Any reviewers WITHOUT honorable intentions WILL be deleted. Ha, I think ya'll know my track record by now. . .
Enough of THAT ranting...
to my other lovely readers...I do enjoy constructive, helpful, encouraging reviews... but anyway- :)
Season's Greetings... and enjoy!
Thank-you! :)
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The beacon of the fair sun rose out of the east, highlighting the great host approaching the white city of Minas Tirith. A day to sweep all of the dust and darkness from the hem of humanity's cloak. A moment of pure, cleansing light over the entire horizon of the earth. Silence- then sound- as the people of the city eagerly awaited the grand arrival of their new king. Before the sundered gates and on the walls, they watched them come.
The field parted and rippled before the lines of men in their progress. The Captains... the Kings... The gathering of people before the gate bore stillness and graciousness in their countenance as they beheld the golden ones in their glory. Golden they seemed, in the sun.
The host halted suddenly, the movement both sensuous and graceful. There was a deep silence and then the Dunedain with the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, stepped out from the host, noble men, Aragorn's kinsmen. Between their ranks came the returned king himself. Aragorn was revealed in a sweeping white mantle over black and silver mail. He strode out with slow, purposeful strides. Behind him came Eomer king of Rohan, the wizard Gandalf Mithrandir, Prince Imrahil and four small Halflings that caused much stir in the crowd. There were the ones well known to the city, Meriadoc and Peregrin, and two others... famous for their jouney to the dark heart of Mordor and the seat of Sauron's past power. These last two strange Hobbits were the two who had traveled to Mount Doom with the now destroyed Ring of Power. Frodo son of Drogo, nephew to Bilbo Baggins; and his faithful servant and friend Samwise Gamgee. To see these saviors at last was an overwhelming moment for the people gathered before Minas Tirith.
Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil was most overjoyed to see her father and brother returned safely; and her hazel eyes also sought out the lordly captains and kings. But it was the power held within the diminutive forms of Frodo and Sam that most captivated her at the moment. Her fellow healer Ioreth stood close, and she couldn't help but notice Ioreth's awe as well. Ioreth was chatting busily and eagerly to the kinswoman at her side about the mighty Halflings. Lothiriel straightened the sleek folds of her dress and smiled as she listened to the older womans antics. She noted how her story seemed a little... off... She could agree with one thing though: The Lord Elfstone's kingly hands HAD been the hands of a healer.
The healer's ramble was cut short as a single trumpet pealed, ringing through the air. Lothiriel watched as Faramir left his place in the crowd gathered before the temporary barrier before the gate of the city. He had been near the Lady Eowyn, who was prettily dressed in a saffron-gold gown and delicately flowered ornaments. Beside her stood the Marshal of the Rohirrim, the grave-faced Elfhelm, accompanied by fair knights of the Mark. The tall Gondorian official Hurin, Warden of the Keys, moved out with Faramir to meet Aragorn and his retinue.
Four soldiers followed them with a casket. Faramir knelt before Aragorn amid those assembled on the field. The following ceremony was by turns solemn, joyous, and boisterous. The crowds began to cheer, and it reached a heightened pitch as the ancient crown of Earnur was revealed. As The glint of the winged, jeweled metal flowed over Aragorn Elessar's shapely knuckles and fingers, a hush fell over the fields of the Pelennor as he held it aloft. He sang the lilting, haunting words of Elendil come to Middle-earth from Numenor across the sea all those ages ago... and a sweet sigh fell over the people at the sound of his melodic, modulated voice. Then Aragorn showed his humility by giving the crown to Faramir and then by turns to Frodo who passed it at last to Gandalf.
Aragorn knelt before the white-robed wizard. As he stood up at last, a crowned King of men, everyone marveled at his weathered, vital features alit with a compelling grace. The trumpets blared at the cry of Faramir's voice pronouncing: "King!"
They came at last to the barrier, which was thrust back, and King Elessar entered the city of Minas Tirith to the sounds of singing and music, intermingling together with lovely strains to create a swelling harmony. The streets leading to the Citadel were awash with flowers, and as they reached the Citadel, the standard of the Trees and Stars was at last unfurled over the land of Gondor.
