T.A. 3017
July 17
A Northman was begging in the throne room.
Well, perhaps begging was the wrong word. Pleading? Asking for help? Lothíriel wasn't sure how she'd describe the scene between the lord from Rohan and her uncle Denethor, but cordial and successful were the opposite of how things seemed to be going for the Northman now. She couldn't make out more than one word in ten, but from his tone, the foreigner's disappointment—disgust?—was clear.
Her uncle's voice, clipped and cool, rose over the Northman's, and with a heaving sigh Lothíriel pushed herself away from the door. She ran nimbly up the steps of the White Tower to the second level, where a balcony ran along the long sides of the throne room, and tucked the loose strands of her dark hair that she'd been fiddling with back into its beaded net. Denethor had chosen to meet in private with the Northman, so Lothíriel's only chance of getting a glimpse of the man was to slip in while Denethor was distracted by him. Denethor always kept his focus on the men he was meeting with, which left a nice bit of wiggle room for Lothíriel to sneak about. She was far less intriguing than a stranger, at least in her own opinion.
But by the time she had creaked open the door to the balcony, the Northman was already practically out of the hall. From her vantage point, Lothíriel could see Denethor's hand rubbing circles on his temple.
Rhaich! Lothíriel thought angrily. Her father had hoped for an account of this man's visit, and she'd been too slow. She bit her tongue and with an eye on her uncle began to return to the tower.
But the Northman unexpectedly turned back as the guards were about to close the door. Denethor sat up straight, and Lothíriel's lips parted with surprise. Even from the far end of the hall, the man's height and youth were as apparent as his distaste. He strode quickly back towards her uncle, and his black look made Lothíriel crouch at once behind the stone balustrade. She peeked through the thick bars.
"You have another question, marshal?" Denethor asked in Westron. His voice was cold.
"No," the Northman said. His accent was sonorous despite his churning frustration. "I understand you well. But I will ask once more, to assure those who will say I did not try. You will not join with Rohan, and help us fight against the enemy?"
"I will not do what will put my people at greater risk. You ask much and can give little in return, if your hardships are as great as you claim."
The Northman seemed to struggle against an impulse for a moment. Lothíriel raised her eyebrows, impressed by his control in the face of her uncle's scorn. His face was white with rage, but rather than speak again, he inclined his head and turned on his heel. His footsteps had not faded before Denethor twisted in his black chair and looked straight at her.
"Niece, come down."
Face burning, Lothíriel stood. "Yes, uncle," she answered.
She glanced at the Northman, who was just outside the doors. He had turned and was staring at her uncle with narrowed, angry eyes until the doors closed on him. Troubled by the stranger's fury, Lothíriel ran down the stairs to her uncle's side.
"Well, child," Denethor said in Sindarin, "you had better have a good excuse."
He was grim, but Lothíriel had not spent a lifetime sneaking around past her curfew to be frightened by old men asking questions. Her rueful smile was only partially contrived, and she sat on the dais step at Denethor's feet with a sigh. "I was curious, uncle. I have never seen a Northman before. I didn't know they were so big."
"That one was uncommonly tall," Denethor allowed. He shifted in his seat, the chainmail under his robes clinking slightly. Lothíriel leaned against his knee, and he put a long hand on her hair. "But he has some blood of Númenor. Most are of lesser height than us."
"I suppose that makes a difference," she said. She plucked at her skirts. "What did he want?"
Denethor's lips thinned, and his keen gray eyes fixed on hers. She looked up at him with her most innocent look, and after a moment his gaze softened. "Men, supplies, grain… Things better kept for our own people. Enough of Gondor suffers from this endless struggle. We must keep our own safe."
Lothíriel nodded and pressed her cheek against her uncle's knee. While she was here at his side, his words rang true.
. .
. .
It was only later, when she was walking back around the Court of the Fountain, that she felt the unjustness of Denethor's words. Rohan suffered at the enemy's hands, her father had told her, and their king was ailing. Orcs and wicked men hounded Rohan's borders. But Denethor was too mistrustful of others to offer the help the Oath of Cirion should have bound him to. Even now he had secluded himself in his tower.
