Prologue: Ill Qualified in Every Respect
Lothíriel turned west and looked up to the towers of the Citadel, and the shadowy slopes and snow-capped peak of Mount Mindolluin beyond. She held her body still and her arms flew out as she found her centre of gravity, bending her knees and stretching them, ever so slowly, carefully, a tiny shift in her ankles… There. Just so. She waited for the rope to stop swaying, waited for that moment when it would feel easy, almost as if she could stand on the air itself, and the air had never felt so solid as that day, in the warmth and promise of the sudden spring. Then she lifted one bare foot, pointing and flexing it out in front of her - elegance was key - and took a careful step, feeling the rope give way - a bit more than she would have preferred -, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she grasped the rope between her toes. She took another step.
Below, in the yard, the boy gasped and she quickly suppressed a twinge of triumph. Experience and some well-deserved bruises had long ago taught her the dangers of untimely glee. She took another step, her confidence growing. She held out longer now, balancing on one foot for five counts, lifting her leg up ever higher, and then slowly lowering it outward making ready for the turn.
"Lothíriel!"
The appalled voice broke her concentration and she felt her back stiffen, the sudden shift of her muscles causing the rope to sway and her grip to falter. She bent her knee quickly, and the rope swayed more violently - too slack; she had known it would be too slack. In an instant she felt her right foot slip and whatever hope was lost. Arms flailing she tried to lunge for the rope and missed. With a cry, half shocked and half indignant, Lothíriel gave into the fall, raising her arms to protect her head.
She landed -unceremoniously but rather fortunately- in one of the prized rosebushes surrounding the statue of Aglahad, nineteenth prince of Dol Amroth. There she lay still for a moment, under the stern marble gaze of her great-great-grandfather. Her head was spinning and she took a few deep breaths before testing her limbs. There seemed to be no major damage. Her injured pride, perhaps. With a wince she proceeded to struggle her way out of the bush's thorny embrace, all pretence at grace forgotten.
"Lothíriel!" said the voice, scandalised now. She looked up to see Aunt Ivriniel, who had appointed herself her chaperone and took her duties much too seriously, striding towards her. Only now did Lothíriel notice she had a rather larger audience than she had expected. Most of their small household was gathered in the passageway leading to the kitchen, the cook, scullions and her maid, their faces a mixture of relief and amusement. She could not resist sweeping them a theatrical bow, as she had seen clowns at the fair do after their artful antics would invariably end in even more artful falls. "Lothíriel, comport yourself at once! What display is this?"
"I'm not hurt, thank you, Aunt" said Lothíriel. She grimaced as she tried to brush some dirt of her leggings and removed the offending thorn from her palm.
"Not hurt?" Aunt Ivriniel caught her niece's chin, and turned it up towards her. Lothíriel saw the sharp dark eyes as they swept across her face assessing the damage and then narrowing in vexation. "You are lucky you did not lose an eye. You're covered in scratches, Lothíriel. It is really most unbecoming."
Aunt Ivriniel was prone to hyperboles, at least when it came to her niece's regrettable appearance, but even Lothíriel had to acknowledge that the burning in her face was not all from embarrassment. She brought up her hand to her brow and felt a trickle of wet blood. Accursed bush. "It will heal," she shrugged and shook free of her aunt's grip.
Aunt Ivriniel was not so easily appeased. "Whatever will your father say? What possessed you, child?"
Lothíriel pursed her lips. The memory still rankled. "Eradir would not believe I could do it."
The young groom, who had challenged her so brazenly not an hour ago and then fled behind the olive tree when he had heard her aunt approach, piped up. "And I was right. You couldn't."
"Only because I was interrupted," Lothíriel shot back.
"You fell," said Eradir. "An Elf would not fall."
Unlike Lothíriel, the boy had been in Minas Tirith during the Battle of the Pelennor and ever since Lothíriel and her aunt had arrived in the city, his stories had been full of Elves and Dwarves and Mûmakil. Mind you, she still did not believe half of it.
"I was doing it," said Lothíriel fiercely. "Everyone saw it." She folded her arms across her chest and glared at her audience, silently daring anyone to disagree.
"I should not be so proud of that if I were you," said Aunt Ivriniel. "You are almost a grown woman now, Lothíriel. You cannot make such a spectacle of yourself."
"A minute ago you said I was a child still," pointed out Lothíriel, peeved as always by the inconsistency of adults.
"A minute, a day, three months. I despair of you, niece. You would think you would take your life a little more seriously after this past year."
As Aunt Ivriniel fussed, picking a few stray petals out of her niece's long dark curls -incorrigible, just like their owner, she muttered- Lothíriel let her eyes drift up. The rope was still now, taunting her, just out of reach at seven feet above the ground, tied between the stone neck of the swan in the centre of the fountain and the high windows of the gatehouse overseeing the courtyard. Lothíriel had taught herself to walk the tightrope as a child, enamoured with the mummers from Umbar and further east, but the strain and duties of the past few years had cut into her practice time and cost her some of the easy grace she had acquired in her youth. Still, a challenge could not go unanswered. Especially if that challenge came from an obnoxious, puffed up stableboy who had said no one would confuse Lothíriel for an elven princess in a million years. She had to defend the honour of her family, after all. Her father would understand.
