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They had only two days to prepare for the Second Royal Wedding.
The wedding that Lothíriel and Éomer decided to have because after bickering much, and learning much, and having their way with each other repeatedly, they decided their love was true, and they needed to reaffirm their commitment.
Elfhelm was hosting the celebration, and the date was set for their last day in Aldburg.
Everything was attended to. Firefoot was groomed within an inch of his life and shown to Elfhelm in the ceremony of Presenting the Horse. (1) Heruwine was selected as the officiant and helped the couple write their wedding vows. And the banquet was already prepared, for a farewell dinner was expected regardless.
But there was still the matter of the dress.
For her travels through the Eastemnet, Lothíriel had brought only the plainest clothes. It would not do to dirty her finery with roadside dust, or to stand out, for she and the king were traveling incognito.
But a wedding without a well-dressed bride was like a feast without ale. To which end they were now in Andreth’s chamber, amid a veritable forest of clothing.
“Now, Your Majesty,” Andreth intoned, her back ramrod-straight, “how about this one? Red velvet speaks opulence, and no one will miss you at the head of the table in this dress. Look at this fine lattice over the bodice…”
How times had changed…
In Dol Amroth, her calling card was midnight blue, pine green, dove gray, and black, black, black.
She would have banished the lady from her sight for suggesting anything brighter than mauve.
But desperate times called for desperate measures.
In Aldburg, all the women were either taller, wider, or more well-endowed than Lothíriel. Andreth, another Gondorian who had married a Rohir, was the only one her size, but her coloring could not have been more different.
Andreth was a descendant of a hostage Haradrim prince, and her skin was a beautiful dusky color. Her eyes were bright obsidian, and her rich black hair had a hint of cherrywood if you looked closely.
She looked arresting in bright colors, and they were all she had in her wardrobe. Colors that recalled the hothouse plants in the City of the Tides: incandescent yellow and orange, riotous green that grew unquenchable in the air heavy with dew, and proud, opulent purple, the color extracted from a rare mollusk, purchased with blood as often as with gold.
Lothíriel pressed her lips, and gave the tiniest shake of the head.
“No,” she said, quelling harsher words. “This kind of red does not suit me. It is too… red. There is no other color in it.”
Andreth sighed, and the dress joined its fellows at the foot of the bed – for the dress dummies, the backs of the chairs, and the doors of the closets were already full.
Tawarien, the other Gondorian who married into Rohan, raised her head from a dress she was smoothing out.
“Are you are sure you don’t wish to wear my sage green, Your Majesty?,” she said. “We can tailor it for you – I’ve done it before. We’ll have it finished in no time.”
But Andreth shook her head, defiant as a general.
“Yes, but then you can’t wear it, Tawarien.”
“Oh, but I don’t mind. I can make another, or buy one… There is plenty of fabric in the world.”
Andreth pursed her lips and strode back to the closet.
“No, I won’t have it. I’ll find something.”
Lothíriel sighed.
She had lovely friends, certainly – and she had made them in less than a week.
“If you want more than one color, Your Majesty,” Andreth said, pushing aside something in the closet, “then we shall get you something with more than one color…”
Lothíriel crossed her arms, and braced herself for Andreth to outdo herself.
Perhaps she would unearth an outfit that married yellow and red. Or green and purple.
“Here, how do you like this, my queen?”
With a gentle pull, she extracted another dress, and this one was also red – but a different shade entirely.
If the other was a vivid red, burning like a fire, this one had a hint of blue in it, the merest drip from the end of a quill.
It was like cherries and raspberries together, simmered in a splendid chutney. Rich, fortifying, and complicated in its sweetness.
“This one has a bit too much blue for my tastes,” Andreth said. “It makes my features too indistinct, at least in the summer months. And for a wedding, I would have picked another, but –”
“No, it is perfect.”
Lothíriel smiled, rising from her seat.
It was time to add a little color to her life, after everything that happened.
(1) There is a tradition in Rohan of presenting a suitor’s well-groomed horse to the family of the bride-to-be as evidence of the man’s good character and means. Regrettably, this headcanon is not my own. I saw it somewhere on tumblr, but I cannot recall its originator. If you happen to know, please tell me so I can credit them properly. Back