Lothíriel glanced skyward. Clouds darkened the sky, and a cool wind blew from the northeast. She shuddered and hastened onwards past the King's House and the guest quarters. In the absence of the rest of her relatives, she was staying with her uncle in the steward's lodgings, where a small, south-facing room had been made up for her.
The guards posted at the door seemed relieved to see her. She paused and eyed their lightened faces suspiciously. One of them coughed, and she stepped closer to him.
"My lady," he said quietly, "you must hurry to your room. The Rohir is as mad as hornet."
"Really?" Lothíriel said, quite interested. "Where?"
But the guard only gave her a dry look and ushered her inside. The stone door closed behind her with an audible thump.
The entryway was dark and cool as it opened up into the building's main hall. A servant was washing the floor and stopped to look at her. There was no point in dawdling; she had already discovered that Denethor's servants were duty-bound to tell what she had done, where she had gone. She supposed her own servants were like that with her father, but by this point, Imrahil had grown used to her wanderings. He trusted her to keep safe. Her uncle, alas, did not. With nowhere else to go, Lothíriel went straight upstairs to her room.
To his credit, Denethor's chief concern was his niece's security. And she did not know Minas Tirith nearly as well as she knew her own city of Dol Amroth. But she was eighteen, not eight. True adulthood was still a year and a half away, but almost no one minded youths her age exercising a little independence. Except, predictably, her uncle.
Lothíriel's room had once been her aunt's solar, and the wide windows still seemed as hopeful as ever to catch a glimpse of the sea. She climbed onto the window seat and leaned against the sill. If she pressed her nose against the glass, she could see boats along the Anduin, as well as horses and carts and specks of people at the Harlond docks.
It was all unfair, she thought bitterly. If her father or brothers had been with her, she might have stayed in the house of Dol Amroth on the Sixth Level. As it was, she was confined to the Citadel. All alone, with only a mousy maid to attend her—none of her ladies had come, and the other youth around her age in Minas Tirith had much better things to do than attend the girl holed up with their fearsome steward. The only visitors Lothíriel ever saw were Denethor's sisters and their families, but the two closest to her in age were Denethor's thirty-year old great-niece and her ten-year old son. Not exactly the company she had hoped for.
The echo of hoofbeats on stone perked her her up.
Horses? She turned in her seat, chewing on her lip. The Rohirrim hadn't left yet. They must be still in the Citadel, since the guards on the door supposed her to be in some danger from the young lord's anger. At this hour, they couldn't sensibly leave the city. And there was nowhere they could be apart from the guest quarters.
That decided it. Lothíriel jumped down from the window seat and wound a long charcoal-colored scarf around her shoulders and hair. If she could manage to find the Rohirrim, she might discover the lord's name and the true nature of his errand, uncolored by her uncle's mistrust of strangers. Her father would be pleased.
It was easy enough to sneak out. All she had to do was go behind the outdoor covered privy and slip out through the back gate. She wedged in a stick, kept there by herself for just this purpose, to keep the gate open for her return. The guest quarters, one building over, had a back door as well. Lothíriel hurried through the deepening mist, keeping her eyes ahead. Looking around only made you look guilty.
The back door of the guest quarters swung outwards silently, but all she could see was the back of a tapestry. Of course—the back door to the guest quarters was a secret entrance, meant for spying and subterfuge and secrets. Well, in a sense she was doing all three. Spying for her father, subterfuge to keep her uncle from discovering her wanderings, and secrets to protect herself in this den of strangers. She listened for voices or footsteps, but all she heard was the beginnings of rain.
She slid between the wall and the tapestry and shuffled sideways, holding her breath to avoid disturbing the dust. The hallway she emerged into was dim and narrow, doubtless used exclusively by servants. To the left was the bright light and smells of the kitchens; to the right, two wider hallways led to the front of the building and the guest quarters. She peered down each hallway, wondering which was the quicker way to the Rohirrim's rooms, but the clanging of pots and the ring of voices from the kitchen made her jump. She scampered down the second hallway, biting her lip as she rushed passed two, three, four doors. Steps behind her seemed to pound up her spine. She panicked.