Then again, perhaps not.
The same stableboy was now regarding her with a satisfied smirk. "You look awful, Loth," he said.
Her aunt swivelled around at the use of the nickname, skirts rustling, and raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows at him.
"I mean, er, my lady princess." Eradir hastily executed a clumsy bow. One look from Ivriniel had always been able to achieve what Lothíriel could not have even if she spent a full afternoon glowering. It was a neat trick; and one she was quite eager to learn herself.
"Be off with you," said Aunt Ivriniel now, shooing the boy. "Doesn't Master Halbered have some task for you at the stables?"
"There are only so many times you can muck out stalls with no horses in it," said Eradir, shuffling his feet.
"Then you may assist Eireth with the preparations." Ivriniel gestured at their housekeeper, who nodded grimly. "There is plenty to be done to keep you from the evils of indolence, boy. At least for today."
"Preparations?" asked Lothíriel as Eradir disappeared into the kitchens. "Are we expecting visitors?"
Aunt Ivriniel started and then smiled, led her niece over to the fountain and sat down on the stone edge. Her full blue skirt as if by magic arranged itself just so that it fell prettily all the way to her ankles. Even at age seventy-one, there was no denying who was the true Princess of Dol Amroth.
"We had a report from the Guard of the Citadel just now. The host has returned. They will set up camp on the Pelennor tonight, and tomorrow Gondor shall finally receive its king."
Lothíriel's breath caught and she felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. "Father is back?"
"Yes, he is back. And probably expecting to find his daughter unscathed - the credulous fool."
"And Elphir, Amrothos, Erchirion?" asked Lothíriel, ignoring her aunt's jibe.
"They will all be in the city tomorrow."
They had come! It was truly over! She laughed and embraced her aunt as she had when she was young, dancing from one foot to the other and almost bowling the woman over in her ardour. Somewhat to her surprise, Aunt Ivriniel held her tightly for a moment before letting go.
"Come, little terror. Let's get you cleaned up and select a gown for the coronation tomorrow. See if we can salvage this mess," she added, falling back into her usual condescending tone.
"Oh, but I cannot wait," said Lothíriel, quite earnestly. There was absolutely no way that she would be content to sit and stare out of her window for another restless night. Her patience had already been tried beyond all reasonable limits when her father had failed to invite her to the festivities at the Field of Cormallen. She bit her lip, kissed her aunt's cheek and hurried across the courtyard.
"Lothíriel?" She had already dashed out of the front gate of their towerhouse. "Lothíriel, where are you going? You're not dressed! Lothíriel, your shoes!"
Her aunt's cries followed her as she rushed down the winding streets, the stones hard and hot under her feet. She found the pavement all but deserted, but the houses and inns were bustling and alive. The air was filled with the scent of fresh-baked bread, saffron buns and sweet-meats. Wherever the walls were cracked or breached, reminders of the siege and the great battle fought on the Pelennor, they had been covered up by garlands and strings of coloured glass lanterns, gossamer silks from the south and the bright banners of the returning noble houses.
Lothíriel halted on the fifth level, where the wall was lowest. In the distance, on the west banks of the Anduin, she could now make out the sprawling camp and the bright pavilions of the returning armies. Six long months it had been since last she had seen her father and brothers, and for most of those months she had believed she might never see them again. Instead they had saved the world and returned to witness the dawn of this new age. For a moment she thought she was going to cry, then she laughed at her own sentimentality and continued to run. Only when she passed through the entrance some ten minutes later, did she notice the strange silence that had descended on the city of Minas Tirith. The buzz of celebrations had yielded to a laden expectation, a final calm before the return of the king.
Disclaimer and Author's Notes for the Curious
This story follows book-verse. It will be ever so slightly AU here and there because of research fails, botched attempts at Sindarin and just blatantly going against facts (although if you have not spent hours perusing maps and are not familiar with HoME and the Appendices you may not even notice). Most notably, Lothíriel is two years younger than her birth year in the appendix suggests, because I had to mess with timelines a little for the story to work.
This story will be split in three parts, set in 3019, 3020 and 3021 of the Third Age respectively. At the moment, the prequel ("First Impressions") is complete. The second part ("None of the Usual Inducements") is currently being posted. I have an outline for the third part ready.
I am indebted to J.R.R. Tolkien, the true Lord of the Rings and once and future king of Middle Earth, to the fandom and particularly to the fan works around the courtship of Éomer and Lothíriel, many of which have inspired me (my profile has some of my favourites but there are many more wonderful ones out there). This series is the completely out of control result of a momentary reverie in which I realised how cool it would have been had Jane Austen written Middle-Earth fanfiction (the working title I have been using is Pride and Prejudice and Uruk-Hai). All allusions to Jane Austen's works are deliberate, but this is not a crossover and can be enjoyed without any knowledge of her books whatsoever. This story is written for entertainment purposes only.
Constructive criticism and suggestions for improvement are very welcome.