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Lothiriel was among the press of people who had broken processional rank once they reached the courtyard before the White Tower. People were meeting, greeting and embracing before entering the hall for the festivities. She ran through the thick, mingling crowd in search of her relations, catching heart- tingling glances and nods from the likes of the elegant, sharp-eyed elf Legolas, and the smiling, striking king of Rohan, Eowyn's brother Eomer. Lothiriel saw Eowyn throw herself into her brothers arms with heedless abandon of her healing arm still fettered by a sling. Soon after she found her brother Ceril, and father Imrahil, and shed a few happy tears with them. She squeezed their hands as they moved through the doors of the Citadel, content to be reunited with her own family.
Tables of sumptuous food and drink awaited inside, along with music and dancing and whatever else the Coronation day would bring. A little while later Lothiriel caught sight of a solitary Beregond lingering beneth the shadow of a carved pillar. She hastened to his side. "I sure am glad he has taken over... " Beregond gestured to where King Elessar was lightly talking to someone at the foot of the dais. Lothiriel nodded deeply. She knew what he meant. Bless the spirits of the dead, but it sure was easier to feel at peace with the Lord Denethor gone. She remembered him scowling and complaining all too many times from that very same post. She knew that both she and Beregond had had their share of run-ins with that old man. Her irascible uncle had shown little fondness for his young, southern born niece. Perhaps ultimately she and Faramir had reminded him too much of his deceased wife, Finduilas of Amroth.
"Are you alright, Beregond?" Her healer's eyes moved quickly to the heavy strain in his face that he could not hide from her. Her eyes dropped to the goblet in his hands. "You're not drinking too much, are you?"
"Not anymore then what I need." Beregond took a long sip, and while his words were a quip, Lothiriel sensed the weight beneath them.
"Beregond, I am sure our new king will be merciful." Lothiriel took a deep breath and bit her lip, willing her words to be true.
"For my son... I hope you are right, Lothiriel." Beregond gazed at the healer who he also considered his friend. He had known her ever since his promotion from Ithilien to Minas Tirith. He had saved Faramir and Faramir had saved him all those years ago as well... and she had been Faramir's young, sharp-honed, sister-like cousin. He wondered suddenly why in the years since Lyara's death he had never been attracted to the statuesque Lady Lothiriel. She was just as smart and above his rank as Eowyn, but the wings of heart had failed to stir. Yet fate was beautiful and painful and aligned all at once, he supposed.
Lothiriel peered furtively up into his wary face and then looked away. "Until you know... continue to take the calming preparations. Things like Holy Basil, Chamomile, Lemon Balm... not alcohol."
He laughed. "Healer Lothi-! Healing always." He quirked an eyebrow.
"Sorry. It's a rather instinctual... instantaneous thing I do."
"Definitely."
Lothiriel rolled her eyes but put a comforting hand on Beregond's shoulder. They turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Faramir!" Lothiriel greeted her cousin. Faramir seemed in good spirits as he bid them hello. They talked a little bit together before Lothiriel gave some pretext to depart, leaving the two men to themselves. Beregond tried desperately not to let the pulsing wound of his emotions pollute the air between them. Faramir looked askance at Beregond as they went together to get some more spice bread at a nearby trestle table.
"I can intercede on your behalf... with King Aragorn Elessar..." Faramir told him quietly.
"NO! Faramir! This is a matter of the Guard," Beregond said sharply. "I cannot ask that of you. We all have our fates given to us."
Faramir looked distressed and taken aback, but he nodded. "As you will. I will support you no matter how it ends."
Beregond swallowed the bread, trying to cover up the rising and descending qualms assailing his body. And then he saw her... when he had managed to avoid her all this time... Even across the hall Eowyn of Rohan shone like a diadem in a basement. The gold complemented her skin tone, and while her countenance was serious, Her eyes were sensitive as she glanced in their direction. The hilt of the sword flashed at her side.
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Eowyn put her hand to the sweat marks of her brow. She chafed at the tight circlet, relieved at least to be out of view of the eyes of Faramir and Beregond. She still felt acutely uncomfortable in their combined presence. She closed her eyes against the stress and accusation she saw in Beregond. It was a general thing she knew, but it still was hard- not to feel the directness of it hit her. Why did she have to complicate things for everybody... including herself?
