To Be Quite Perfect

"Are you certain this time, my lady?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. She knew she was driving the staff up the wall, and that she was one change of heart away from another angry report or whispered insolence to reach her aunt's ears. But what up until yesterday had been nothing more than an afterthought, a single entry on an endless list of tasks, seemed now a momentous decision on which everything depended.

"Hold on, no, let's…. There are too many guests in the north wing already." Lothíriel bit her lip again. Yesterday she had instructed their housekeeper, Eithril, to prepare the regal suite for Éomer and his guard. He was a visiting king after all. But today after breakfast she had taken one look and immediately surmised it was wrong: yes, the suite was splendid, with furnishings plated in gold and inlaid with jewels, but the air was stuffy, the colours of the curtains would clash horribly with yellow hair and the windows faced north. She had thought the position of the room might add to Éomer's comfort, because Dol Amroth summers were hot and unforgiving to those used to cooler climates, but northern windows also meant no sea views and little light. So she had the bedding and additional furniture moved to a set of chambers on the upper floor, known as the blue rooms. They were close to her own quarters and those of her brothers, and often used to host family and close friends, comfortable, large but not ostentatious, and so they had seemed the obvious choice. But these rooms now appeared small to her, the furniture looked worn and the scent drifting in from the orchard garden below was strangely cloying.

"Let's have them in the grand suite in the west tower," she decided at last. Or should she put them in the east tower instead? It was cooler at night there and the sun would hurry the King of Rohan out of bed in the morning and they could explore the cliffs and the shore while the rest of the castle was still asleep… No. She was being ridiculous. The rooms in the west tower were lovely and had every imaginable comfort, with great bay windows that looked out over endless waves and the furthest horizon anyone would ever see. The only reason they were not used permanently by one of the family was because the violent sea storms hit the castle at full force on that side, flinging in rain and salt and ripping the shutters from their hinges. But it was not the season for that yet.

Although they did have summer storms occasionally. And the rooms were quite out of the way. Perhaps Éomer would think she was isolating him.

This had to stop.

"Yes, the west tower will do well. Take some of Amrothos's silk sheets for the bedding – I doubt they will find much use for these woollen coverlets. If I am needed, I'll be in the cliff gardens until dinner," said Lothíriel. Doing absolutely nothing, she added in her head.

With a roll of her eyes, Eithril snapped the other servants to attention, and Lothíriel fled outside, through the courtyard and down the steps that wrapped around the castle and could be followed all the way to the bay below. The cliff gardens of Dol Amroth were connected to the Prince's garden by tunnels and perilous walkways, but Lothíriel seldom bothered with those, preferring to hop down from one rock to another, clambering along the cliff with practiced ease. She came at last to sit on her favourite promontory, and huddled in the shade against the rock. The sun was still low in the sky and already the air was near sizzling with heat. Some gulls flew overhead, and the waves roared below, but otherwise the world always seemed oddly still here, with the currents chasing away even the strongest swimmers and sailors. She just needed a few moments to herself. Their guests would not arrive until late this afternoon, and there was only one lesson planned after dinner. How hot it was today! She contemplated her heavy silks for a moment, then unlaced the bodice and stepped out of her skirts, revelling in the feeling of the wind on bare skin. It was yet early. No one would see. Then Lothíriel lay down on her stomach and looked over the edge, enjoying the pull of the depth, that moment of dizziness as her body simulated the long fall down.

She had been back in Dol Amroth for a month now, after spending most of the winter and spring with her father at their various coastal estates and properties. Imrahil had much to do: there were negotiations to conclude, treaties to revisit, putting his weight behind Elphir's policies. There had been one more attack, in the early spring, when corsairs had raided the silver mines in the Hills of Tarnost, a blow to the heart of the wealth of the region. Again, they had been miles from the sea, and again no one claimed to be the wiser. But their armies had been prepared and on alert this time, and they had retaliated swift and hard, managing a capture with little loss of life on their side. Uday had been the man's name. Prince Imrahil liked to keep things clean and simple (and profitable, if at all possible): lawbreakers and brigands in his domains faced either fines or death, depending on the severity of their crimes. Torture and maiming were outlawed (although not all of his vassals thought this was good – Lord Húron, for example, would have had the man questioned with a branding iron). But Imrahil had offered the man a plain deal: his life (on the caveat he would never again set foot in Gondor) in exchange for information. The man refused to talk. A day later, he was dangling from the noose. Imrahil did not like public spectacles, and Lothíriel had waited in her chambers, staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to know this to be the last sunrise one would ever see.