Lothíriel pulled open the next door on her right and dashed inside. She left the door open a crack and watched a servant with a laden tray walk by moments later, eyes miraculously downcast. She only breathed again once she heard him enter the room next door. At last, she turned to look at where she'd ended up.
The room was a dimly lit bedchamber with a fur rug across the stone floor, a four-poster bed with rich red velvet hangings, and a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. The chest of drawers was covered with laden saddlebags, and a chair between the narrow windows held a set of fine leather armor. Lothíriel walked to the chair, eyes narrowed; she had seen that armor before. She knelt and ran her fingers along the jerkin's coiled pattern. This was the Northman's armor!
Somehow, she had ended up in the stranger's room. Next door must be a study—there was a door on the side wall leading to the same room where the servant had brought food. Lothíriel gulped, but there was only silence from the other room. Perhaps the Northman was elsewhere. Surely he had other men with him; he could be in one of their rooms.
Wherever he was, he wasn't likely to be gone for long. It was getting late; if nothing else, he had to eat. Time was of the essence.
Lothíriel scooted over to the chest and checked the top two drawers. Both were empty. The saddlebags, on the other hand, were full. One of the pouches was full of tightly rolled tunics and—she blushed—undergarments. She stuffed those back hurriedly. The other pouch was much more interesting. There was a scroll case! Lothíriel pulled the cap off and shook out the single sheet inside into her hands.
But as soon as she unrolled it, she groaned. It was clearly a letter, but while the alphabet was Westron, the words were indecipherable. Although… Lothíriel squinted and tilted her head. After a moment, she recognized a few simple words, though they were spelled quite different. The letter must be in Rohirric.
The salutation and signature, at least, she could manage. The letter was addressed to someone called Níedmæg Théodred, and the signature read Éomer.
She scanned the rest of the letter and blinked. There were two other names written in the body: Denethor, which she expected, and Boromir. Did the Northman know her cousin? How could he? Anyway, what would a stranger have to say of Boromir? Boromir wasn't in Minas Tirith; he had gone to assault orcs in Anórien. Even Faramir was off scouting in Ithilien. Perhaps the Rohirrim had had better luck learning from the guards in the Citadel than she had.
Lothíriel looked over the letter one last time, resigned. There was nothing more to glean here, not when she was so ignorant of the language. She glanced at the window as she rolled the letter. The misty drizzle had turned to fairly heavy rain, and she frowned at the prospect of getting back to her room unnoticed. A wet trail on the floor was hard to avoid in weather like this.
A bang from the study next door made her jump out of her skin. She stifled a squeak of horror and scrambled to her feet, trying to get the letter back into its case. Heavy footsteps approached the bedroom as she tried to stuff the letter away with shaking hands, and Lothíriel gave up. She left the letter rolled up next to the open case and ran to the door to the hallway, which she wrenched open just as the door from the study swung in. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a silhouette almost too large for the doorway freeze in shock.
Lothíriel ran, heart pounding in her ears. He had seen her! What was she thinking? How could she have been so stupid? Her eyes stung and her breath came in short bursts.
She made it just as far as the end of the hallway before the man caught her by the arm. Terror stopped her heart. His grip was like iron! The man dragged her back toward his room, fingers digging painfully into her skin. Lothíriel had enough sense not to scream—Valar save her if her uncle discovered where she was!—but she struggled and kicked and wriggled as best she could, still reaching for the back wall with her free hand. Her breath came hard and quick. She was too frightened to look at him; she couldn't take her eyes from her only chance at escape. Her scarf slipped down from over her hair and began to trail on the ground.
By the time the man threw her into his room, Lothíriel was certain her right arm would be black and blue from elbow to shoulder. She stumbled into the corner of the chest of drawers with a weak cry as the man bolted the main door behind her. Three steps were enough for him to cross the room and lock the door to the study as well.
Lothíriel fell heavily, one arm braced against the chest. The fur rug was thick, but not enough to avoid a fresh wave of pain in her knees. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she yanked her trailing scarf from under her and held it to her chin like a shield, pressing her back to the chest. There was nowhere to hide.
The Northman stalked around her, giving her quite a wide berth. Lothíriel cowered as he stood in front of her; she tilted her head up to look at him.
