"Breathe in just a bit more, my lady!"
Lothíriel obliged, sucking in until she felt that her navel met her spine, and with a grunt Modile secured the corset. A whoosh of dizziness had Lothíriel reaching for the mantel, and she drew in breaths long and slowly, waiting for it to pass.
"Here it is, my lady." Modile's voice was hushed, and Lothíriel turned to see her reverently unwrapping the gift from Queen Arwen which had been delivered just that morning.
But the sight of it turned Lothíriel's stomach, for she knew its connotation. As ignorant everyone thought her to be of her position, she was fully aware of what tonight was to be. A betrothal—no, a trade agreement, with feasting and dancing to make the entire thing seem less like a purchase. Lothíriel was the prime market fare for that evening.
Thought she had to admit, the silken folds of the queen's gift were quite nice. Perhaps there was something fey in the fabric, Lothíriel mused as she straightened the sleeves while Modile fussed around the hem; and it would not stick to her skin when she sweated like her other ball gowns did. That would be fair compensation. Looking at herself in the silver-gilded mirror, she felt oddly pretty in the pale-blue dress. Yes, it must have some sort of magic woven into it.
"We are running out of time; quickly now!" Modile pushed hard on Lothíriel's shoulders forcing her to sit at her vanity. There was nothing to do but worry while Modile secured her hair in a collection of ringlets and pinned several small white roses around her ears. Silver filigree earrings, a generous amount of rose oil applied to her neck, sturdy white slippers, and Lothíriel was lucky to snatch a sip of water before she was herded by Modile's unceasing energy to the banquet hall.
A hum of conversations, laughter, and music met her ears. Lothíriel's apprehension turned her stomach in knots as the king's doorward took her hand, leading her to the center of the great gates. Her father was waiting, and he received her in a delicate embrace.
"You look lovely tonight, Lothíriel."
"Thank you, Father," she said, taking his arm and forcing a rather brittle smile. "I hope I do you proudly."
But there would be no way to confirm whether she did act her part, for her seat was between two young lords, whom she assumed were her father's top contenders for her hand. The one on the left showed no interest in her, only in his meal, and the lord on her right plied her with inane questions during the meal. How she wished to be anywhere else! Lothíriel could nearly feel insanity creeping upon her, along with an intense desire to paint herself with custard and jam. No man would wed her then! Except perhaps she would gain the attention of the other lord that way. Best not to risk it.
She let her mind fly as much as she dared—dancing took little thought, as did the rare response required of her while her partners stared or spoke of ridiculous topics such as the weather or the war (both poor choices to gain her attention). There was a distant, pleasant look on her face, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she looked touched in the head. If it repelled suitors, well . . . Her father could not fault her. No man was bold enough to tell the Prince of Dol Amroth that his daughter was deranged.
During a country dance, she became dimly aware that her brother seemed to be trying to catch her attention from across the room. She sighed: would a dance with Amrothos be any better? He would likely tease her, and that she did not like one bit. But nonetheless, she asked her current partner to return her to Amrothos once the steps were ended (and not a minute too soon, either—this lord stepped on her foot no less than four times).
"Ah, sister!"
Lothíriel noticed that his hand twitched, and she very nearly took a step back. After so many years of him tugging at her curls (and never too gently), they both seemed to be finding it difficult to break habits. She glared at him, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"My friend would like a dance with you, sister."
Her attention turned for the first time to the lord by his side. Immediately she wondered why she had not noticed him before - he towered over nearly everyone else in the room, and his blond hair and beard made him even more distinct. A Rohirric lord, then. "If he would—which I rather doubt, he may ask me himself," she said, her delicate temper getting the better of her manners.
A small grin grew on the face of the Rohír, and to her surprise, he addressed her in Westron rather than his native tongue. "It would be an immense pleasure if you would give me the honor, mín síþwíf," he said, holding out a massive hand towards her. She gulped, and with no small amount of effort, pulled herself back together.
"My lord," she said, putting her hand in his—rather elegantly, she thought. She allowed herself to be drawn into the next dance. They twirled around other couples, her avoiding his searching look. He did not speak. This grated on her nerves more than she might have anticipated; silence would have been appreciated with any other dancing partner. After several minutes of this, Lothíriel felt for the first time that evening that she would really rather make small talk than endure any more of this. "I apologize, my lord, but I cannot recall our being introduced," she ventured, willing herself to appear calm.
"We have not been introduced," he said, clearly amused at her discomfort. "I hope I have not committed a grave and unpardonable social error."
"Indeed not," she smiled. "But I would like to know the name of the man I dance with."
He grinned in return, and her stomach did an odd flip. Was it something she ate? "I am Éomer, mín síþwíf."
"I—oh. Oh!" No amount of self-control could have stopped the red flush blooming on her face, which felt uncomfortably hot. Sweat beaded along her back and she scrambled for a proper reply. "I apologize for not recognizing you, sire, I—"
"It is of no concern," he cut through.
