Rather Merry Than Wise
In the distance Lothíriel could still make out the sprawling presence of Emyn Arnen, the manor itself and the orangery, and the expanse of the exercise yard. She was not supposed to leave the grounds unless there was someone to keep an eye on her, and thus she took care that she always remained in sight of the house.
It was, perhaps, a rather liberal interpretation of the rules, but perfectly defendable.
She darted into a thicket of cedars and cypresses, letting her hands brush over the trees and kicking at a pile of leaves that lay near her feet. Ithilien in autumn was like a dream, a dream of red and gold and warm spices, of quiet woods and the smell of the earth, but it was her cousin Faramir's dream, not hers. In this most beautiful province of Gondor, Lothíriel was at last starting to feel homesick. In Dol Amroth the rains would be coming in soon, torrential rains from the sea, and she longed to ride through the storms on the back of her beloved horse, Suldis. Her father had promised they would go home for Mettarë this year, departing perhaps as early as the end of Narbeleth if all went well at the council. It could not be soon enough for Lothíriel.
She ventured further into the forest until she came upon an old ficus tree. Its branches stretched invitingly low to the ground, and climbed high and wide into the sky, promising a view over the entire grounds, and perhaps to the elven colony beyond. She bit her lip. Should she? Could she? Of course she could, and that answered the other question too. It would be a fine place to gather her thoughts, and the reunion with the King of Rohan had left her in an odd mood - perhaps the man just still knew effortlessly how to bring out her rebellious side.
She shrugged out of her dress, as she had been longing to do all day, took off her bracelets, and finally untied the ribbon with the sapphire setting that lay around her neck. With a shrug of disapproval at her own behaviour she placed them, and her sandals, at the tree trunk, and then reached for the lowest hanging branch and hauled herself up. Testing her weight and balance she ran to the centre of the tree, rejoicing in the lightness of her feet, and she quickly found a path further up, staying close to the trunk and tugging on each hold before shifting her weight. She should try this more often! Lately there had been so little time for the tumbling and acrobatic stunts she used to love so well. About halfway up Lothíriel paused, swung her legs over one of the sturdier branches and surveyed her surroundings. Two chaffinches, startled by her presence, took off from a branch nearby and flitted through the trees in search of safer ground. Lothíriel watched as the sun slowly disappeared away into the west, tinting the sky orange to match the leaves, so that it seemed the whole of Ithilien was ablaze. Just when she had decided she had best return to the house before the light disappeared completely, she heard footsteps, and she darted away from the trunk to where the foliage was denser. A lone man dressed in the green-gray garb of Faramir's Rangers stopped at the foot of the tree. He looked around and lifted her dress off the forest floor, and then flashed a grin up to where she was hiding. Round green eyes, an easy smile and hair the colour of oak leaves in autumn.
"Rhanaer," she greeted him casually.
"Princess Lothíriel."
She could not help herself and deftly moved a few steps further up. "I said before that I would make a fine Ranger. I think I was right."
"You are an amateur," he called back. "Let me give you some valuable advice: if one aims to hide in a tree, it is best not to leave a pile of clothes and jewels at the trunk."
She sat down and let her legs curl around the branch. "I was not hiding. In fact, when one is a Princess, there is no point in climbing a tree if one is not hoping to get caught."
"Why do you wish to be caught? Or should I ask: by whom?"
"Perhaps I am just seeking attention."
He laughed again and his eyes softened. "Come down, Princess, and I will gladly give you my attention."
"You have shooting drills." Faramir liked to have archery practice at dusk, to accustom his Rangers' eyes to the gloom of the dark forests to the east.
"Right as always," said Rhanaer. "Yet someone has to save our Prince's noble cousin from herself. Who knows what else she may do, in her quest for attention?"
"Don't mock me," said Lothíriel, getting up and balancing on one leg. "I am rather good at this sort of thing, you know. Irredeemably so, as my aunt would say."
