Summer 3019 TA., Minas Tirith
It was the first time Lothíriel had ever sat out a dance.
Out of the torchlight and pressed to the wall so that none could witness her humiliation, she seethed as she watched the happy couples twirl around the great hall. Then the fire of indignation set her veins ablaze, and she snapped open her fan to cover her dark scowl. Since she had first begun attending balls and court functions at the age of fifteen, Lothíriel had always enjoyed the highest degree of popularity amongst the ladies. Due to her title, perhaps, or her father's riches—but that did not signify. She had been enough to please the young lords for years! What had changed?
The answer came far too quickly to her resentful mind: she was no longer the highest-ranking woman.
The new Queen was sought for by everybody, and beneath her envy Lothíriel could not blame them one bit. Queen Arwen was beautiful—ethereally so. No one could compete. Lothíriel gritted her teeth; knowing her own shortcomings hardly lessened her ire.
Perhaps if the Queen had been the only competition Lothíriel might not have been so slighted. But there was Faramir's new woman, too. Lothíriel; being the daughter of a prince rather than the niece of a king, presently outranked Lady Éowyn. But it was clear that Faramir and Éowyn would soon wed, and then Éowyn would be a princess. Again, were this the only offense Lothíriel could have overlooked it, but truthfully she blamed Éowyn more than anything else for her own unpopularity. She had brought a new style in Minas Tirith to emulate and adore: blonde hair and an open manner. Lady Éowyn laughed often and spoke candidly, and to her men flocked with stars in the their eyes. She was a war hero, after all.
And so Lothíriel was left alone, without even the company of her brothers, as she stared out at the court which had so callously discarded her. The young lords she had favored with smiles and dances had taken their pick from the other ladies of the Riddermark who had come to accompany Theoden King's bier back to Rohan. She was terribly, enormously bitter. It was not fair. Not in any sense.
A pair of matronly ladies were taking the perimeter of the hall, and Lothíriel shrunk back. Oh, how embarrassed she would be if they recognized her! Had she known this would happen, she might have chosen a more nondescript frock…
"I suppose it would be too much to wish the King would notice my daughter," one of the ladies was saying with a sigh. "I could not begrudge her to live such a distance away, if she could have the security of being queen!"
Lothíriel's ears perked at this.
"The King of Rohan is a harder man to catch than you think," the other replied. "Why, I've pushed my own Wilrith in his way a hundred times if I have done it once, and courteous as he is to dance with nearly every young lady—he has shown no further intentions. Not to any woman! Utterly foolish—he is a king, and must wed." The women passed right in front of her, and above the rim of her fan Lothíriel watched them continue on.
"Perhaps Wilrith is not the type of woman he wishes to marry," the first lady pointed out, a little scornfully.
The second woman sniffed. "How can she not be?"
Lothíriel did not hear the reply, which would surely be the start of an argument. But it did not matter—she had more important matters on her mind. A chance at becoming a queen? She liked the sound of that—she would, without a doubt, regain the admiration she had lost to Queen Arwen and Lady Éowyn. Did she dare attempt to snare the elusive King of Rohan? She had not given him much thought before; he was too blond and too bearded for her taste, and she had never lacked admirers and been prompted to search elsewhere. But for her pride? Lothíriel might overlook his unusual looks.
Bravely she peeled herself from the wall, striding purposefully towards the dancing and blinking in the sudden bright light. Between two older men, she peeked at the dancers—she saw Faramir, Amrothos, and Erchirion, all dancing with blonde women, Éowyn with a dark-haired man who had brought Lothíriel flowers on her eighteenth birthday (this remembrance made her scowl resentfully), and there! The King of Rohan, easily recognizable with his great height, broad shoulders, and glinting golden hair. He, apparently alone of the highest-ranking men, was paying courtesy to dark-haired women. His present partner Lothíriel knew on sight, and she was full aware that Numriel had been accompanied by her mother that night, and that was where she would be returned at the end of the dance.
Lothíriel swept through the crowd, chin held high, until she came to be standing by the lady's mother. Lady Nimrith was a plump, good-humored matron, easy to engage in conversation. Lothíriel had known the lady for years, and therefore knew of her weakness for speaking on subspecies of flora. It was not Lothíriel's best-known topic, but she knew enough to start Lady Nimrith talking, and to encourage her to continue.
The music ceased, and Lothíriel could not help a shiver of anticipation crawl up her spine and the conversation broke off. She straightened her shoulders, casting her cool eyes round, determined not to be overlooked. Towards them walked the King of Rohan with Numriel on his arm. Lady Nimirith was smiling broadly, and she curtseyed when they approached.
