly and we were separated in the throne room. I had hoped to speak to you about it directly after but state business was at hand.”

“You are the chief advisor to the King of Gondor and Arnor, Ada. I would not expect you to seek me out for such a trivial thing.”

“Trivial?” grey eyes caught hers as he stood up straight, pivoting to face her and placing his hands on her upper arms. “It may have been one in a list of duties for the King but it is paramount in my estimation as it affects you. Were you displeased with the ruling?”

“No,” she answered, relaxing slightly. “Though I think Amrothos and Éomer were hoping for more.”

“Fifteen years of indentured servitude is a long time,” Imrahil commented, squeezing her arms before releasing her. “And he will hold no rank or title when he completes his sentence. It may not hold the intensity they desire but Baranor will not soon forget his error.”

“I am grateful to not look upon him whence I return to the White City. Though I suspect I may not be entirely rid of him if he’s sent to Osgiliath.”

“My daughter, Baranor will be so vexed by his master in rebuilding I highly doubt he’ll have time to look upon much less interact with you.”

They shared a smile as Imrahil observed her features soften, worry no long furrowing her brow and darkening her eyes. He stood with her for some time longer before departing, giving the Princess a firm hug and promising to see her off the next day at the gates of the city.

TTTT

Daybreak saw Lothíriel already an hour into her day, dressed in the riding habit and prepared for the journey south. She’d risen early enough to say goodbye to Ioreth, who’d been joined by her daughter and granddaughter from Lossarnach. As they would return to their home it was not certain that Lothíriel would see the old healer upon her return. They shared breakfast and the Lady of Dol Amroth was delighted to conclude her role as healer in the White City in the company of her mentor.  

She’d said her brief goodbyes to the Hobbits, Elven twins, Éowyn and her cousin the day prior. To her disappointment she only beheld Éomer from afar, unable to sneak a moment with him. Part of her was glad to avoid interactions with the King of Rohan for she could not trust herself in his presence. Since she first beheld him they were thrown together in the most intimate and fraught of circumstances and the brief moments when their skin touched sent sparks through her. She could hardly bid him farewell in the company of others and suffer the shame of a blush across her neck and cheeks for all to see. She resigned that morning to have Éowyn bear her good tidings to him as she would not see him before departing.

Though she was despondent to leave after such a harrowing time in Minas Tirith her heart was buoyed at the knowledge that she’d return later in the summer to reunite with her friends. It eased their parting and gave hope to their next meeting. The thought of final farewells after the procession to Rohan had to be tucked back into her mind, for she knew it would be painful and heavy with sorrow.

Once she quitted the company of Ioreth the Princess walked the quiet aisles of the second level where the horses were boarded, still early enough that only the barn hands were about.  She’d been intentional the day before in requesting that she ready her horse, the solitude giving her peace amidst the bustle of Minas Tirith. Once she selected the bridle from its hook in the Dol Amroth section of the barn she idly traversed the aisle toward her horse’s stall, thoughts turning toward her home and the sea.

“Were you trying to escape the city without saying goodbye?” Éomer’s voice halted her momentarily before she turned to see him standing before her, a rakish smile on his lips. He was dressed in a tunic of green and gold, the sword ever at his side. But he appeared the most informal she’d seen him since their introduction months ago. His blonde hair was swept back into a tie, the angles of his face accentuated by the brushed hair. He regarded her with a calm visage and she shook her head to his question.

“You were nowhere to be found yesterday when I made farewell rounds,” she replied, shouldering the bridle as they fell in step together.

“Yes,” he conceded with a brief frown, “I am at fault for that. But I expected you might find me before you left.”

“Did you?” she rounded on him as they reached her horse’s stall, a dark brow raising. “Seems I have no need as you’ll find me regardless.”

Éomer grinned and rested an arm on the half door of the stall, watching as she set the bridle on the hook and began ordering her tack. He opened the latch and door as she pulled the saddle across one arm, a hand holding the saddle pad and girth. The chestnut greeted them with a snort before returning to his morning hay, unbothered by the pair in his stall. Lothíriel began saddling as Éomer observed, her occasional glances met with small smiles.

