January 3015
Rain drifted down onto Pelennor Field. It hung suspended in the air creating a great bowl of mist over the low plain. The sombre travelling party huddled over their horses. The Swan Knights were proud men in the face of death; in the face of rain they hunched their shoulders.
Prince Imrahil, riding at their head, had no eyes for his forlorn and weary men; his gaze was fixed firmly on the city that loomed ahead of them. The white stone of Minas Tirith shone, even on this gloomy day: its splendour cutting through the mist. Glorious as it was, Imrahil thought, it was not a welcoming prospect. The sea-warmed stone and the light that glinted off the harbour of Dol Amroth could put all the splendours of Gondor's greatest city to shame. All the toil of man was worth nothing without the interplay of nature. But perhaps, Imrahil reflected, that was his elf-blood talking.
He was very conscious of the figure beside him, straining her head to get a good look at this strange and dazzling place. Lothíriel had been suspiciously quiet during the trip from Dol Amroth: it was not a quality she was usually known for. She had been silent, he knew, because she wished to leave him space for his grave thoughts: thoughts about the pirate raids, the homes that needed to be reconstructed, the ships that needed to be rebuild and now, worst of all, having to part from his only daughter to save her from the peril that had befallen the city of her birth. Her quiet was beginning to take its toll on her: she had a quick tongue and sharp wit which seemed to need constant exercise. Her curiosity threatened to overwhelm her composure.
"Minas Tirith," Imrahil said quietly, "It will not be long until we are there."
He glanced at his daughter. She smiled brightly and kept her eyes on the city ahead, "So I see. How imposing it is, I'm not sure I like it at all. It is nothing to Dol Amroth."
"It is meant to be imposing, Lothíriel," Imrahil said with a weary air, his daughter never could understand the importance of practicality as well as beauty, "It is a fortress as much as a city."
"Perhaps a more welcoming aspect would encourage more friendship; after all, one only has the desire to attack that which displeases you. I cannot imagine that the sight of a grim fortress pleases anyone."
"Orcs, I should imagine, are rather fonder of a fortress than a palace and yet they would not hesitate at the walls of Minas Tirith because they were afraid of spoiling it."
Lothíriel waved her hand breezily, "Papa, you always use orcs to ruin my arguments. How troublesome you are!"
Imrahil laughed, "Troublesome? My dearest daughter, I do not pick apart the reasoning of men at every given opportunity. And besides, it is your own fault if you design arguments which leave out the inconveniences of reality. Thank heaven you are not one of my counsellors or your whole day would be employed in wit craft and nothing would ever get done."
Lothíriel laughed a laugh that was still high and girlish: a laugh that reminded Imrahil that she was still only sixteen and very young to be leaving home.
They approached the gates of the city which peeled back silently and slowly to let them in. Imrahil gave his daughter what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She returned it falteringly and turned to gaze up at the city in front of her. Her lips parted in awe and Imrahil felt relieved. Life here would be easier for her if she allowed herself to be impressed and humbled. There was no room for a sharp-tongued girl in the court of the Steward.
The knights sat up a little straighter now as they rode past their counterparts from the great City. As the party wended their way up the cold, splendid streets, the local people stood in the doorways watching. Theirs were sober faces, hardened and cosmopolitan: it would take more than a Prince from the provinces to impress these, who dwelt in the very heart of men's greatness. Imrahil hoped, in his heart, that they would be more generous towards his daughter.
Lothíriel's tongue seemed to have retreated. Her face was grave and quiet but she met the gazes of those who she passed steadily. It had never occurred to her that she need fear another person: in her home she had never come to any harm because she, and her family, had been so beloved of her people. She was naïve and could not think why anyone should think ill of her if she did no wrong.
The Steward and his sons were there to meet them in the citadel.
"Hail, Lord Denethor," said Imrahil, after dismounting from his horse. He strode forward and bent to kiss Denethor's proffered hand.
"Imrahil, well met," Denethor mumbled the proper greeting, "You have brought your daughter to my protection as discussed?"
Imrahil nodded, "Aye, my Lord," he moved back to help Lothíriel down from her palfrey and brought her to stand before the steward, "My daughter, Lothíriel."
Lothíriel curtseyed and kissed Denethor's hand, "My Lord and Uncle," she said with all due gravity, "I am so very grateful for your welcome. I pray I will not be too heavy a burden."
Denethor raised her to her feet and cast a look at his two sons who stood by his side, "No burden we cannot bear, I am sure."
The Steward cast a critical eye over his new ward's appearance. It was not favourable. She was too thin and coltish. Her hair was lighter than the Gondorian norm, but this might have been excusable were it not for the wild curls in which it was formed. Rippling hair, straight hair was beautiful in Gondor; this excess of flyaway locks was not. She was pale but had freckles even in the dullness of winter and Denethor could tell that she was probably apt to tan. Her face was not offensive but it was not ideal beauty either: her eyes were darker than Gondorian grey, her brows darker than her hair. The entire thing was too bold. Her nose was good, a little pert at the end but a good length. Her mouth was full but there was a gap between her front teeth and she smiled crookedly: the sign of a witty woman. Denethor hated witty women. He sighed. The girl was a disappointment. Granted she had a fine, slender neck and pretty hands but everything else made her fit squarely outside the beautiful. He exchanged a glance with Boromir.
The Steward returned his gaze to Imrahil, "Will you stay my Lord and eat with us?"
"Alas I cannot," Imrahil's refusal was resolute, "My knights and I have a long journey home and Dol Amroth has been several days without my protection, I can afford to leave it no longer." Imrahil turned to his daughter and embraced her, "Farewell my child! Doubt not that I will come for you at a more fortuitous time."
A tear dripped down Lothíriel's face, "I doubt it not father. You are too soft hearted for a Prince and will miss me sharply ere you leave this city." Her smile was small.
Pressing his hand to her cold cheek, Imrahil kissed his daughter on the head. Wrenching himself away, he returned to his knights who had unloaded Lothíriel's supplies and handed them to the Steward's staff. He leapt onto his horse, allowing himself a lingering look back at his child before following his companions back down the streets of Minas Tirith.
"Such a tender parting warms the heart." Denethor said, kindly to the girl in front of him. "It is always hard to leave your children."
"Harder still to be left," remarked Lothíriel, still looking at the spot where her father had been, "He may return to the life he knows but I must stay and please you."
There was a booming laugh from one son of the steward and a wry chuckle from the other. Denethor smiled tightly.
Boromir, the son who had boomed, inclined his head to Lothíriel, "Is the task of pleasing us so burdensome."
"I know not," replied Lothíriel with her crooked smile, "How hard are my lords to please? Pray tell me, I do not have many resources and would use the ones I have well."
"I am sure all your charms will do well enough," interrupted the Steward, with a pointed glance at his elder son, "Come, it will not do to stand in the rain. Let us go inside."
He swept out his arm and gathered Lothíriel before him. The swish of his black cloak on the stone of the courtyard herded her forward and into the great hall of Minas Tirith. The Steward, his sons and his charge passed through the high and heavy doors together before they slammed shut: sealing off the Hall. The citadel lay still and quiet once more: its impassive stone face betrayed no hint of the rupture that had just gone on there. The silver tree withered in its dusty plot. The stone flags greyed with rain. The great doors to the Steward's Hall remained shut.
A.N (9.9.10) : Just edited for typos and inaccuracies but you spot any more please leave a review and let me know - or just leave a review! Either way really...;)