At least Faramir seemed sunnier and more serene then he had yesterday. Less brittle on this day of all days in history. He had acquitted himself well through the ceremonies. Eowyn had not yet had a conversation with Aragorn, but she hoped to, even if intense nervousness and excitement bloomed in her stomach at the thought. When she had seen him in all his smiling, gentle grandeur, she considered once again how unusual it was for so much youthful vigor and ancient wisdom to be embodied in one man. Aragorn was QUITE old with his lengthened lifespan, as she remembered. She supposed she was one of the youngest members of this cast of heroes. She herself was younger then Beregond and Lothiriel, who were younger then Faramir. Is age- really relative? She wondered.
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Lothiriel tried to decide between the puddings and ices gleaming so enticingly upon the table. There were orange and lemon infused ones, mint and hazelnut, and all manner of flavors. She was trying to catch her breath from a jig Ceril had pulled her into. A large section of the hall had been cleared for high-spirited dancing. Peregrin and Meriadoc, more commonly styled Pippin and Merry, had been out there longer then anyone. Their Halfling stamina showing itself proudly. There was a gentler tune playing now, with rhythmic viols and flutes complementing each other. Lothiriel turned after finishing a chilled vanilla cream pudding. Legolas the elf was dancing with a noblewoman she recognized as Lady Renlia, an old admirer of Faramir's. Lothiriel raised an eyebrow. That woman sure knew how to align herself with the gentlemen! The elf was graceful and sinuous, no surprise. But what was a surprise, was the instant the dance ended, and he had left Renlia, Legolas stared over at her, their eyes meeting intensely. He approached her, and Gimli the dwarf appeared at his side.
"Lady Lothiriel." Legolas and Gimli bowed their heads with shared smiles as they reached her. She paid them courtesy in kind, reveling in the ageless eyes of Legolas- which reminded her of a bottomless lake, filled with the contained power of the Elves. Each one of them was garbed in softer, finer fabrics then before; but it did not diminish the warriors they were in their own right.
They were soon immersed in small talk about the refreshments. Gimli declared nothing was better than the cinnamon-honey mead. "You must try it My Lady!" He boomed. "It is strong, but I would guess you are made of sterner stuff then first appearance. A healers work cannot always be mild and pleasant!" Lothiriel heartily agreed with the dwarf.
"I will venture a try, gentlemen!" she decided resolutely. Legolas smiled at her gently.
"It is strong... but not like the infusions we brew with the native plants of Mirkwood. They can make your head spin for days..." said the Elf, light gleaming on hair even fairer then Eowyn's as he angled his face towards her. The comment piqued Lothiriel's attention; she vowed to herself to ask more of the botany of Mirkwood in the near future.
They went to retrieve cups, and then clanked to continued blessings upon the realm. When Lothiriel took a sip, she found it by turns spicy, sweet and bitter. The mead brought water to her eyes. "Powerful indeed," she said rather hoarsely.
"Don't try to get her to drink anymore, Gimli," Legolas said with a hint of some amusement and sharpness. "Would you favor me with a dance, Lady Lothiriel? The song is a lovely one. Do you know this one?"
"Yes. It is the lay of Arisenor... an ancient melody. I would be honored to accept, now that I have caught my breath again!"
Lothiriel carefully took the Elf's hand as they made their way to the dance-floor. His hand was warm and still, with only the barest sensation of a thrumming otherworldliness. The dance was a slower waltz, which Legolas seemed to know very well. "You are familiar with our dances!" Lothiriel was somewhat surprised. Legolas pressed her hand closely and nodded deeply. She jolted at the electric contact.
"I have spent much time among all manner of people. I have known our Lord Elfstone a long time as well."
"So I have heard. What that I could know more of the songs and stories that connect our people! I fear I know less then I would like."
"It takes time, My Lady." Legolas studied her swaying face. "I believe we will be here for some time in the city... and Aragorn... well, I suppose I should not say at this time..." A cool, mysterious excitement bloomed in his features.
"A secret?" Lothiriel felt the warmth in her face, and she arched an eyebrow.
"For now. But bottom line, we will be staying in Minas Tirith for awhile. Enough time, I believe for us to have many more conversations about shared artistic lore."
Feeling his gaze, Lothiriel raised her chin, eyelashes curving upwards. "I would like that," she smiled, her voice a low murmur.
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Hurin the Tall and Faramir were standing watching Eowyn dancing with her brother, Eomer king, from afar. "It seems mildly improper for a woman to carry a Citadel Guard's sword; but if any should I suppose it should be the White Lady of Rohan," Hurin grudgingly assented, motioning to the shimmering weapon girt at Eowyn's side.