Significantly subdued, especially as he did not speak again, Lothíriel bit her lip, trying to concentrate instead on the sequence of steps. But then she grew curious.
"My lord, but why—" He rose his eyebrows at her earnest tone, and she nearly lost her nerve. "I mean to say, sire, why have you asked me to stand up with you?"
"Is that my grave social error, then? Asking the prettiest girl I see for a dance?"
"Well, no, it is simply that—surely you know the purpose of the feast tonight!" Exasperated, Lothíriel let her serenity slip for the barest moment before she squared her shoulders.
"To eat supper and enjoy a dance or two?"
Lothíriel could have laughed, so giddy she was with nervousness and relief. "If that is your purpose, sire, then might I say I hope the evening is to your liking!"
"Indeed." The pressure of his hand on hers tightened momentarily. "And I thank you for your concern. But why the suspicion? Do I sense an underlying purpose?"
"I confess myself surprised that dear Amrothos did not see fit to inform you himself."
"'Dear' Amrothos," Éomer grinned. "He merely told me I should dance with you. Nay, he positively coerced me."
Embarrassment flushed Lothíriel's features. "Coerced? My lord, I am so sorry—"
"Do not be," he said kindly, and a glance at his face showed bemusement.
She straightened her back and took a deep breath. "Sire, Amrothos is perfectly aware that my father intends to choose a husband for me at this very ball. It seems to me, and may I say I know him very well—that he thought to embarrass you, and I as well, by making it seem as though you are interested in paying the bride price."
"Paying the bride price?"
"Playing the game—to win the hand of the princess." Even the simple act of saying the words made Lothíriel's stomach knot in disgust.
"So that was his purpose." The king scowled. "And just this morning I made the error of calling him friend."
"You hold the advantage over me, sire, for I have the permanent misfortune to call him brother."
"He needs a good thrashing."
"I agree with you thoroughly. I am mortified, and I do ask you to accept my apology. I will, of course, explain to my father you have no intentions—"
"But why?" There seemed to be a steely glint in Éomer's eyes. "I would rather we beat Amrothos at his own game."
Lothíriel smiled wanly. "A fine notion, sire, but I would rather wish to spare ourselves further awkwardness."
"And where is your sense of fun, mín síþwíf?"
Being raised by brothers, Lothíriel could not in good conscience refuse such a challenge. And so she smiled back at the king and asked, "How shall we beat him, sire?"
"Let us dose him with his own medicine, as they say."
"As in . . . ?"
"Do you see that lady by the refreshments?" Éomer whirled her about, and she caught a glance of a woman with ordinary features and mousy brown hair.
"Yes, that is Lady Lithlad. She has had a soft heart for Amrothos for years."
"I did suspect something of the sort," Éomer said. "She was staring at him earlier."
"He has never given her the time of day!" Lothíriel clucked her tongue. "Which is his loss, for I find her company perfectly engaging and agreeable."
"Amrothos has little patience for the female sex."
"You noticed that, did you?"
Éomer laughed. "And I am sure it has little to do with your sharp tongue. I think he ought to dance with Lady Lithlad."
"Why, that would be torture for him! What an exceptionally wonderful idea."
"I think I can maneuver him into it, if you agree to keep watch on him during the next dance. Do not let him slip away!" Their dance was ended, and with a conspiratorial grin and wink Éomer led her back to Amrothos. Lothíriel automatically squeezed Éomer's arm in excitement, before he bowed and disappeared into the crowd, reappearing a moment later to join the line of dancers, with Lady Lithlad.
"My, you're looking happy," Amrothos said, looking giddy and not at all noticing Éomer's choice of partner. "And by the conversation you two were having—as if no one else existed in the world! You looked as though you had known each other for years."
"Fear not, brother, we did not forget your existence," Lothíriel deadpanned. "I doubt anyone ever could."
Amrothos merely gave her a grin, procuring a glass of wine from a passing page. "May as well make the most of the party before Father makes you start dancing with bachelors again," he said. "I personally thought Lord Dulir was the best choice. And when I say 'best', I mean he's probably the least likely to get drunk and vomit over the parlor floor, even if it is because he's too frail from his rheumatism."
"Amrothos! How could you say such things?" Lothíriel said, aghast. "Am I not punished enough, having men wrangle over my hand without my consent? Must you terrorize me with thoughts of such a future?"
"Father would not allow it," Amrothos said. "I heard him speaking with Elphir earlier—Father doesn't like these Gondorian suitors any more than you do. They are all too young or too old."
Lothíriel frowned, deciding that she would speak to her father later. She suddenly had many questions, mainly about why she had to endure such a ridiculous ball if Father had no optimism of finding her a husband here anyway. She would have stalked away (perhaps even from the hall itself, could she manage it), but the thought of Amrothos receiving a measure of retribution kept her at his side, though she simmered in unspoken resentment.