"I thank you for the dance," the king said politely, and he gave the girl to her mother. Numriel was looking pale and wide-eyed, and her fingers were white-knuckled on her mother's arm. Lothíriel glanced skeptically at this—what had the man done to her? Numriel usually did not lack confidence around men.
"Thank you for returning my daughter, my lord king," Lady Nimirith said. "Is the dancing to your liking?"
"Oh, indeed it is," the king replied merrily. "I have never beheld a room filled with such beauty!" Though he smiled as he said it, Lothíriel suspected there was insinuation in his voice. Indeed, as she tried to understand this, his eyes fell upon her, and his smile broadened. Lothíriel blinked. His gaze was terribly intense; perhaps it was not such a wonder that Numriel had been rendered speechless.
Lady Nimirith saw the glance between them, and hastened to say, "Have you met Lady Lothíriel, my lord?"
"Nay, I have not had the pleasure." He held his hand out to her, and she placed hers in it. Lothíriel willed herself not to tremble—his hand was awfully warm. And huge. "I have met your brothers and father many times," he told her.
"Yes, they speak of you often, my lord," Lothíriel said, and forced the spell to break. She smiled coyly up at him, and continued, "I thought I might discover for myself if their compliments to your person are at all accurate!"
The King laughed then, a loud, unabashed sound that might have made her flush were she not determined to keep a hold of herself. "Come then," he said, nodding towards the new sets of couples lined up to dance. "Let us find the truth."
Well! Securing a dance from the king was considerably easier than Lothíriel had anticipated. Perhaps somehow wrangling him into making her a queen would not be such a challenge... But she put away those schemes for later, and contented herself to gaze adoringly up at him as he drew her near. His eyes were a deep, warm brown, and if she were not mistaken, there was a flicker of amusement in them. She suppressed her annoyance—what was so amusing? Not her, she hoped.
"Well?" the king asked after a moment of dancing. "What have your brothers said of me?"
Lothíriel thought quickly to reply, "They have said that you are a doughty fighter, my lord, and that no enemy could stand against you without falling."
The king's brows lifted as he grinned. "Well, I can hardly prove that here, now can I?"
"You had best not," she agreed. "And I do hope there are no enemies in the hall tonight…" Privately she recalled Queen Arwen and Lady Éowyn, though she did not allow the shadow to cross her face.
"What else have your brothers said? I confess myself curious."
There was more than curiosity in his eyes—she saw glee, and too much to it to be allowed. It irked Lothíriel to feel as though she were not quite in charge. Boldly she declared a lie, "They told me that you spend two hours every day grooming your stallion!"
The glee left his eyes, and it its place, startled confusion. Then his expression cleared into joviality again, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist. "Is that so?" he asked, laughing. "Hardly a sin or a virtue, I should think. Merely an odd quirk of nature."
"But is it true, my lord?" Lothíriel pressed him.
"I cannot comment," he said, and leaned down close to her face to whisper, "I will not reveal so much of myself where others may hear!"
His reaction was more strange than supposedly grooming his stallion for two hours every day, Lothíriel thought uncharitably. Was he so determined to be difficult to charm? She tried a different tactic, though inwardly she burned with resentment as she said light-heartedly, "I must thank you for being the only man here who has any interest in those of us with dark hair, my lord! I have lost all my usual partners to your people—it seems blonde women have become all the rage."
The king glanced around the hall at this, taking in the sight of the other couples. He was smiling when he turned back to Lothíriel, and the suddenness of his gaze nearly made her stumble. "I did not realize there was such a division," he commented. "You ought not praise me for such a thing, for I am as selfish as any other man here—I prefer dark-haired women, myself."
"Really! Despite that you come from a land of fair hair?"
He nodded and said gravely. "My taste changed when I first beheld the Evenstar."
Lothíriel wondered, with some jealousy, of what or whom he was speaking—before she recalled that Amrothos had once referred to Queen Arwen as the Evenstar. She forced a smile, and tried to keep the spite out of it. "And the menfolk of my nation similarly changed upon seeing your sister, my lord."
"Éowyn has been sought-after more than usual," he said thoughtfully. "I attributed it to no longer threatening to stomp on the feet of any man who approached her."
"Oh!" Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from giggling. "I suppose I have never asked my cousin how exactly he managed to win Lady Éowyn's heart—perhaps I ought to. My curiosity is piqued."
"I have never dared to ask; there are some things an older brother does not wish to know."