But that felt long ago now, and far away from here, the home of her childhood. She had been so excited to return; yet it was all much stranger and more troubling than she had thought. Her aunt seemed to treat her with even more condescension than before, and often stared at her in silent disapproval. Lothíriel had grown used to a certain independence over the past two years, but here the servants did not pay her orders much heed and her authority paled in comparison to that of the unbreakable and impeccable Ivriniel, the once and future Princess of Dol Amroth. She felt a stranger in her own home. All of her old clothes were too tight across her hips and bosom, and the first night she had been back she had spent going through her chests and drawers in bewilderment, reminiscing about the girl who had lived in these rooms and fit into these clothes.

The girl who was now engaged to the King of Rohan.

Most of the responses to the announcement of her betrothal to Éomer had been very gratifying. King Elessar had been pleased; Queen Arwen knowing. Her best friends, Raissel and Hethlil, were delighted, of course, and there had been the delicious envy of some other ladies at court, for Éomer was handsome, young and king, and considered a great catch. There had been nastiness, too. Lothíriel had made an enemy in Glavriel – she knew not quite why – and Glavriel was not without friends, all with eager tongues and fanciful minds of their own. Lothíriel was supposed to have a bastard child already at Edoras, or had tricked the King into her bed, or slept with one of his men, thereby forcing the King to offer for her. In her favourite version of the story, King Éomer was truly in love with her brother, Amrothos, and marrying her was simply an elaborate ruse to cover up their affair. It was so outrageous she half-suspected Amrothos had spread that rumour himself. Most people, however, seemed to take the match at face value: Éomer was a king, Lothíriel was a princess, he was a great friend of her father's and she was a favourite of the queen. Politically the match was so entirely obvious that it was almost dull. It was why Hethlil had advised she should not pay attention to any of the tales circulating at the court, even the ones that were true (and to be perfectly honest, some of those were worse than the gossip): if she behaved correctly, as the betrothed of an allied king should, the rumours would die down in due course.

Fortunately, there had been plenty of other matters to focus on. When her father had said he expected her to work, he had been quite serious. The first concrete task Prince Imrahil had set for her was to befriend Anneth, daughter of Angbor the Fearless of Lamedon, who was to marry Lord Húron of Methrast. Her father seemed to consider this to be a relatively simple request, but of course it was not. Anneth and Lothíriel had never been intimate, or even much liked each other before. Anneth was proud, very proud, not in the way that Glavriel was – all brass and money and good looks – but noble, composed and rather démodé. Like Lothíriel, Anneth could call on an ancient bloodline and high ancestry, and she chose to wear this with a certain magnanimous disdain, quick to set herself above her company and quick to feel for the less fortunate. She had been almost consolatory after Lothíriel's engagement was announced. It was obvious that to Anneth a marriage to one of the middle men was nothing to be proud of, even if it did make one a queen.

It was a delicate affair for as the daughter of Anneth's liege lord-to-be and the future queen of Rohan, Lothíriel could not afford to humble herself, and yet to build a true friendship based on mutual respect she could not simply force her way into Anneth's confidence. An opportunity presented itself with Hethlil's wedding in the early spring. Raissel and Lothíriel had decided to perform Hethlil's favourite lay together at her wedding feast, and were in need of accompaniment. Anneth was very proficient with the harp, decidedly musical and diligent about practice, and thus Lothíriel decided to approach her rather than one of her father's musicians. It would be a chance to get to know one another in an informal and intimate setting, for they would have to rehearse, and to include Anneth in their friendship without too much effort or ceremony. She made sure the invitation was too flattering and unassuming to resist, and sent a garland and ribbon with the message so that Anneth could match her and Raissel at the wedding. It worked splendidly and by the time Anneth came to Methrast, it had been quite natural for Lothíriel to reach out to her and befriend her. They visited the markets together and sat in Anneth's new salon to do their needlework with other local noblewomen – a perplexing development, but Lothíriel had grown to appreciate how Queen Arwen used the labour as a pretext for spending unemphatic time with the ladies of the court, observe their interactions and demeanour, and was by now quite grateful she had mastered the skill to a satisfactory degree. She was not sure how much these afternoons helped her father, and in what way, but at this point she would have pursued the friendship for its own sake, no matter how haughty and distant she still thought Anneth. Anneth was too controlled and well-bred to let her difficulties show to Lothíriel, but she did not need to. Húron was a harsh man, three times her age, and pride was a poor shield against loneliness.