“I must confess,” she murmured after a moment, “having a Horselord scrutinize me readying my steed is enough to make me nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he replied quietly, leaning his back against the wall, hand grasping his opposite wrist in a relaxed pose. “It is not my intention.”

“What is your intention?” she inquired with a nonchalant but curious tone, hoisting the saddle onto the gelding’s back and setting it there gently. She paused when the King did not answer, grey eyes meeting his as he appeared hesitant.

“Nothing untoward,” Éomer answered, as though he regretted the entire interaction. “I was merely teasing you, but I hadn’t meant to offend.”

“Offend?” Lothíriel’s expression was puzzled as she began buckling the girth to one side of the saddle. “Hardly.” When he did not respond she let the girth hang and faced the man fully. “I am glad you sought me out. I did not want to leave without seeing you. But I figured I’d be returned to the city soon enough and you’d have me pestering you in no time. And… I did not know how best to exchange words with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned on our final day at Cormallen that things would be different when we returned. You are right. We have roles to play, and I would not think to sully your reputation as King with unseemly behavior. We are bound to our circles and appropriate channels. This,” she gestured to the negative space between them, “is certainly not counted among suitable interactions.”

“Yes,” he nodded, looking away with an expression she could not identify, crossing his arms over his chest. “I could not, however, let you ride home without seeing you. Without thanking you for your care and companionship to Éowyn. You are among the few who did not give up hope and for that I cannot be more grateful.”

“Her joy is wonderful to behold.”

“It is.” He looked then to her, hazel eyes barely concealing something vulnerable the King was working hard to shield. His arms tightened across his chest as he picked through his words with care. “Lothíriel. Eala. You departing feels as a wound I cannot fathom. Its only balm is knowing you will return and come to Rohan. You will still ride with Imrahil?”

“Yes.”

Éomer smiled but it did not reach his eyes and there was an ache in his gaze that froze her. Then, Lothíriel instinctively reached for him. Her hand connected with his bicep and he dropped his arms, grasping her hand and drawing her closer. They were near enough to embrace but they stayed still, his hand closed around hers. She held her breath when he brought the other hand to her face, fingertips slowly sweeping a dark curl away from her cheek and settling it behind her ear.

Their enclosed hands rested against his chest and she felt the beating of his heart through the tunic. Her own galloped madly in her ears but she hardly noticed. The urge to pull his head down to hers and taste his mouth burned through her muscles. His fingers caressed her cheek, his thumb running lightly over her lip, her eyes closing at his touch. When she opened them he caught her gaze, a hunger unabashed in his eyes and expression.

A heavy thud caused both to jump, their attention turning to the horse whose saddle had landed in a heap on the floor. The gelding craned his neck to look from them to the tack, expectant brown eyes revealing he was unimpressed by their carelessness. Lothíriel pulled in a breath as Éomer released her hand. The moment had passed, and she busied herself with collecting the saddle and its accoutrements from the ground. Éomer backed a pace away and avoided her eyes. When she haphazardly pulled the tack into her arms the King offered to take the saddle pad so she could adjust the saddle.

“I’ll not distract you further,” he murmured, setting the pad on the horse’s back before retreating to the door. “I hope your return to Dol Amroth is easy and you can take heart in being home.”

“Thank you,” the woman answered, focusing her attention on retacking the horse, this time making sure to fasten the girth to the other side. He watched her work, clearing his throat quietly once she cinched the buckles and turned to look at him. “We’ll reunite here in two months’ time, hm?”

“Yes,” he answered, his gaze lingering on her lips before nodding. “When next we see each other you’ll behold the country and quality of my people.”

“I anticipate that day.”

“Farewell, Eala. Lady Lothíriel. May your journey be smooth and your return to me swift.”

“Farewell, King of Rohan. Until our next meeting.”