The humor of the king surprised Lothíriel, even as she joined him in laughter. She had not expected this of him; perhaps she thought he would be like King Elessar—distant and regal, or her father—sharp and venerable. This man was positively good-natured! There was no other word for it. It gave her hope; whereas it would be impossible to deceive either Elessar or Imrahil, Lothíriel imagined the King of Rohan's nature made him more trusting. More...persuadable. Certainly he showed no signs of suspecting anything.
"I think," he drawled, breaking through her thoughts. "That since I have obliged you by responding to the gossip you have heard of me, you ought to oblige me regarding the gossip I have heard of you."
Lothíriel bit her lip, barely containing her panic. She had a fair idea of what rumors had been spread about her around both Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, and had no desire to face them to this man. Nor did she wish to bring to light anything that might turn him against her.
"That is hardly fair," she said flippantly, giving a careless toss to her head. It was difficult, while dancing, but she thought she managed fairly well. "Gossips never portray a titled woman fairly. And more than that, a woman must keep her own secrets, my lord."
The king gazed at her for a moment, and then broke into a smile. "I am corrected," he said. "I apologize for even suggesting it—but in my defense, I was referring to what your brothers have told me."
Lothíriel pinked at her blunder. "Oh—well, perhaps that would be alright."
"Did you truly upend a tray of tarts upon Erchirion's head when he said your hemline was uneven?" There was no mistaking the king's amusement, and her flush deepened to a hot red.
"I was eleven," she ground out between her teeth. "Let us not judge each other on the follies of our youths, my lord."
The king pursed his lips, and made a show of bending slightly to his left to stare at the hem of her frock at their feet. He straightened, and grinned. "It looks very straight to me," he said pointedly. "And a very pretty gown, I must say—it becomes you well. I have never seen a pair of eyes so beautifully dark blue."
The compliment took Lothíriel aback, but she was quick to recover. It was easy to dismiss the king's sincerity as simply another flirtation. And she had a queenship in mind. "Why, thank you, my lord," she demurred, and lowered her lashes. Her best attributes—or so the young men had always told her. Eyes like the mysterious sea, framed by the blackest of lashes. To her astonishment, the king chuckled at this.
"Well now, I daresay you have been told so before," he said. "Perhaps I should compliment a part of you which hasn't been before."
"Oh! That is shockingly impertinent, my lord!" Lothíriel, though flushing, could not help wanting to laugh aloud at his comment, which could hardly be taken seriously. But she could not appear too eager—that was the surest way to lose a man's attention. Men preferred shy, prudish women; at least, most Gondorian men did. She wondered if this man of Rohan was different in that regard, too.
"You are right," he said with a grin, interrupting her thoughts. "I should not have said it. It just goes to show that I have learned very little during my stay in Minas Tirith—I still say exactly what I shouldn't!"
"Is that how you have frightened all the ladies?" Lothíriel teased. "I am sure Numriel looked as though she might faint when you gave her to her mother."
"Ah!" The king looked woeful. "I only told her she was an excellent dancer. I did not realize it would affect her so!"
Lothíriel privately doubted this; now that she was dancing with him, she understood how a woman might feel as though the floor was being swept out from under her feet. He had a way of muddling her mind, and she suspected that other ladies were not immune to his charm, either.
The dance ended on this consideration, and the king released her, though he raised a hand to her chin to tilt it upwards. This intense scrutiny made her blush against her will, and she blinked to have his warm eyes so close to her own.
"You look as though you'll survive," he said cheerily. "I would be distraught if you fainted because of my dreadful flirting."
"And you would have to live with the guilt forever," Lothíriel smirked. He laughed aloud, taking her arm to lead her away from the dancing area. Her chaperones were all otherwise occupied, and ignoring the humiliation of having to be left alone, she insisted that the king leave her anyway. This did not appear to sit well with him, but he obeyed, and kissed her hand before disappearing into the crowd.
As she walked home with Amrothos, she reflected upon that night and determined it a success. Assuming that the king admired that she kept her head in his presence better than other women, she hoped that he would be inclined to seek her out again. Constant companionship between them would be her hope now…
And she had a plan for the morning.
Don't think that I am blissfully ignorant of my own character's awfulness. Because guess what - I know. That's the dang plot. Also please don't think that I'm trying to justify somehow Eomer going along with an unlikable woman. That's not the point here.
I am asking that anyone reading be courteous enough to trust the writer to, you know, develop the characters. In my experience the typical response goes like this: people don't like the depiction of a character in the first chapter(s), decide that these deficiencies are permanent and unsolvable, and then leave angry reviews because they don't like the character. Well of course not! People in stories change. That's why they are worth writing about.
So be nice. If this Lothíriel isn't your thing and you aren't interested to see her get a few slices of humble pie, move on. But if you are willing to trust me, read on, and I hope you enjoy :)