"Come down, Princess," said Rhanaer, laughter mixing with a hint of plea. He rested his hand against the ficus as if to steady it.
Lothíriel looked down at her bare feet and calves peeping out from under her shift and pantalettes, and flushed a little. "Very well, but you had better close your eyes."
The Ranger obeyed and Lothíriel started her slow descent down the tree. Coming to a seat on the lowest branch, she quickly plucked her gown out of Rhanaer's hands, and shrugged it on. "Keep your eyes closed and hand me that clasp," she commanded.
"I would not dare disobey," Rhanaer murmured. "But I can hardly do both."
Lothíriel smiled to herself. "You are a disappointment, soldier," she said, jumping down and reaching for the clasp herself. She straightened her gown, fixed her jewels, and contemplated pulling Rhanaer's hair while his eyes were still shut but thought the better of it. "You may look."
He opened his eyes, and she felt herself blush a little more as he took her in from head to toe, not even trying to conceal his appreciation. Then he offered his arm. "So, fair Princess, what mischief have you been up to today that you felt the need to hide?"
"I told you I was not hiding. I was admiring the view."
"And hoping for attention. I remember," said Rhanaer. "What more, you are missing supper, just as our friends from the north have arrived. An interesting conundrum."
"You promised to divert me. So tell me something amusing," said Lothíriel, unwilling to discuss either supper – her stomach was growling – or the arrival of the Rohirrim.
"I promised attention," said Rhanaer. "I thought you might need a confidant."
Lothíriel threw him one of Aunt Ivriniel's stern looks and he relented.
"Diverting tales, hm? Let's see. Durchon fell off his horse again today."
"That happens every day."
"That was not the amusing part. The oaf proceeded to declare the design of the horse faulty in essence, and insisted on some strange tale involving backs that curved downwards or sideways in the wrong directions. We convinced him to make at least three elaborate drawings before he caught on that we were mocking him."
"I am surprised he caught on at all." Durchon was a pale and awkward lad who was prodigiously untalented at everything except making up excuses. He was rather higher-born than most of the Rangers and aspired to a place in Faramir's White Company - a fruitless ambition for one like him. "Give me another one."
"To be sure. Remember how I told you that Hostor was late for stable duties all last week because he cannot get himself out of bed? And that Talion and Camaendir missed breakfast twice because of it? They sewed his blanket onto his bedroll while he was sleeping. I heard they did not cut him out until after dinner the next day, and I believe he has not dared to go to sleep since.
"Poor Hostor."
"Actually, so far the effects are encouraging. I have never seen the boy more alert," said Rhanaer.
"Do you have any more stories?" asked Lothíriel. "Neither was very amusing."
"Mercy," said Rhanaer with a laugh. "Anyway, how can the trivial banalities of a soldier's life possibly hope to amuse a princess? I am sure you have something more interesting to tell me. After all, did you not reunite today with your former foe, the king of Rohan?"
Lothíriel felt a flicker of annoyance at Rhanaer's forward inquiry, even though she knew she herself was to blame. Last week, tired, nervous, and a little bawdy after a couple of glasses of wine, she had confessed to him some of what had happened last summer between Éomer and herself. It had been wrong; she knew that. Even though she had not gone into details, for her, the princess of Dol Amroth, to be expressing anything other than admiration and cordiality for the king of Rohan, who was the saviour of her people and Gondor's greatest ally, was a major blunder in etiquette. Her father would be most displeased if he ever heard of it.
Still, her troublesome moral compass compelled her to be more honest than she should: "I know King Éomer is a great warrior and leader, but his manner can be so brusque."
Rhanaer took her by the arm as they passed through a grove of chestnut trees. "I am not surprised," he said pensively. "I was able to observe King Éomer during the march on the Black Gate. He seems to me one of those men that have slept with a sword in hand ever since they were young; completely confident on the battlefield and wrong-footed in any other situation. He is a proud warrior, no doubt, and very competent, but grown cold, I fear, and dour, after so many years of fighting."
