She stole away an hour later. It was only in the early hours of the day that she was able to find isolation, and thereby, relief.
She leaned against the wall of the empty corridor—seemingly the only place in all the Houses of Healing that were not occupied by makeshift cots and dying men.
She shuddered despite herself, void of even the energy to berate herself for her foolishness.
What had she been thinking, staying behind? She should have left with the woman and children when she had the chance—when her uncle told her to, and thought her to have. But she had been stubborn, staying behind, unbeknownst to her uncle, and father and brothers. And those of the Houses of Healing who recognized her said nothing, for they knew it was hopeless now for her to escape.
She had wanted glory, in the beginning—to take part in the fight for the future, even in a small way. To help.
She rubbed her tired eyes with calloused fingers. She had no right to be here—nor the stomach for it either. She had lost count of the men she had witnessed bleed out, because supplies were scarce or their wounds too great. Men who suffocated on their own blood, and collapsed lungs.
Men whose legs and arms had been been or needed to be severed off. Men who stared aimlessly at nothing, unable to speak or move, all life except their very breath gone from their body and souls. Men who cried out in the night, in pain and fear, their distraught voices still ringing in her ears.
And it was not over.
The remaining men would leave for the Black Gate tomorrow—where they would fight one last battle. A desperate attempt to stave off the enemy. It was a foolish move. Everyone knew it. She had no doubt that it would be over soon. And not in the way the Healers assured the dying men of.
Soon, she thought, the enemy would march again on Minas Tirith, and they would all die.
There would be no need for Healers then.
She shuddered again, feeling bile rise into her throat, threatening to escape, and she slid down the wall to sit on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. She had to get back to the fray again—there were more men to be treated. But she was not sure she would be missed. She was hardly any help, except to bring food and water and clean bandages when asked.
She tucked her face between her clenched knees, hugging tighter, trying to find comfort in her own embrace. She was foolish. She should have gone with the women and children, perhaps even gone back to Dol Amroth. Perhaps even have stayed in Dol Amroth.
At least there she would have died in her own home.
Arlena was a capable woman, but she may have needed help to protect Dol Amroth while the lords of Belfalas were at war. But Lothíriel had been in Minas Tirith, representing Dol Amroth with her brother when war became too imminent to travel. And when the masses had been sent to Lossarnach, she had stayed. Against her better judgement.
She wondered what her father would say if he could see her now?
Would he scold her?
Would he, in a rare occurrence, raise his voice in anger at her foolishness?
She realized the strange noise she heard was her own quiet sobs, and try as she might she could not bring herself to stop.
She heard heavy footfalls, and scrambled to her feet, her chest still heaving. She reached under her veil to wipe the tears from her face, though they were replaced quickly.
A man stood near her—wearing simple, but clean clothing. A Rohir. She had seen her fair share of them after the battle. This one looked untouched, and she wondered briefly if perhaps he did not take part in the battle. But the haunted look in his eyes told her that though his body was unharmed, he was not untouched by the horrors he had seen and experienced.
They stood, staring at each other, neither making a move. She had regained control of her breathing, but she did not trust herself to speak.
"Are you… alright?" he asked, looking at her in concern.
She realized she should respond, and so after a long moment, she nodded slowly.
"This is your first time seeing anything like this, isn't it?" he asked, his voice deep, a little hard, but not unkind.
Another nod.
He sighed, looking down at the ground. She wondered if he would say anything, but he did not. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he said, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"
Surprised, she looked at him in curiosity. Nodding again, they sat down beside each other, backs against the wall. He leaned back, the back of his head resting against the wall, and stared at the ceiling.
She watched him, until he finally looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. "What is your name, girl?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but remembered that she could—or rather, should—not answer truthfully. She did not want news that she was still in the city to reach her father and brothers. Though she ached to see them, to embrace them one last time before the left to their doom, her pride staved her. "I'd rather not say," she answered. "And I'd rather not know your name."
He did not seem surprised or insulted by this. Indeed, he almost seemed relieved. It would be better, she knew, not to know this kind man's name. She did not want to know the names of any of the men who passed through the Houses.
"Will you go with the men tomorrow?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I…" she began. "I do not know how I feel about it all. It seems to surreal. As if it is not truly real. I know it is… but there is so much I want to live for—and yet I know they will never happen."
"There may still be hope," he answered, though in his tone she could hear there was little hope in him.
She shrugged.
"What things do you want to do?"
She hugged her knees to her chest again, and said. "So many things. I want to sail for an entire year—I want to eat lots of delicious foods from all over the world. I want to make friends with people from all walks of life, and all places." She sighed. "And when that is finished, I'll do what my uncle and father wish most for me and marry and have children." She paused. "I doubt that will ever happen now," she said, rather blandly.