What a relief it was when the music ended! It was scarcely a moment later when Éomer returned to them, Lady Lithlad on his arm.
"Princess! Surely you did not stand out of this dance?" Éomer's earnest and jovial countenance proved to Lothíriel that he was an excellent actor. Though perhaps he was overdoing it.
Stifling a smile, she answered, "Indeed, my lord. My brother has humiliated me most strongly by refusing to take me to the floor."
"A shame! May I rescue you from such abject embarrassment?" During this exchange, Éomer had extracted himself from Lady Lithlad, gently pushing her towards Amrothos, who was watching with no small amount of confusion.
"I would be most grateful, my lord!" Lothíriel smiled.
"Excellent. Perhaps Amrothos will find the manners to escort this kind lady? I would not want to abandon her."
Amrothos's mouth fell open. "Now look here, Éomer—"
"Thank you, Amrothos. Princess?" The plan was going along swimmingly, as Amrothos was forced to accept the blushing Lady Lithlad's hand.
Lothíriel accepted Éomer's arm, feeling a surge of gratification as they left the mismatched pair behind them. He held her tightly as they began dancing once more, though they were silent.
"Are you avenged, mín síþwíf?" the king inquired after some time
She thought for a moment. Perhaps the satisfaction was not so complete as she had hoped. "I feel guilty," she said at length, catching a view of the couple as they maneuvered through the steps. "We have forced him into the same misery I must endure. And poor Lady Lithlad—I cannot imagine how crushed she must feel, knowing that she has contributed to his suffering. I fear she now suffers, too."
"I doubt that," Éomer said, his tone dry. Lothíriel was on the verge of questioning his statement, but he twirled her around so that she could see her brother more clearly.
Amrothos was looking far more happy than he had been standing by the wine, and Lady Lithlad was as infatuated as ever. Before Lothíriel swung around again, she saw Amrothos throw his head back and laugh.
Éomer looked as if he might laugh, too, as Lothíriel returned her attention to him, flabbergasted. Truly, she had no words!
"I hope your conscience is appeased," he said.
"Certainly not! Why should he be so happy, while I am still in my miserable situation?"
The king chortled. "Mín síþwíf, I have never met a woman so resigned to be a martyr as you are. Is it truly such a bad thing, that you are to be married?"
"No! Merely that I have no choice in the matter."
"Ah. Do you not believe your father would endeavor for your happiness in his choice?"
"My father does not share my needs and desires. He seeks a man to provide me with a home and comfort; I seek affection and purpose."
"Have you not told him so?"
"It would not signify. I feel nothing for any of the Gondorian men here tonight." Her choice of words was deliberate, and she could not stop herself from blushing at her own lack of tact. Surely he saw straight through her; he had already shown a talent for guessing her feelings during the course of the evening.
Éomer did not speak again for the remainder of their dance. Were Lothíriel not so preoccupied with her own thoughts she might have wondered if she had contributed to his silence. After the final steps, he took her arm and said, "I see your father looking for you. I shall return you to him."
Lothíriel nodded, at once wishing that he would not leave her and that she could escape his presence forever. She would never forget his thoughtfulness, helping her to get even with her brother. Whom, she saw, was leading Lady Lithlad to the terrace, both looking horrifically twitterpated. The sight deepened her melancholy. What a terrible evening this had been!
Imrahil kissed her cheek, trading a few pleasantries with the king of Rohan before Éomer took his leave. Her father tucked her hand into his own, and Lothíriel noticed a very satisfied expression on his face before remembering what Amrothos had mentioned earlier. "Father," she said quietly as he led her towards the refreshment table. "Amrothos said you did not care for any of my suitors."
He paused a moment before answering, "That is not strictly true."
"And why have I been forced into this ridiculous dancing, if you do not strictly care for any of these suitors?" Lothíriel's voice hardened, and her father winced as her grim on his arm tightened.
"As I said within Amrothos's hearing, which he may not have been specific about," Imrahil said, and they stopped. A servant gave them each a goblet of wine, and her father turned her back to face the crowd of dancers before adding in a low tone, "I said I cared nothing for the Gondorian suitors."
The implication made Lothíriel's stomach sink, and her goblet began to tremble in her clenched hand.
"You looked very well with King Éomer—do you find his company pleasing?" Imrahil's tone lightened, as if he were inquiring about nothing more important than the weather. Lothíriel hid a scowl before answering.
"Not anymore."
"Such a shame," Imrahil said, and then gave a bark of laughter. "He found you pleasing enough at our family supper not two nights' past. Otherwise he would not have gone through the hassle of enlisting the help of Amrothos to gain your attention. Where is that boy, anyway? Did I see him disappear outside with Lady Lithlad?"
If Lothíriel saw Éomer again, she would kick him.