Disclaimer: I don't own Prince Imrahil, Eomer, Legolas, Aragorn, or any other character from Lord of the Rings that may come into this story. I don't even own Lothiriel. See The Return of the King, Appendix A, The Kings of the Mark, Third Line, Eomer Eadig for information on her. Everything belongs to JRR Tolkien or whoever he sold it to. Too bad, isn't it?

Title: Lothiriel is the working title. Am trying to think of something a bit more... interesting? Ideas appreciated, why don't you tell me in your REVIEW? That was a hint, so take it.

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Chapter 1- The Princess

Lothiriel unsheathed her father's long, gleaming sword. She allowed herself a sardonic smile, sliding the flat edge of the sword meticulously into position against her throat. 'To Mordor with them all.' she thought bitterly, 'That is where they will find themselves. There is no hope, and I would sooner kill myself than become a slave.'

She gripped tight, turned the blade towards her neck and pressed. It bit into the skin, but she did not cry out- the daughter of kings and warriors, no one had ever seen her express fear. Just a few more seconds and it would be over. But no.

"Lothiriel, please remove yourself from my sword."

The princess cursed to herself. Not now. If there was ever a time she wanted to see her father, now was not it. The sword clattered to the ground and Lothiriel raised hate-filled eyes to the man standing in the doorway of her chamber. She almost spat out the words. "As if it was ever a concern of yours whether I lived or died, Father."-making the name she gave him sound like the bitterest of titles.

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, one of the most powerful men in Middle-Earth, descendent of Nimrodel, a warrior, last child of a line of kings, looked down at his daughter. There was pain in his eyes. "Daughter, why do you speak so to me?"

Lothiriel did not bother to keep the hatred from her voice. "To start, you killed my mother. You sent me to the Elves for fifteen years. You brought me back from the place and people I loved only when you decided you needed someone to run your household. You took away my life bit by bit, sire. Now let me finish the job for you, before my mother's fate befalls me."

Her words hit the prince like a spear to the chest. He knew that she blamed him for her mother's death; yes, he had sent her away; he had brought her back only four years ago when he realized his mistake. The woman before him was the image of her mother: golden and tall with grey eyes and beauty so sharp and defined that it was almost painful to look upon. But where her mother had been soft and gentle, Lothiriel was hard and cold; a warrior and not a princess; practically born with a blade in her hand. As the Elves of Lothlorien told him, at the age of thirteen she had perfected her techniques of sword-fighting. Now, at nineteen, she was the wonder of Dol Amroth: this princess that would not take servants, that could be seen on the castle grounds galloping at a great pace on one of her father's horses, with a sword in one hand and a bow in the other. Suitors were laughed at and bidden to 'run along.'

Imrahil looked at her with sorrow. The closest thing to having her mother back was having Lothiriel with him, but she had never outgrown the hatred she felt for the man who caused her mother's death. As if it didn't haunt him every day of his life, the princess took an almost sadistic pleasure in reminding him.

He spoke. "I am becoming reconciled to the fact that you will never forgive me nor respect me, daughter, but it remains to you to live a full life. If we triumph over the Shadow, you could be one of the greatest women in the land. Stay away from my weapons; you must hold our people up when I leave."

"You couldn't triumph. No one can. I will not live to become a slave of some minion of the Dark Lord."

"We shall defeat him yet. I leave tomorrow for Minas Tirith, where the greatest names in the land now gather against Sauron. Another reason for your life, Lothiriel: You must keep Dol Amroth against my return."

"Folly. Believe what you will, sire, but I've accepted the truth," she almost succeeded in keeping the smug tone from her voice. "and I refuse to watch Middle-Earth fall."

A faint suspicion clouded Imrahil's mind. This sounded familiar. "Have you communicated with Denethor recently?"

"I have not."

Imrahil narrowed his eyes. "Do not bring the cynicism of my cousin to this realm, Lothiriel. We may fail. But then again, we may not, and to that end you would be better off giving me my sword back."

Setting her face into a resigned mask, the princess stood, presented her father with his sword. "Nathon thalion," she intoned clearly in Sindarin, her first language since living with the Elves most of her life. "I will be strong."

But as soon as he left the room, she leaned against the wall and slid to the cold stone floor. 'Now what?' she wondered darkly before falling into a deep sleep.

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