Grey eyes shifting away from Hurin, Faramir shrugged. "She was bound to get ahold of a sword again somehow. Eowyn is a Rohirrim Shieldmaiden. I myself see it as a token of appreciation from all Gondorians for her deed in the Pelennor Fields."
King Elessar then came upon them like a revitalizing wind, his footfalls sure and sweeping against the floor. Greetings ensued, and then Hurin said: "My Lord Faramir would this not be the ideal time to tell of your arrrangements with the Lady Eowyn?"
Aragorn's eyebrows raised. "What arrangements?"
Faramir and Hurin proceeded to tell the king of the marriage plans with the Rohirrim princess. Aragorn was quiet, his face betraying nothing. When they had finished Hurin and Faramir looked a bit anxious. Aragorn finally stated: "It would be a very good thing for such a linking of loyalty to take place between both of our realms," his voice was filled with a soft, joyous strength.
Faramir and Hurin breathed a sigh of relief. "Nothing would please me more then to see such a brave lady and noble man marry; my utmost blessing to both of you in kind." Aragorn's sparkling eyes glimmered with a new light. Faramir bowed his head in gratitude. Hurin took his leave soon after, and the Steward and the King stood together thinking about the future of Middle-earth. "We will have to tell Eomer if he doesn't know yet."
"Of course." Faramir glanced at the face of his king, noticing it was suddenly distant and pensive. Eowyn was melting away through the thick crowd, vanishing from their shared sight. "When was the first time you met Eowyn?" Faramir's voice was wary and measured, and also intensely curious.
Aragorn looked down at his clasped hands, then he unclenched them slowly and stared towards the dais. "The first time I saw Eowyn, Eomunds daughter was at Edoras in the Golden Hall. She was all in white, standing behind the throne of her uncle Théoden. The first time I came close to her and met her... I found her remote yet filled with a rare suppressed inner fire. This stood out clearly to me when she watched us ride to battle at Helm's Deep. She had courage to match any of ours, but she had to stay behind and wait... wait for some inevitable doom I am sure she thought and felt deep within her consciousness. Yet she was regal and composed, a Shieldmaiden of her people in her corslet, girt sword, and circlet of authority. Standing there, she watched us ride away over the golden fields. I never forgot that, nor did I forget the pain in her face when I left her at Dunharrow. Then she came here to take her fate in her own hands... yes- Eowyn had a larger life to lead. Always."
"Always," Faramir said, in renewed wonder for his betrothed.
Aragorn glanced into Faramir's grey eyes. "Remember to be aware and careful of her tumultuous past, Faramir. It may still rear its head. She has experienced much trauma amidst her beauty, talent and powerful lineage."
"I know that, My Lord," Faramir said in shaded reflection.
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The young king of Rohan quietly approached Lady Lothiriel where she stood near the trestle table. "Hello again, my Lady..." Eomer bowed, observing her closely and discreetly.
Lothiriel turned her face, her cheekbones highlighted with faint luminous color. "Well met again, my Lord. Hello...!" She had the beginnings of a smile as she met his blue eyes. "We are all so glad you returned safely," she said with more seriousness.
"So am I." Eomer took in his surroundings, lounging against the table, with a wry thought emerging in his head. Things had not started off well with Lothiriel: they had both made wrong assumptions of the other. But now he was intrigued by her, intrigued like he had been the evening before the host rode to the Black Gate. He had not forgotten her verdant eyes while he had been away. Now he wondered what she thought of him. In her lavender-purple gown and glittering beaded veil she seemed far indeed from the Houses of Healing. She was a unique beauty, he thought, her chestnut hair waving down her brow and shoulders.
Lothiriel tried to quell her combined nervousness and interest in Eomer. He had an undeniable, energetic presence that seemed far less tense then before. She watched as he picked up several cookies and popped them on his mouth. "Are those clove?" She asked. "Those are some of my favorites."
Eomer grinned. "Indeed, and not only my favorite, but Firefoot's as well!"
"Firefoot?"
"My horse. He has a penchant. We treat our horses very well you know!"
"That seems unusual... but I am sure it is a sight to behold to watch a horse eat a clove cookie!" Lothiriel laughed.