He was taller than anyone she had ever seen. Was he as large as a mountain? From down here, she could believe it. Although he seemed around the same age as Erchirion, who was twenty-six, this man looked nothing like her slender brother. His chest and arms were thick with muscle, and his blond hair was tousled from the chase. A thick beard made his scowl seem fiercer; his eyes were narrowed just as they had been when he'd first set eyes on her.
This time, though, the man's face changed. He looked… surprised? Yes, he was taken aback, his fury tempered with some confusion.
A flush crept up her neck as she stared up at him. As terrified as she was, and as angry as he was, she couldn't help but notice that this man was very handsome. His eyes were blue and bright, his face smooth and unblemished above his beard, his hair golden and soft. Her face nearly burned at the memory of the undergarments she had touched with her own hands. Against her will, her eyes dropped to his hips. She opened her mouth, but couldn't think of a single thing to say. She closed her mouth and swallowed, then looked back up at his face. He seemed even more confused than before.
Lothíriel slowly lowered her scarf and put her hand on the chest to steady herself. The man followed her hand with his eyes until he spotted the loose letter by his saddlebag. His face darkened again and his hands curled into fists as he closed in on her. She squeaked and scooted back, eyes wide, but there was no getting away from a man who could crush her with a single step. He bent over and grabbed her chin in his huge hand; with his other hand, he pulled a dagger from his belt and held it between them. He glared at her from inches away.
"Who are you?" he growled in his accented Westron. "What are you doing here? What does your steward want?"
Trembling, Lothíriel said, "I'm not—" She paused, surprised. "I'm not here because of the steward. I'm here for my father."
"And who is that?" His grip tightened on her chin, and she felt rather than saw him move the dagger even closer.
"Ow! You're hurting me!"
The man did not relent, even as tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Why should I not, spy?"
"I'm not a spy, I'm a princess!" Lothíriel wrenched herself away as soon as the man loosened his grip, uncertainty clouding his face. She rubbed her jaw and wiped her cheeks dry. When she looked back up at him, the doubt in his eyes made her bristle. So what if she was technically only a lady? Her father was a prince. Lothíriel's spine straightened as she climbed to her feet; her gray eyes shone with the keen light of her Númenorean blood. The top of her head was barely level with the man's broad shoulders when he stood, and he and his dagger were still far too close for comfort, but she lifted her chin proudly and proclaimed, "I am Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth. My father is Prince Imrahil, the greatest man in Middle-earth. My mother is Lady Gilmith, the best woman in the world. I am the niece of Lord Denethor, steward of Gondor. I am my father's treasure, and he will not be pleased if you leave any marks."
The man raised his eyebrows at her, unimpressed by her speech. But he seemed to believe her, for he slid his dagger back into his belt. "So your father sent a foolish girl to spy on me."
"Basically," Lothíriel said brazenly. She reflected a moment. "No, no, he didn't," she corrected. "He only wished he could have met you. My uncle sent him away to deal with some upset in Pelargir. Adar wanted me to tell him what happened at your meeting, but I was too late to get into the gallery in the throne room to hear what you wanted. I don't even know your name!"
The man rocked back on his heels, staring down at Lothíriel with disbelief. He snatched up the rolled-up letter from behind her and brandished it in her face. "How do you not know? Have you not read my letters?"
"Not with any understanding! How could I? We do not speak your tongue in Gondor."
"But are you not your uncle's lackey?"
"I'm his niece, not his servant," she retorted. "And he doesn't tell me of his troubles to save me the trouble of worrying."
"I am a trouble?" The man scowled again; Lothíriel shrugged. "To Denethor, I suppose everything outside his own realm is trouble. Hateful man!"
At this, she bristled. It was one thing for her to disagree with him privately, but for a stranger to insult her uncle? That wouldn't do. "That's not fair," she said with a steely glare. "Gondor has its own problems. My uncle's duty is to keep Gondor safe."
The man scoffed and crossed his arms. "So he alienates his greatest ally? That is not the way to keep a country safe."
Lothíriel pursed her lips. She would rather say nothing than speak against her uncle to this man, no matter how sensible he seemed. Something of her feelings must have crossed her face, however, for the man sighed and stepped back.