Otherwise, Lothíriel's time was mostly spent running her father's household; or rather, various households, because they moved between his estates and castles throughout the winter and the spring. Some of their servants travelled with them, but Lothíriel also hired and trained local staff, making sure they knew her father's preferences, his favourite dishes and could anticipate his habits. They visited many of the lords of Belfalas and often received guests themselves, foreign diplomats and merchants, and lords and tenants beholden to the prince. Lothíriel tried her best to make all feel welcome and to look beautiful and poised as their guests rode up the lane to the estate, every flowerbed tended, every floor swept, every servant looking neat and tidy. From observing Queen Arwen, Lothíriel knew well the advantage of that first bedazzling impression when it came to negotiations.

It did not come naturally to Lothíriel to claim her position in this manner. She had had plenty of example in Arwen, but Arwen inspired awe without effort. Lothíriel needed a little more help: of Harad silk and the latest brocades from Minas Tirith, of the silver clasp of elvish make Arwen had gifted her when her betrothal was first announced, and perhaps a little kohl around her eyes and petals of safflower to stain her cheek and lips when the occasion called for it (her aunt would kill her if she found out her niece was painting her face, but everyone did it nowadays and it really was a marvellous magic). She could tell her father took great pride in her appearance, and enjoyed introducing her to his vassals and trading partners, which in turn gratified her.

Not everything was perfect, of course. Looking well was costly and "never let important people see you in the same gown twice" was difficult when one entertained almost every day. Lothíriel gave the dressmakers quite a bit of business until her father had threatened that the next garment would have to come out of her dowry, and he would leave her to explain to Éomer what had happened to the lands he had been promised. When she suggested she could just work off her debt on a fishing boat, he pointed out that she would have to labour from dawn to dusk for two months at least to buy even a scrap of the fabric that had been used for her latest dress. That had rather shocked her; especially after she had done some research of her own and found her father's numbers were quite correct. She took a long break from shopping after that, and donated some of her older gowns to the alms-houses near the harbour.

And then there had been the occasion when some children had been playing with a long rope in the yard of Lord Húron's estate and Lothíriel had not been able to resist showing off. To her bemusement, that had actually won her more approval from Húron than anything she had done before. "Your sons will be strong warriors, my lady," he had said to her at their next dinner. Lothíriel could only hope he was referring to her athletic prowess, and not to anything else he might inadvertently have seen. She had realised all too quickly her favourite figures were not made to be jumped in a dress.

All the while, her father received regular letters from Edoras, sealed with the seal of the King of the Mark. They settled on a brief engagement. Another missive, and it was decided that the wedding would be in summer, and in Dol Amroth. Then some more to set the terms of the match, the dowry and the bride price.

There were no letters for Lothíriel.

After the third "King Éomer sends his regards", Lothíriel was well annoyed and when her father asked her if he should include a message from her, she asked him to tell King Éomer she looked forward to the wedding night.

Her father had been very vexed (men were so easily provoked). "If you cannot find anything appropriate to say, you may reserve it for your own letters."

Lothíriel had not realised her father did not know she and Éomer were not corresponding, and was too embarrassed to set him right. No formal greetings were passed on to her after that anymore.

She learned quite a bit about the content of the letters, however. It seemed Éomer had a lot of ideas of how she should spend their months apart, and many suggestions for her improvement and education. She was to learn the language of the Rohirrim, be introduced to their laws and customs, and to be taught the rudiments of weaving, the craft that the women of Rohan preferred to embroidery and which was very important to their culture. The most interesting request Éomer made was a wish for Lothíriel to learn how to defend herself in case of an attack on her person, and he urged Imrahil to employ a tutor to this end. She knew her father recoiled at the very thought, and was greatly surprised when he granted it. He must indeed love Éomer very much, for it was not often Lothíriel had seen her father yield, and only ever to his children.

