Stubborn Love

by hannah.jpg

In the year 3015 T.A., Lothíriel is sent to Minas Tirith to be kept safe from corsair attacks in Dol Amroth. Éomer, Third Marshal of Rohan, comes to the city to plead for the Steward's alliance. An unlikely friendship blooms and wavers through seasons both sweet and bitter.

1. Prologue: I Was Cleopatra

3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

"...Lothíriel?"

A voice broke through her daze of thoughts, and she blinked, almost startled to see the man sitting beside her in the solar of her father's house, despite being sure he had been there for the last several minutes. Éomer was gazing down at her with affection and warmth as his large hands tightened 'round hers, and his next words were in earnest.

"Will you be my wife and queen? I cannot be happy except with you by my side."

The palms of her hands were sweaty, and the ache in her heart grew. Lothíriel had almost been expecting this from him; after all, did they not love each other? Had not the last four years been spent exchanging letters, hoping that the war might end that they could be wed in peace?

But instead of all-consuming joy and happiness, as she had foolishly expected in her youth, Lothíriel merely felt raw. Her uncle was dead, her cousin was dead—those wounds gaped in her chest. Dol Amroth, her home, was in ruins, and Minas Tirith practically identical. Her spirit was bruised from the last weeks of turmoil, and while taking in the sight of the man she loved next to her sparked the barest flicker of hope in her breast, it was not enough.

"N—no, Éomer. I cannot." The words were a whisper, but for the effect that followed she may have shouted. Éomer's brows creased together, the light in his eyes darkening in an alarming manner. He dropped her hands, as if they burned him. Lothíriel immediately felt the loss of warmth from him, clenching her hands together tightly in her frock of white for mourning.

"Éomer, I—" she tried, but the words lodged in her throat.

"No, do not explain. I understand." His words were clipped, and for an agonizing moment she saw the full measure of hurt flicker in his green eyes. Then he stood, towering over her. "I apologize if I have offended you. Lothíriel, I—well, I suppose it hardly matters," Éomer said bitterly. "Good day to you, madam." And without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The flowers he had brought were left on the settee next to her, the sun streaming onto them through the windows above. They blurred as her eyes filled with tears, and she wept.