"I am Éomer," he said.
"Pleased to meet you," Lothíriel said automatically.
Éomer snorted. He reached past her for the scroll case and slid the letter inside in seconds. "You are a terrible spy, princess. You have not lied to me at all. I can even tell you don't mind meeting me, even though I hurt and threatened you before."
"Can't spies tell the truth sometimes?" she said, watching him slip the scroll case back into his saddlebag.
"Not like you do. I can imagine you leading an army with greater ease than I can imagine you lying."
Leading an army? That was as ridiculous as his conviction that she couldn't lie. Lothíriel thought of the countless half-truths she told her uncle to satisfy him. Only a few hours ago, she had acted as though her only desire in sneaking into the throne room during Éomer's audience was to see a Northman. She'd said nothing of her father, much less her own genuine curiosity about the subject. "I try not to lie," she admitted, "but you needn't lie to mislead."
"True enough. But men of Rohan do not lie, and therefore we are not easily deceived."
"Well, I haven't tried to deceive you. Perhaps you would find yourself taken in if I did."
"I doubt it," Éomer said. "I can see all of your thoughts on that wide open face of yours."
Lothíriel, remembering the undergarments, turned quite red. "All of them?"
He narrowed his eyes at her, this time as though he was trying to peer straight through her skull and into her mind. "Perhaps not. I still do not understand why you came here. But you don't seem to have an answer to that."
"No," she said slowly, twisting her scarf in her hands. "I know why I came. I wanted to do right by my father." She glanced aside, wondering what her father would think of her if he could see her now. Interrogated, threatened… a failure. Her face fell.
"Your father is important here?" Éomer asked.
"He is second only to my uncle, and perhaps my uncle's sons."
"Then I shall tell you what you want to know, if there is a chance he can change your steward's mind." Éomer stood straight as she had. "My name is Éomer, but more importantly, I am the sister-son of Théoden King and Third Marshal of the Riddermark. I have come to ask your kinsman for renewed alliance in the face of the enemy, and I have been refused. Tell your father that Rohan suffers. Tell him that even if he is sworn to serve a cold man with no thought of his neighbor that there are those in Rohan who will not forsake the oaths of our fathers."
Lothíriel gazed up at Éomer, her lips parted. He looked more like a lord now than he ever had before, with his broad shoulders set back and his blue eyes keen and bright and determined. She could see the blood of Númenor that her uncle had said ran through his veins. A blush crept up her cheeks. Here was a man as worthy as anyone she had ever met.
Éomer frowned when she said nothing. "Will you remember?" She nodded vigorously. "Good." He unbolted the door to the hallway and peered out. "The way is clear," he said.
"Thank you," Lothíriel said, and headed past him.
But Éomer put a hand on her arm as she passed him, gently this time. She gazed up at him, and the soft look in his eyes made her knees weak. She swallowed.
"This war is vile," he said. "I pray that you do not suffer for it."
"That is everyone's prayer," she answered. She stepped past him; his hand fell from her arm. She turned to look back at him with a wry smile. "But it is the nature of war that everyone suffers."
"Well, you should not have to."
"Why not, if everyone else does?" Lothíriel glanced around; there was no one coming. She looked back up at Éomer. "The only just way is for all to suffer, or none. I hate this war as much as anyone, but I'm not going to wish myself immune while others are afflicted."
Éomer smiled, and though Lothíriel could think of nothing she'd said worth smiling over, the transformation of his face took her breath away yet again. A smile that perfect shouldn't be allowed, she thought.
He took her hand and pressed it tenderly. "However much you may suffer, I pray that you do not despair."
"Nor I you." She squeezed his hand and pulled free. "Valar bless you. And may your future bring you the victory you rightly deserve."
She hurried away, not daring to look back at him.
As she scurried through the rain, she thought of her own words. A deep unease settled over her, far heavier than her dripping scarf. As long as her uncle ignored the plight of Gondor's ally, were they really doing all they could? Weren't all men worthy of aid? Didn't all men deserve not to suffer?
Lothíriel shuddered.
It was the nature of war that everyone suffered. How much suffering would fall on him?