If Lothíriel had been envisioning glamorous sword fighting lessons with Éowyn, she was disappointed. According to her father, it would take years for her to master the weapon to the extent that it would not be more of a hindrance to her, and she would likely never fully overcome the disadvantage of her height. Instead he engaged his old friend Hinnor, who had also been responsible for teaching her brothers the dirtier tricks of battle, those things they would not learn from training with the Swan Knights. He was to teach Lothíriel how to use a knife and incapacitate an assailant long enough so that she might get away. However reluctant her father might have been, it became fast apparent to Lothíriel that Hinnor took his task seriously. He knew her well and did not spare her, so that twice a week she retired to her room covered in bruises and scrapes. "You're dead, my lady," he would say, whenever she was too slow to respond, or let herself be disarmed, or was too hesitant to act on the openings he left her. It was very discouraging to know how quickly and in how many different ways one could die, and Lothíriel had soon grown playful in the face of his gravity. She'd survived so many deaths that she was sure she was immortal and why would anyone want to kill her anyway? When Hinnor at last grew tired of her games, he had tripped her, pinned her to the ground, forced himself between her legs and slammed her wrist against the stone until she dropped the knife. He had kept her there for a full minute while Lothíriel's heart pounded in her chest and her vision blurred to stars. She had skipped lessons for two weeks after that. When she came back, Hinnor said nothing about her absence and was remarkably gentle with her for the full hour they were together. He killed her only three times that day. As if by mutual agreement, they never mentioned the incident to her father and Lothíriel applied herself with renewed determination.

Then there were the lessons that Éomer did not ask for but her father seemed to think she might need. He made her take up the harp again. This was no problem, for Lothíriel was musical and a natural performer, even if she lacked the discipline for accomplishment like Anneth's and preferred to sing. He arranged for a tutor to refresh her memory on arithmetic and Gondorian trade law. Yet the bulk of her additional studies were done under direct supervision of Imrahil himself. He set her a seemingly endless amount of reading: histories by Cedhrion, Awarthon and Eristor, texts on ethics and law, Vardamir's philosophical treatises and a tract by Maerion on justice. She came to dread, hate and love these sessions in equal measure; dread them, because her father always seemed to know exactly what she had read attentively and what she had merely skimmed; hate them because he asked her question after question until he had ascertained her understanding to his satisfaction and her head ached with the effort; and love them, because these intimate and precious hours with her father made her feel happier than anything in the world. Some of the texts were interesting, and she loved to hear her father speak and reflect on the choices he had made during his rule, but others were dreary beyond words. After one particularly painful lesson on the finiteness of time and space (Vardamir's segue into cosmological theory) Lothíriel had pointed out –with some resentment– that it would have been better to go and observe the horse breeding if she wanted something to talk about with her new people. Her father had returned – rather drily - that many of these texts and theories also formed part of the education seen fit for young people of her rank in Rohan.

She had asked Éowyn about it in a roundabout way, by including some droll complaints about the absurdity of the study in one her letters, and the White Lady had sent her back a missive in which she detailed some common arguments against Vardamir's position. Not quite what Lothíriel had meant. Her soon-to-be-sister was obviously spending too much time with Faramir. Still, unfortunately it seemed her father was right and the text was part of the curriculum at the court of Rohan as well.

The sun was now reaching its zenith and Lothíriel felt the lighter skin of her thighs and shoulders begin to freckle and burn. She dressed herself with some regret, and then used the tunnels to return to her father's courtyard.

She entered the castle and took the left passageway down to the kitchens, letting her hands run along the cool limestone walls. As expected, their cook informed her that the Prince would be taking his dinner in the study rather than the hall, so she helped assemble a tray and then carried it up herself. At first she had only done this when her father was in conclave, because she knew it pleased him to show her off to his guests, but now she did it whenever she could even when he was alone. It was a convenient way to ensure her father took at least one break during the day, and to make sure he ate well and thought of other matters than affairs of war and state.

When she entered, he set aside his papers and frowned at her. "Ah, Lothíriel. What's this about changing the menu? Mýlnith complained to your aunt that you had overhauled the entire second course and she would have to throw out all the buttered crayfish that had already been prepared."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. She had expected this. "Shellfish do not agree with Lord Pelor, Ada. Unless you want him incapacitated for some reason, in which case I'll tell Mýlnith to put it back on the menu."

