The fire cracked in the grate; the rain and wind which had assaulted Meduseld all day had driven away the summer warmth and replaced it with a fresh coolness. Lothíriel, not at all used to colder weather, had been uncomfortable enough to ask a servant to light a fire in the queen's solar, where she had been hiding all day. Now long after supper, she was sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and admiring the fire. But even this disgraceful bout of selfish indulgence had not brought her the peace of mind for which she had hoped.

Her legs hurt, her arms hurt, her back hurt. What had possessed her to go for such a long ride? It would be many days before she did such a thing again. And the lambing...well, of course she had to help. The shepherd had been in a panic, for he was a mere apprentice and had not assisted in a birth without his master. It was fortunate that her guard had been raised on a farm and knew exactly how to help. Lothíriel had found the process far more rewarding than Dreamfleet's labor, and the sight of blood had not bothered her in the least. Nor had it caused any nightmares to find her in the night.

But that was not the reason she had not wanted to leave her bed on that morning. She was ashamed, for how could she have spoken to the king in such a way?

Common women in Dol Amroth were often beaten for such a thing, and sometimes divorced as well. While her father would never physically harm her, even for such a terrible insurrection, she would still be punished. His disappointment and embarrassment would be far worse than any discipline, in her opinion. But he was not here, and she would have to face the consequences according to the king's standards. She paused in this thought. Would he punish her at all? Last night, he had not seemed bothered by her words in the slightest. Was such blatant disrespect tolerated here?

Now the thought which she had been avoiding filtered into her mind: the kiss. He had kissed her! It was outrageously inappropriate, but that was not her initial thought of the experience. She found it...strange. Strange but nice. She did not want to admit it to herself, but she thought she may have liked it. Or she would like it, were it less unexpected and she knew what to do when he kissed her.

This was more confusion to add to her already heavy burden of mind. Her nightmares for the past years since the war had been increasing leading up to her journey to Rohan, and she had begun to fear that her father or brothers would discover her after a breakdown. Now the apprehension of the king discovering her disobedience was filling her mind—for he had become close to it, after the most recent nightmare. If he did find out, surely he would send her back. What man would want damaged goods? To her, it was clear that no man would wish to marry a woman so weak and easily disturbed.

For the years of misery it had caused, Lothíriel had long since wondered if she had done the right thing, disobeying Denethor's orders to flee with the nobles. It had seemed so right at the time—after all, dying men that protected their city were far more important than her own safety. If Minas Tirith fell, what would her safety be worth anyway? But she knew she had been little help to the healers, untrained and squeamish as she was. More a hindrance—for what it not her negligence that brought about the death of a trained healer from that horrible orc?

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will her frantically beating heart to slow. Unbidden images rose in her mind, and a small whimper escaped her. Her fingers clenched on a tepid cup of tea. Not again . . .

A soft knock sounded at the door. Lothíriel took a deep breath, thinking that it was Hamwyn. "Enter," she said, her voice cracking.

But it was not Hamwyn who entered. It was the king! Lothíriel's free hand immediately flew to her dressing gown, which was only haphazardly covering her breasts. Blushing, she could only stare as he took in the sight of her.

"So, this is where you have been shut away," he said, sounding casual though his warm eyes were filled with worry. "I was hoping to see you today. When you did not attend supper I asked Hamwyn where I could find you."

Hamwyn, the traitoress. "I apologize for my absence, my lord. I will attend my duties tomorrow," Lothíriel said, standing and dipping into as proper a curtsy as she could manage, in her nightdress and holding a cup of tea. the king continued to watch her, his face twitching.

"I do not know whether to laugh or shake you," he sighed. "You have no duties at this time. Do quit the formality, Lothíriel, it makes me blasted uncomfortable."

Her blush felt like it would never fade. They stood, avoiding each other's gaze, until the king seemed to pull himself out of his reverie. "I apologize for disturbing you," he said. "I will leave now—"

"No!"

Had that truly come from her mouth? So many years of controlling her tongue, and of late it had taken on a life of its own. Lothíriel pressed her lips together as the king raised his brows. "No?" he asked. At her silence, he continued, "Would you prefer for me to stay?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. She was experiencing many rapid thoughts, mainly how she ought not to spend time alone with a man and how much she wanted to do just that. Propriety had long flown out the window; a few minutes' conversation would not harm anyone. His presence filled the room with warmth and safety, which she did not want to yield quite yet. Oh, she wanted him to stay!

"Th—there is tea, if you would like," she said, waving her hand clumsily and forgetting that the teapot would be cold by now. The king smiled, and she dropped her gaze. She heard him fetch a chair, and sunk into her own as he placed his so that they were facing each other. Her back was ramrod straight, as it ought to be, and she wrung the folds of her dressing gown between her sweating hands. Lothíriel would see her father's disapproving face in her mind's eye, and his voice echoed. Show respect.

"My lord, I apologize for the scene I caused yesterday," she said. "And especially for—calling you an unfortunate string of rude names. I should not have treated you so."

"On the contrary," the king said, watching her closely. "I deserve every whit of your censure. I would rather you forgive me for my quick judgment and poor temper."

He was apologizing to her? Her confusion reached an unprecedented high. No man had ever apologized to her before, nor had she seen her father or brothers show the regard to any woman which the king had just shown to her. He was, in fact, treating her so warmly that Lothíriel began to wonder what merit there was in cold and unfamiliar arranged marriages. It was almost as if...he was her friend. She had never had an intimate friend before.

