Lothíriel watched the chaos unfold with hooded eyes. She knew it was in her honor, but instead of feeling welcome, she felt out of place and uncomfortable. Accustomed as she was to the staid, formal events of Dol Amroth and even Minas Tirith, the loud joking, the individuals meandering around the hall, and the mingling of men and woman made her blush with confusion. She was behaving as she ought despite sitting at a high table next to king himself, whose presence alone discomfited her. Why it was even considered appropriate for them to sit together—escaped her.

Perhaps she could have handled the raucous noise of the feast if her day had not been so long and so disorienting. Firstly, there had been the king's incredulous response to her and his subsequent argument with Erchiciron. Well, it had not been an argument so much as a scolding. Lothíriel had only heard snatches of it (as they spoke in whispers), but it was clear that she was not what the king expected. And he had not seemed pleased, either.

It had been a disheartening start to the day. After she had been dismissed by Erchirion, Hamwyn had taken her to the kitchens for breakfast. The open curiosity of the staff had embarrassed Lothíriel, and she had found it difficult to choke down her scone and tea. Barely satisfied, she had then been rushed away by a maid on a tour of Meduseld.

Lothíriel was sure she would never find her way around the huge house. While the palace in Dol Amroth had been built in a series of circles, Meduseld had clearly been built on and renovated several times; wings extended in the oddest of places and she was sure that the outside dog kennels should not have been built a mere stone's throw from the kitchens. It was all very haphazard, and after finding herself dizzy from hunger (and luncheon still a long ways off) and the confusing tour, Lothíriel asked the maid to show her to the sick room, where her maid from Dol Amroth was resting.

Normally she would not have ventured to visit a servant, and clearly the maid was as uncomfortable as herself. It was the only way Lothíriel could think of to pull herself together, and it was there that Hamwyn finally found her. Luncheon had been a private affair in her rooms, Hamwyn rightly guessing of Lothíriel's exhaustion. She had been too tired to eat, and after being left alone, Lothíriel had fallen immediately into bed. It seemed only a half-minute later that Hamwyn returned, cheerfully chirping that it was time for her to dress: the welcome feast was soon to begin.

Though with only the memory of a half-eaten breakfast to sustain her, Lothíriel found it awkward to eat in front of a man she was not related to. Nor did the bowl of brown goop seem at all appetizing to her uneasy stomach. And so she watched the guests—not that their vivacity comforted her in any way.

This would, undoubtedly, be the worse summer of her life. And it was a mere prelude, for would she not live in such a wild place for the remainder of her years? At this thought, she felt her throat closing and a stinging in her eyes. Bowing her head, Lothíriel brought her napkin to her cheeks to mop any traitorous tears.

"If you dislike venison so much, you certainly are not obliged to choke it down."

This warm, quiet voice was so much unlike the harsh expletive she had first heard from its owner that Lothíriel momentarily feared that a stranger was speaking to her. She turned her head slightly to the king, who had leaned close to her. Thankfully disallowed to speak as he had not asked her a direct question, she kept her eyes fastened on her clenched hands in her lap. Had he seen her tears? His remark caused her to think he had—and she was forced to suppress a flush.

At her silence, the king spoke again. "Perhaps you would care to leave the feast early? You seem tired from your travels."

"Thank you, sire, I would."

"May I escort you to you chambers?"

"No, thank you, my lord." Such indecorous behavior would condemn a princess such as I, was what she did not say. I would rather poke forks in my eyeballs than endure your unsettling presence any longer, was another thought which she did not speak.

The king was quiet for a moment. "Would you like me to send for Hamwyn to escort you?"

"Yes, I thank you, sire."

Lothíriel sat, perfectly demure, as the king summoned a servant to fetch Hamwyn. Her position did not reflect her rapid thoughts: Why was the king treating her so...thoughtfully? So attentively? In Dol Amroth, the women were expected to stay at functions as long as they were required to, no matter their state of health or exhaustion. Perhaps she should have told the king she would stay. After all, that is what her father would expect. But her weariness, coupled with a dizzy head from too little nourishment, was making her feel quite ill. She did not wish to embarrass her betrothed.

Still, as her head sunk into her pillow a half-hour later, she allowed herself a small amount of selfishness and decided that she was very glad she left the feast early.

…

The following morning, however, brought a new challenge. Hamwyn informed her, after bringing a breakfast tray, that Lothíriel was free to do as she pleased that day. Lothíriel was too distracted by the sight of fresh bread and tea to pay very much attention, but after Hamwyn departed and she was left alone, the problem reasserted itself.