He waved it away. "Very well. But you have to learn to be more economical, Lothíriel. Rohan does not have the resources we have."

"I am sure you meant to say: thank you for remembering not to poison our trading partner, even though you were given word of his arrival only this morning."

"Yes, that was well remembered. But Pelor confirmed his attendance a week ago. I am sure your aunt put him on the schedule."

Lothíriel just nodded and pressed a kiss to the side of her father's head. She did not remember coming across his name before among the many instructions that ended on her desk, but perhaps she had missed it and there had been too many altercations with her aunt of late.

"Anyway, your aunt had the dishes brought to the orphanage in town, so they have not gone to waste."

"Oh, what a fine idea!" Lothíriel schooled her features into a pleasant smile, all the while scolding herself in her head. She should have thought of that! Why hadn't she thought of that?

"She did it in your name."

"That was very kind of her," said Lothíriel in a rather strained tone.

Her father reached for one of the rolls and Lothíriel perched on his desk to pour the wine. "How are your lessons?" he asked.

"Fine. Would you like to see the scarf I wove?"

"I am sure it is lovely."

It was, in fact, the most hideous piece of cloth she had ever held. "Oh, exquisite," she agreed.

"It will be very useful for you to speak some of the language already when you arrive in Edoras. The ceremonies there will be in Rohirric. Part of the wedding too, of course."

"Yes, of course," said Lothíriel, even though it was the first time she had heard of this and an uneasy spasm tugged at her stomach.

"I hope you are applying yourself."

"Ada-" began Lothíriel, desperately. "Did you have a chance to look at Belan's new pups yet? Feredir thought one or two showed promise for the hunt, and they are so adorable."

oOo

There were few texts on the Rohirrim and their language in Gondor, and even fewer men in Gondor who spoke it well, so after the worst of the snows had melted in Nínui, a tutor had come from Rohan to instruct her in the language and customs of the Mark. His name was Hereweald, an elderly, stern man with hair as white as snow and skin tough as leather.

Lothíriel had some experience with tutors and was usually quite capable of cajoling her way out of strenuous tasks. With Hereweald, however, Lothíriel found herself outmatched. Whatever she tried to distract him from his purpose did not work, and he seemed completely immune to her efforts to charm him. Lothíriel suspected he had been a very deliberate choice by Éomer.

It was not that she disliked him. He was a great storyteller, patient with her questions and he had a certain sardonic sense of humour that she could appreciate. It was just that she often got the feeling he was astounded by both her lack of talent and the depth of her ignorance.

He called her prince's daughter, and often just Lothíriel. For some days now, they had been working their way through one of the great poems of the Eorlingas, and Lothíriel was struggling to keep up and understand any of it. She could remember individual words, sometimes, but pressed and scrambled together they made no more sense to her than a month ago.

"No. No," said Hereweald, drumming his fingers on the table as she fumbled her way through another translation. "Listen to it once more, Lothíriel."

"Perhaps if we would write it down and I would have time to look over it at leisure..."

It was an argument they had had many times before. "Rohirric is not a written language."

"You are just determined to make this as frustrating as possible."

"Just pay attention, Lothíriel." Then he recited the couplet again:

syþðan wíges heard wyrm ácwealde

hordes hyrdeunder hárne stán

aethelinges bearn ána genéðde

frécne daéde

Lothíriel strained to make out a few words. "What means aethelinges?"

"Of the prince. Aethelinges dohtor; that is you."

"Aha. And how would you say princess?"

"You would not, for there is no word for princess in the language of the Mark. In fact, there is no true equivalent for your prince either: an aetheling is a nobleman, but his sons are not called the same. And the sons of the king of the Mark will not be aetheling either, until and unless they come into lands and commands of their own."

So her sons would not be princes… this felt strange to her. How would they be known in Gondor? "But would they be, how do you say it, mearcgeféra?"

"Marshalls, yes, perhaps, when they are ready. It is not unlikely, for they will be the blood of Eorl, and that is a line of heroes, one that has never failed to produce strong and able warriors, and your ancestry seems also favourable." A fine concession if ever there was one. "But they will have to prove themselves and be deserving, just as Éomer-King himself had to."

"… And there is really no word for princess in the Riddermark?"