"Yet my brothers like him so much," Lothíriel mused out loud. "He cannot be altogether bad."
"Your brothers are warriors too, and so King Éomer is comfortable in their presence. He sees their virtues and so deigns to be respectful. But I fear he has had very little experience conversing with women who are his social equals – aside from his sister."
Lothíriel pondered those words. They seemed sensible, but on the other hand, Amrothos especially would surely soon have lost interest if there really was no more to Éomer than a cold, proud warrior. Her brother respected intelligence and good humour, and mostly chose his friends based on whether he found their company entertaining rather than their ability to bring down mumakil. She was brought out of her reverie when Rhanaer suddenly stopped, and made a shushing noise. Then she heard it too: footsteps, and the murmur of men's voices.
"I am not supposed to leave the grounds," she whispered.
He pulled her around a tree and with a deft motion positioned himself between her and the newcomers. Long yellow hair and green cloaks, the men were undoubtedly Rohirrim. Probably sent to fetch wood for the campfires. Lothíriel felt her heart speed up as they drew closer. The bushes and Rhanaer's cloak only half-concealed them, and Faramir's rangers would certainly have discovered them, but these were men used to open plains and the sounds of the forest confused their instincts. They passed and vanished between the trees. Rhanaer turned to her: "Are you well, my lady?" She nodded. Her pulse would not slow, though, and she noticed how close his body was to her own, hips brushing against her gown, nothing too scandalous, but oh so close and improper. He must have seen something in her expression, for he smiled, lifted his hand and brushed a stray curl out of her face. "My lady. Should I escort you back to the house?"
A little breathless Lothíriel replied: "That is probably for the best. I am rather hungry."
oOo
Lothíriel had met Rhanaer when she came to watch the morning riding drills during her first week in Emyn Arnen. He was one of the most accomplished horsemen in Faramir's company, with a confident, natural seat and a rather impetuous style, which had immediately drawn her to him.
"You ride well," she had said to him after the drills were over.
"Thank you, my lady princess. You are too kind," he had said, although his grin suggested he knew just how good he was.
In the afternoon she had encountered him again in the stables where she had been struggling with a new sidesaddle she had bought for Suldis. The leather was tough and cut rather too long, and she had been well annoyed when Rhanaer jumped in and helped her fix the straps. It proved a futile exercise in the end because Lothíriel discovered after just ten minutes that she much preferred riding bareback if she were made to do so sideways (although, according to Aunt Ivriniel, this entirely defeated the purpose of the exercise and she might as well ride astride then), but she had been impressed with the gallant soldier, and frequently sought him out after. He was always ready to entertain her despite his busy schedule, and they had become fast friends. He had some distant connection to a minor lord in the far west, but his father and his father's father had been farmers in Lebennin, which was what he had intended to do with his life before the growing darkness compelled him to join the rangers. He had distinguished himself in the Ring War, defending Minas Tirith and riding to the Morannon with King Elessar.
He was courteous, amusing and pleasant company, far better indeed than most of the lords who had sought her out in recent months. More handsome, too, with those green eyes and the beautiful broad shoulders of an archer. At some point Lothíriel had wondered if she perhaps suffered from an infatuation, but then dismissed it as a whim. Although she was flattered by his attentions and sometimes noticed herself finding excuses to almost brush against him, or walk in his field of vision, surely there was more to being in love than that.
Or perhaps not, she thought, as her body almost involuntarily concocted a stumble so that Rhanaer was forced to tighten his grip on her arm.