She was free? To do as she pleased?

Lothíriel could not recall such a thing ever happening to her before. Even as a child, her study and play times had been strictly adhered to by a succession of governesses after her mother had died. Any unoccupied time she'd had then had usually been filled by embroidering cushion covers, and so without anything else to do, Lothíriel made herself busy.

The maid who had shown her around Meduseld the previous day had informed Lothíriel that the queen's solar was at her disposal. Lothíriel decided that that meant that she would be undisturbed there; she gathered up her sewing kit and made her way to the solar. It was a very fortunate thing that it was only two rooms down from her own! If it had been any further away, she might have stayed in her own room for fear of becoming lost.

The large chamber seemed to loom around her; for the first time Lothíriel realized that she was completely alone. Her chaperone ought to have been there with her. As a matter of duty, she should inquire as to how to hire another.

That day passed far more pleasantly. Even when her eyes and fingers grew tired of the brainless work, Lothíriel stood by a large window and enjoyed the sight of the tall mountains that watched over Edoras. These mountains were far taller than any she had seen, even Mount Mindolluin, out of which Minas Tirith was built. It was all rather spectacular, and did much to lessen her anxiety.

Supper that night was not a feast, though the atmosphere was still as relaxed as ever. Restored from her day of solitude, Lothíriel found herself feeling less uncomfortable as she was placed once more by the king for the meal. He again tried to lure her into conversation, but she was prepared, and rebuffed him completely. Her father would be proud! Though, she did sneak a glance at the king as he turned away from her and saw to her surprise—disappointment. Was he unhappy? How could something that pleased her father—indeed, a behavior that he insisted upon, be of such consternation to his sworn-son and her betrothed? Lothíriel wiped her face of emotion, lest her brows furrow and betray her troubled thoughts.

"May I escort you to your chamber?"

The servants were clearing the tables, and most of the guests were rising to leave. Lothíriel had not expected the king to address her again, and she blinked. "No, thank you, sire," she said.

"Very well. Until tomorrow, princess." He rose as well, and just as Lothíriel was considering whether to leave alone or to find Hamwyn somehow, a man walked to the head table, bowing briefly to the king before addressing him in Rohirric. Lothíriel felt her skin prickling; she knew she was being discussed.

"Ceorl wishes to express his thanks to you," the king said to her. "Would you care to accept?"

"I do not understand," Lothíriel murmured, keeping her gaze lowered. "I have done nothing to earn his gratitude. It is not necessary."

Another exchange of conversation between the men. Now more footsteps were coming near, and Lothíriel wondered why the king allowed others to approach him without ceremony.

"He says—" the king paused. "He says that you attended him in the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith after the battle on Pelennor. He recognizes the mark on your, ah, neck."

Lothíriel resisted the urge to cover her neck, swallowing several times to clear her throat. "I must plead ignorance. He is mistaken, sire," she said in a cool voice. Dizziness was creeping in on her vision, and she was sure her face was burning bright red. There was no response to her comment, and the king spoke once more and the crowd dispersed. Lothíriel clasped her hands together to hide the trembling.

"I am sure that you have not been planted in your seat, princess. There is no need to stay in the hall." The king's tone was dry, and Lothíriel wondered if he had made a joke. She did not dare ask. She stood and swept a very elegant curtsey before taking her leave on trembling legs.

She went straight to her chamber, and wasted no time bolting the door behind her. Her heart was still thudding, and she leaned her forehead against the door, breathing deeply.

A sudden knock made Lothíriel jerk her head away.

"Lothíriel? Are you alright?"

It was the king! Had he followed her? She gulped, unable to answer, her hands still clamped on the bolt.

"I am sorry for your distress," he continued through the door. "I did not realize that Ceorl's inquiry would upset you. May I fetch anything for you—tea? A book? Hamwyn?"

Lothíriel stepped back in surprise, staring at where he would be standing. The king was asking if he could fetch her anything—just as a servant would? This whole place was backwards!

"Lothíriel?" The voice came again, this time softer. Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes, and she wiped them with her silk sleeve. An urge to confide—to open the door, to speak to the king as she would a friend, nearly overpowered her. But her father's face filled her mind, and she stiffened.

"I am well, thank you," she said. To her ears, her voice was not at all convincing, but a moment later she heard his footsteps walking away.

Now alone, Lothíriel allowed her shoulders to sag, and let out a deep, exhausted breath. Too close.