The White Cygnet

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"Lothiriel! Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, get back here!" The nursemaid, Igraine, bellows from the doorway of the Family Nursery.

She does not. She runs, as if her feet have wings. She has always been good at running. She can even outrun her brother Amrothos, though he is older than she is. She can even outrun old Igraine, her nursemaid, when the fit is on her. She does not want to be cooped up in her room all day, having her hair washed and brushed, being forced into one of her nice dresses that she is forbidden to get dirty, learning how to embroider and spin. She would rather be out having adventures, fighting Orcs and meeting Elven princes and rescuing Gondorian maidens... well, lads, at least.

So she does not get back there, though she knows that when she returns home eventually, she will be punished. Her father may not give her a whipping, but then... he might, at that.

So she runs, runs down the steps and down the halls and down even more steps, past walls of white stone, and runs through the kitchens, ducking and weaving around the servants. She runs out the kitchen door, into the gardens, feeling the earth beneath her feet. She runs past her mother's garden as well, making it to her aunt Finduilas's old, safe place. Tanglerose, her father calls it. It is a mass of thorny briars and snowy white blossoms. When she squirms beneath it, getting in through a gap in the pricking hedges just small enough a grown up wouldn't notice it, much less be able to get through to what lay withing, she finds herself safe in a tangle of impenetrable rose bushes and dagger sharp thorns like needles.

Sighing, her heart still thumping madly in her chest, she flops down on the ground, feeling the leaves crackle beneath her weight. She has never been pricked by a thorn here. She makes sure to clear the fallen branches from where she tends to sprawl out. She sticks them into various places in the hedges, to make them even more tangled and impregnable. This is her fortress, her hiding place. When she feels as if she will scream because everything is too much, too unbearable, she comes here, where she can be whatever she wants. She is only ten, after all.

Lothiriel comes here because she has no one. She has no friends her own age, and she wishes every day on the falling rose petals that one will come to her. None of the children of Dol Amroth will play with her- she is much too hoydenish and wild. They are all so tame and ladylike. Those that aren't to ladylike and stuffy are forbidden by their parents to associate with her, for fear that they'll become as untamed as she is, if not more so. The boys look down on her, despite her love of and skill with racing, hunting, fighting, swimming, and riding. Only her brothers don't sneer at her for being "a noble lady."

Her brothers are well enough, but they are so much older than she is. Even the youngest, Amrothos, is almost five years her senior. And the oldest, Elphir, is so serious and noble. She could never ignore the call to be wild as he does, the call of the earth and sky, sea and winds. Erchirion is the one most like her, but he is... different from her in the way that is truly important. They can never be true comrades.

Her mother has been trying to birth more children, but she has yet to become pregnant for the fifth time. Lothiriel will have no sisters or younger brothers to journey through this world with.

"When am I going to go on a great adventure? And how can I? I cannot go alone. I must have a companion. That is how it is done, is it not?" She asks a passing caterpillar. He lifts his little, fuzzy green head and appears to gaze at her, giving a little squiggle that might have been interpreted as agreement, before scooting off in search of fresh greenery to eat. Greedy, fat thing.

"When am I going to get a friend?" She whispers softly. Her eyes burn, and the world blurs.

"How did you get in here?" Another girl's voice demands. Lothiriel gasps, bolting upright and whirling around. Her pale gray eyes like liquid silver find themselves locked with golden ones framed by thick black lashes.

"Who are you?" She cries.

"I think the question is," the other girl said waspishly, "who are you?"

Oo8oo8oo8oo8oO

A prequel to the series Eomer Dreams, among others. I own nothing copyrighted. Comments rocks.

A cygnet is a baby swan.

Regarding the thing about Lothiriel's brothers, I've come to appreciate my brother, Blake, & how lucky I am to have him. Rereading this, I realize that came out a lot in the chapter. Sorry about that, but I like it. Many of the relationships in Lord of the Rings (and my fanfiction) are between family. Lothiriel and her brothers. Morelinde and Anarmacil. Merry and Pippin. Merry, Pippin, and Frodo. Frodo and Bilbo. Boromir, Faramir, and Miriel. Arwen and Elrond. Etc.