He gazed at her. "You do not wish to marry?'
She exhaled hard through her nose. "It is not that I do not with to marry—or that I do not want a family of my own, it is more that… in doing so, I will be relinquishing my freedom to my husband. I do not wish for that."
The man nodded, seeming to understand.
"I do want to find love, though," she said. "And…I've never been. In love, I mean. I've never even been kissed."
A kiss with a sailor's son when she was nine summers old did not count, she told herself. But she didn't fancy telling him about that.
He continued to gaze at her, and finally she turned her face to look at him. After moment, his hand reached for her veil, unclasping it and letting it drop away from her face. He studied her face, looking over every feature with intense eyes. She realized, after a moment, was he was going to do, and welcomed it.
He leaned towards her, as she reciprocated, his hands holding her neck gently, guiding her. His lips pressed against hers. It was sweet and chaste, and for a moment, she wondered if this was all there was to it, before she felt him deepen the kiss, searching for an invitation.
She gladly provided it.
When they separated, they were both breathing heavily. His eyes were filled with desire, and she did not want to stop. Her upbringing, her social and marital status, screamed at her to stay her own desires. To stand up and walk away and leave this handsome stranger. But she threw caution to the wind, knowing that she would, in all likelihood, never see this man again. And in all likelihood, she would be dead herself in not too long.
"There's," she said, her voice quiet and slightly breathless, "There's a supply closet down the hall. It's mostly empty now—no one would—"
He was on his feet quickly, pulling her up by the hands. He nodded, and she turned, leading by hand to the door of the closet, opening it and leading him inside. She searched for a lantern, and when she found one, she used the tinder and flint in her belt purse to light a fire within.
The man closed the door behind them, and for a moment she shivered, wondering if she should truly do this.
But what did it matter?
She turned to look at him, and for an agonizing moment, neither did anything. Until he unclasped his belt, lifted his tunic over his head, tossing them to the ground. As he removed another tunic, she watched with baited breath. The skin on his chest and stomach was paler than that on his face and hands, and was dusted with golden hair. He was broad shouldered, and far taller and muscular than her brothers or father was. She felt her insides grow warm at the sight of him.
After a moment, she realized he was waiting for her, so she undid her veil and let it fall to the ground as well, unpinning her hair from its tight knot, and letting her hair fall down her back in a long braid. As he removed his breeches, she took in a sharp breath, staring at what she had only seen glimpsed of. She swallowed. She knew the technicalities of what was about to occur, but now she was not sure if it was possible. She worked on unclasping her dress, before letting it, too, fall to the ground. She hesitated with her chemise, the nagging thought that this was a foolish idea crossing her mind again. But she threw the thought out of her mind—knowing that it was no less foolish than staying in the city during the war.
The chemistry fell to her feet, and she stood, shivering slightly though the air was arm. He gazed at her, eyes trailing up and down her body. As she slipped her shoes off, he approached her, a questioning look on his face. She nodded. She wanted this.
He took some blankets off the shelf and laid them out on the ground, before approaching her again. "Are you sure?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes," she said firmly.
He kissed her again, and slowly, they sank onto the blankets, and in those moments, they found peace.
She settled into his arms, when all was done, breathing in his scent. Soon, she heard soft snores, and knew he was asleep.
She was wide awake herself, although pleasantly calm and content. She felt safe, for the first time in months.
In the morning, this stranger would be off to war, and she would most likely never see him again.
But she was thankful for this night, though her honor was now tainted.
One last moment of hope before the storm.
It was two months ago, that she had suspicions, and another few weeks before she mustered up the courage to visit the midwife in Dol Amroth. She did not trust the family healers, for she knew they would inform her father, who was still in Minas Tirith, as soon as possible. But Doa was known for keeping secrets of this variety.
Her suspicions had been correct.
Her secret night with a stranger in a city she was not supposed to be in during a war she was not supposed to take part in had not only ruined her honor, but had changed her life.
For Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, was with child.
To Be Continued…?
Not the most original idea, I'm sure, but! It's fun :
Anyway, I started writing this a couple years ago and I've decided to get back to it. It's also crossposted from AO3, since I started posting it there already. I didn't edit anything when posting it here, as I didn't want there to be any discrepancies, so please excuse any grammatical mistakes :)
Also this story (like pretty much all my stories) are probably wildly cliche and ridiculously ridiculous. Please excuse any clicheness and ridiculous ridiculousness as they are, in fact, my bread and butter. No excuses here ;)
Thanks for reading!