"Are you well, Lothíriel?" the king's voice broke through her thoughts. "You do not look at all well."

"I—" She intended to lie, to say that she was well, but it stuck in her throat. Her lingering thoughts of the healing houses had left her feeling fragile, lacking the strength to pretend wellness.

"Lothíriel…" His tone betrayed nothing but concern. "You are awfully pale. Does this have anything to do with your nightmares?"

Oh, he knew! How could he have known? Her lips trembled, and wishing with all her heart for the king's good opinion, she blurted, "I should not have stayed behind! I did not know that I would be recognized, or even that we would survive the war at all!"

The king seemed a bit startled at her passionate words, but Lothíriel found she could not stop.

"I did not want to die, chased to the ground after the Dark Lord razed my country," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "If I was to die, it would be on my terms. I—I wanted to help, if I could. And so when Denethor gave the order to flee, I hid in a closet until the guards passed my father's house. I was alone—my father and brothers were on the Pelennor, and our servants were so frightened that they left without searching for me. I did not want to die away from home!" At this she felt as if she were pleading with the king, begging him to understand. Her hand twitched, as she wanted to hold his for reassurance.

"I understand," he said quietly. "Do go on."

Lothíriel explained how she snuck to the healing houses, giving a false name to the head healer in order to be allowed to stay. Though untrained, there was much running of errands and fetching supplies for her to do. She paused at this point in her telling, unsure of how to proceed. Ought she to inform him of her lingering trauma? Would he understand?

She answered that question to herself, almost at once. Of course he would understand! Did he not see the killing first hand? Lothíriel looked up, meeting his eyes. "I could not sleep for weeks," she murmured. "Even after returning to Dol Amroth, long after the war ended. The blood and the screams...they were too much for me to handle. I had never even seen an animal butchered before!" She bit back a sob. "You must think me the greatest coward!"

"No."

Surprised, she saw the seriousness with which the king uttered the word. In fact, he was looking rather sternly at her. "You are not a coward, Lothíriel, and you must never think so. You stayed behind even in the face of death, when so many others were too willing to flee! For that, you are one of the bravest women I know."

Lothíriel stared at him. Without warning, he grinned back.

"My dear girl! That does explain something to me."

"It—it does?"

"Indeed! I spent some time in Dol Amroth after the war. You do not remember, do you?"

"I do not! I would have remembered!" At this profession, Lothíriel blushed, which made the king's smile widen.

"Your despair is not uncommon to those who have witnessed such monstrosities. You spent much time in your mind, trying to force yourself to forget, no? That is what made you blind to your surroundings. I can say that with confidence, as I do have some experience in the matter."

Lothíriel strained her mind, trying to remember the summer after the war was ended. She did not remember very much of it at all, except for a few scattered memories of which books she had read and how many pillow covers she had embroidered. She did recall, however, with perfect clarity the fear that she had felt following her every footstep. The feeling still crept on her sometimes; she was unlikely to forget it soon. Had the king truly visited her home?

She was brought back to the present as the king pulled his chair closer to hers, his warm eyes fastened on her face. "Do not think me forward, Lothíriel, but I find you most adorable when you are processing your thoughts."

Her mouth parted in surprise at this comment, and emboldened by the private thoughts she had already shared, she said, "It is most forward, my lord! Truly, we should not be alone together until after we are wed."

"Is that the standard for Gondorian betrothals, then?"

"Indeed!"

"I don't like it."

"You are not required to; merely to follow it."

The king's expression soured, and as it reminded her of a spoiled child, Lothíriel felt a laugh building in her. To her horror, a snort escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her face, a flush spreading across her cheeks as the king looked at her quizzically. "I beg your pardon!" she said.

"For what?"

"For my unladylike snort. It is most unbecoming for a woman to laugh, let alone in front of her betrothed!"

"Unbecoming?" the king scowled. "That is utter shit."

"Oh!"

"Lothíriel, I cannot go on without telling you how ridiculous your Gondorian properties are! Perhaps our barbaric, Northern ways offend Gondorians, but your manners offend me worse. It horrifies me that a man as courageous and kind as Imrahil has beaten you down in such a way!"

"He has not beaten me down!" Lothíriel protested. "There is nothing wrong with my behavior, it is how I was taught to act. It is expected of me, a princess of Gondor, to uphold the highest standards of behavior, as terrible as they seem to you!"

"So you are saying that the standards for your public behavior make you happy? You are content to follow them."

Lothíriel hesitated. "Well—that is to say, I do not mind them anymore—"

The king shook his head, his brows drawn together in consternation. "Then you have been beaten down. Where is your spirit, Lothíriel? It emerged to direct you to the healing houses: have you shut it away again? How could you allow someone else's expectations to have such control over you?"

"Duty, my lord, is the beginning and end of it. You may find me strange, but it is how I have always been!"

"And is it how you will be going forward? Without your father or brothers dictating your every move?"

His questions struck Lothíriel dumb. She had been feeling increasingly unsettled for the entire evening, and now with such a climax she could not offer another defense. This would take further thought—much further thought.

"I am sorry if I have bothered you," the king said, sensing her discomfort. "It was not my intent."

"It is merely my inborn habits that are bothered," Lothíriel said. "Perhaps that is not such a bad thing." As she said it, she knew it was true—and smiled at the king. He responded in kind, his grin flickering wickedly in the firelight before settling back in his chair.

"Let me tell you about my sister," he said.