It was dark by the time Lothíriel and Rhanaer reached the main courtyard, and she said her farewells quickly before raiding the kitchens and then making her way to the northern wing of the house. She paused in front of a window to look out at the fires of the Rohirric camp. Their voices and raucous laughter carried through the night. Then one of the men struck up a tune, soon joined by drums and the rolling harmonies of the riders of the north. It was a melody Lothíriel knew well, although the rhythm was different from the versions she had heard before. Not quite the ponderous song they played in Minas Tirith or the fast-beating sensuous pulse of the country-dances of Belfalas, it had a persistent beat of its own, like horses galloping downhill. She could not make out the words, but the resonance felt the same as the song she knew so well. Strange and wonderful that such a connection could have survived even though their countries had been estranged for so long. With a sigh she drew the shutters close and continued her way up the stairs. She would seek out her friend Aldor tomorrow.
She opened the door to the study, hung up her torch and started lighting candles, until their glow and warmth filled the room. Her father would undoubtedly be annoyed with her for being wasteful, but who could be persuaded to work during the day when the weather was so fair and the grounds so tempting? Piles of papers and clutter greeted her on the desk, and a stack of letters that had arrived today was perched on the chair, put there deliberately to make sure she would not overlook them. Lothíriel placed them on the floor and surveyed the general mess. She was far behind, and it was beginning to worry her. She had better get through most of these tonight, because with the Rohirrim here she would not have much time for paperwork anymore.
Paperwork. It was just too dismal to even consider the word. She would have liked to have not cared, as she had always done before, but last week Éowyn had looked so very ill and strained that she found she no longer had the heart to be indifferent.
It had been her father's scheme, of course. He had announced it to her as a done deal – she was to assist Éowyn in preparing for the Great Council as Éowyn was soon to enter her confinement – and then he had leaned back with that same smug expression he wore when he had accepted a position at the Queen's court on her behalf.
"It is an excellent plan. I will see you there in six weeks or so," and with that, she had been dismissed.
As if it was nothing at all. Of course, Prince Imrahil had always had his formidable elder sister, her Aunt Ivriniel, by his side to take care of domestic matters so he could focus on the aspects of ruling that he enjoyed. Like most men, she suspected her father had little notion of the many chores and tasks being a Lady of the House involved, or just quite how much work went into hosting such a grand affair as King Elessar's Great Council: supplies, menus, diversions, even the allocation of rooms was a maze of political complications. Mind you, Lothíriel had not realised she knew much either, but it was rather amazing how many tidbits of information one inadvertently picked up after a year at court. With a sigh, she perused accounts and letters, translating the thoughtless Sindarin to Westron for Éowyn's benefit, and patiently adding names to the ever-growing list of guests.
The candles burnt low and so did her motivation for the work. It was just another week or so, she reminded herself. Then Arwen would be here, with Raissel and Hethlil: her friends who had organised and overseen many ceremonies and events in the past, and who would know exactly what to do and how. And perhaps Arwen would take them to visit the elven colony before the delegations got here. She spent a few happy minutes imagining such an outing, but then forced her thoughts back to the task at hand.
Well after midnight, her work finished at last, Lothíriel commandeered a forgotten scrap of paper and began a note to Amrothos, the only one of her brothers who could be relied upon to keep up a correspondence. She shared some trivial stories with him, spent half a page detailing Elboron's latest antics and pressed him for news from the city. When the paper was almost full she wrote:
King Éomer arrived today.
Her quill halted and she pondered for a moment.
He looked well.
She paused again. Should she have said seemed well? Amrothos had a tendency to fixate on such details that was most vexing. Oh well, never mind that.
And had much to say about the weather.
There, she grinned to herself. Then she signed her name and went to bed.
Author's Notes: Thank you all once again for the reviews; I love hearing from everyone. Anthi35 and Guest, really happy to hear you liked the first glimpse of the new Lothiriel; and I hope you continue to enjoy her. PoemstheEarth, this story is definitely also more of a coming-of-age tale than the previous installment, and don't worry, Lothiriel has plenty of scrapes to get into and out of still. You're completely right; Lothiriel is not the only one who could have handled certain situations with more grace, but Eomer is starting to get to know her better.
Happy weekend, all, and for those in the northern hemisphere: happy spring equinox!