"No. The title does not exist and it would not be awarded through something as passive and commonplace as birth. Until a child rules his own lands and home, or leads an éored into battle, their status comes from their father alone. Our language reflects that."

It was obvious which system Hereweald believed to be the better. Éomer had been quick to use her given name as well when speaking to her – much too quick for her liking. She had seen it as a sign of his disregard. Only now did she realise how unnatural her country's courtesies must seem to him. "You know, you ought to tell people about this. So that they do not take offence when you fail to refer to them by their title."

That made him grin, his crooked teeth shining in his ruddy face.

"So what will the people call me if I am queen?" When. When she would be queen.

"Lothíriel-Queen – cwen, in Rohirric - and hlaefdige or hlaefdige min is how you will be addressed after the coronation. Those close to you may use your given name in informal situations, if you do not object. Or you may come by other names through your deeds and reputation: Morwen stíeleglése, and Éowyn was seo hwite hlaefdige."

"So Éowyn was a lady before she wed."

"Ah yes. Éowyn was lady of the hall of Théoden-King, and so came by her title. Théoden-King the Eorlingas called Ednew, the renewed, and Éomer-King, Éomer Éadig."

"Éadig? What - the old?"

"The blessed," said Hereweald somewhat impatiently. "Old is eald."

"Ha," said Lothíriel, waving away her unfortunate mistake. "Blessed because of his exceedingly lovely betrothed?"

Hereweald raised an eyebrow at her jest. "Because he came unscathed through the three major battles of the War against the darkness."

Lothíriel sat a little straighter in her chair. These were her favourite stories. She had always known Éomer was a hero, and a great leader and warrior, but the songs the Rohirrim sang of their golden king were beautiful, filled with love and feeling, and spoke of deeds and honour beyond imagining. It never failed to give her a thrill of pride and excitement, because this man would be her husband and she had kissed him and he had looked at her with desire in his eyes... "Will you sing that poem for me again? Of King Éomer driving the enemy out of the caves at Helm's Deep?"

"Very well. But I will recite it in Rohirric. Listen closely and learn, Lothíriel."

Lothíriel listened as Hereweald sang, letting herself be swept away by the cadence of the words and by thoughts of Éomer – the way she had seen him spar at Emyn Arnen, the patchwork of scars on his back, his hair glinting in the sun, the way he laughed while he fought.

"I love that one," she sighed at the end.

"Very well. Now you, prince's daughter."

She sang it back to him in Westron.

"You sing well. This is good. And you have a good memory."

Lothíriel folded her hands in her lap, preparing to blush and be modest.

"But the poem I sang just now is an old one of an innkeeper who indulges in rather too much of his own brew. I changed only the melody and the name."

Her heart skipped a mortified beat. "… You must be jesting."

"No. It is rather a favourite with the King's éored, in fact. You may have heard it before when the men were in their cups, although they might have been reluctant to explain the words to you."

Lothíriel buried her face in her arms.

oOo

After supper, Lothíriel helped her sister and the beleaguered nurse tuck in her three nephews. Alphros now was four years old (almost five, in his own words). She had worried he might not remember her, but this was not the case: Galweth had shown him her portrait many times, and they had read her letters together, so Aunt Tiri was as dear to his heart as she had ever been. The thought that she'd be queen of the horselords fascinated him and he always asked her for a story before bedtime. Lothíriel was happy to oblige and shared with him the histories and legends she had learned from Hereweald. (With a few parts edited out and some exciting scenes of swashbuckling adventures added in. The tales of the Eorlingas were often sad and solemn rather than thrilling, and not quite suitable for her little nephew, however much he might disagree. She hoped Rohan would forgive her these creative liberties).

Then they retreated to the drawing room for a quiet evening. Pensively, Lothíriel poured herself a glass of wine and stretched out on the sofa next to her brother Amrothos, pillowing her head on his shoulder, which he allowed with good grace. In one moon-turn she would celebrate her twentieth name day. Before that she would be wed. That was young, very young for a Princess of Dol Amroth, one of the lines in which the blood of Númenor lingered still. But she was of age, and in the Riddermark girls as young as sixteen could be brides, mothers, and the country desperately needed an heir. That she would be expected to bear. As soon as possible. Her heart began beating more rapidly again and she sat up in her seat. It had been so natural to say yes last year. Because she had grown used to seeing him, and talking to him, teasing him. Because of how she felt when she thought she had lost him forever. And because of the difference a kiss could make (which was everything, a sea change, this wonderful, wonderful thing). And yes, Éomer had said he had not forgiven her – that he had offered for her against his better judgment – but at the time that had not felt all that grave or serious. It had seemed very feasible to be quite perfect in eight months. How could all those days have passed with agonising sluggishness, and yet feel like nothing at all?

"Father received final word on Éomer's arrival. He will be here the day after tomorrow," said Elphir with a smile as he entered.

"Oh." She exhaled, trying to push away her disappointment at once more being late to hear. One more day. Two more nights.

"Lothíriel? You don't look happy," said her eldest brother with some concern.

"I just wish Éomer had sent me word," she said in a rush. And then, to cover her hurt: "He is as dreadful a correspondent as you are, Elphir. I wonder if it is a firstborn thing."

"He still has not written to you?" Galweth asked with some curiosity and a hint of pique.

Lothíriel had confided in her sister-in-law when she had first arrived in Dol Amroth. Aunt Ivriniel had been very distant and she had missed the company of other women, her friends especially. She regretted the moment of vulnerability now, because she had much rather no one knew it bothered her, and was somewhat afraid her straightforward sister-in-law might see fit to confront Éomer on her behalf. "Hopeless, isn't it?" she said airily, taking another delicate sip of her wine.

Amrothos grinned and tugged at her braid. "My, sister, you are demanding. You have only been apart for eight months after all. A very short time compared to a traditional betrothal. And kings have not much time for letter writing. You know, Éomer has only written me two times since Midsummer, and never responded to my latest. He must be busy indeed."

Lothíriel was so aghast she almost dropped her glass. "Éomer wrote to you twice since Midsummer?"

"Well, he will be my brother soon. It is only right that he should keep up a regular correspondence."

She was tempted to smack him with one of the pillows. "He is my betrothed."

"Possessive, too, I see. I can already tell you will make a real nag of a wife."

Lothíriel threw her brother a dirty look and began erecting a wall of pillows between them.

"Stop plaguing Lothíriel, Amrothos," said Galweth in her usual matter-of-fact tone. "Your sister is nervous, can't you tell?"

"I am not nervous," she heard herself say. "In fact, I greatly look forward to being rid of Amrothos once and for all. I shall have to make sure my first act as Queen is to ban him from ever setting foot in the Riddermark."

"It is natural to be nervous before your wedding, Lothíriel."

"Well, I am not," said Lothíriel again. She was … justifiably annoyed. At most. Actually, she did not care. No, not at all.

Galweth looked on her with pity. "Men, and especially ruling men, often make the most dreadful correspondents, dear, they get so busy."

"I know."

"Mind, I do think it is curious that he has not written to you at all."

"Ah, but has Lothíriel written to him?" came her brother's lazy voice.

"It'd be rather forward for her to initiate the correspondence," said Galweth pointedly. (That had, of course, not stopped Lothíriel from writing a pile of discarded drafts that had all ended in some fireplace or other.)

"I had forgotten dear Lothíriel is a model of modesty and reserve nowadays," said Amrothos. "Well, I reckon Éomer is simply careful to manage expectations early: it must be tiresome to take a wife who expects to be wooed and solicited all her life. It is what I would do."

This time Lothíriel did throw a pillow at him. Her aunt entered just in time to see it hit the carafe on the side table and spill the wine all over the carpet.


Author's Notes: The verses Lothíriel and Hereweald are studying are, of course, from Beowulf. I had to make my way through it when I was Lothíriel's age in my first year of university, but at least I got to see it written down. I have barely done anything with Old English since then, though, and had to be quite creative with translations, so let me know if anything seems strange.

Thank you all for the lovely responses to the prologue!

And now, as I told you before, "Lothíriel" will be on hiatus. Don't worry: around 25,000 words of the story are already written, and there is an outline and an ending, so it will not be abandoned. I just need a break to focus on finishing my dissertation, and I want to have a full draft before I start uploading, so that when I begin updates again, it will be because the story is finished. In the meantime, I will be around, so feel free to leave messages, PM or get in touch. In fact, I encourage you to do so, because I love hearing from you and it is very motivating when people let you know they notice what you do (Lothi has the right idea here) :-) Thank you all for reading!