"It is." A sudden light gleamed in Eomer's eyes. "What do you say we get away from this noisy hall? We can go see Firefoot. I am sure he is settled in the stables by now."
"With clove cookies?"
"Definitely." Eomer stretched out to grab more cookies, and then slipped through the crowd.
Lothiriel shook out a crinkle in her silk sleeves and followed him as swiftly as she could, headdress jangling. They tried to be quiet and unobtrusive, but Lothiriel felt more relaxed once they had left the Citadel. Feet echoing far over the pavement, they walked down the nearly empty street to the stable.
Entering the earthy smelling stable took Lothiriel back to a simpler time. One where she would go out on long afternoon horseback rides under a clear blue sky, the sun dappling her and the horse beneath the soft canopy of trees. It had been a long time since she had been horseback riding. Her horse had been needed for the war effort, and had been killed on a mission. So it was bittersweet to enter the stable with this Horse-lord of the Mark.
She enjoyed the serenity here; the only sounds were the gentle noises of the horses, and the stable-hands sweeping on the far side of the stables. Eomer and Lothiriel finally paused before a door. A bay horse with a shining white star thrust his head over the door with a snort.
"Firefoot," Eomer said tenderly, stroking Firefoot's nose, and offering him a cookie. The horse eagerly lipped it up, eyes blinking.
"Here." Eomer offered Lothiriel a clove cookie.
Lothiriel took a breath and slowly approached the stall. Straw crunched underfoot. She flattened her hand. Firefoot's breath misted warmly over her fingers as he took the treat. She noticed how wide and intelligent Firefoot's eyes were. He allowed her to run her hands through his thick, soft mane, and then after a few minutes he shifted and ambled away.
"He likes you." Lothiriel turned at Eomer's words.
"Really?" she asked. "He is a high caliber, sensitive steed. Quite beautiful in conformation."
"Thank-you," Eomer said. "He does not always take so easily to strangers."
"Well, I am honored." Lothiriel leaned back on a neighboring stall with a languid half-smile that reminded Eomer briefly of Eowyn. A woman in a man's world, so infused within it that she was confident and comfortable.
"Is that the secret of the swift horses of the Riddermark? Clove cookies?" she asked teasingly.
"Are healers in Gondor always so nosy?"
She laughed at herself as she spoke, teeth flashing. "Perhaps we are. Maybe I am." She pressed her lips together, and looked up at him with sudden somberness. "We ask questions to figure out how the world works. If we don't do the right thing, something terrible may happen."
"But not now." Eomer deeply furrowed his brow.
"No, not now."
"Shall we wrest ourselves and go back?" He straightened and offered her his hand. She nodded. They stepped forward, and she took his proffered calloused hand. Their hands slipped together, fitting and interlacing. They turned to walk through the light at the entrance of the stable.
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"May I have this dance, my Lady?" Eowyn inclined her head and took Faramir's arm.
"Of course, my Lord Steward."
They smiled at one another, but Eowyn soon ducked her head. While she enjoyed the proximity, she also feared it; Faramir always had this effect on her. The gentle Steward who had won her heart was also a man of unfathomable depths and secrets; much like herself in some respects.
The dance was slower, so it did not jar her arm. But soon she would be rid of the sling forever! "Lothiriel told me that in a few days I begin rehabilitation in earnest and will get my sling removed!" she told Faramir.
"Great! Will you be riding off into the sunset without me?" he teased.
"If so only temporarily. I must go back to Rohan at some point with my brother... and speak to him about our engagement, soon!"
"He doesn't know yet?" Faramir looked about the hall like a man suddenly caught in a honey tree with incoming swarms of bees.
"He is not going to ask you to do armed combat for my hand!" Eowyn laughed. "He'll probably be happy I have made such a match once I have gotten him used to the idea that I am not his little sweet sister temperance anymore."
"You're not?" whispered Faramir along the side of her neck.
Eowyn blushed. "For better or worse I will marry you someday; no one can dissuade me anymore, not even my brother."
"Where is he by the way?"
"Hopefully not up to trouble, and hopefully not eyeing us." Eowyn kissed Faramir, hand trailing along his jaw.
"Obviously you don't care who sees us," Faramir said, gasping.
"Do you care?"
"No worries, the King knows and he approves."
"You talked to Aragorn?"
"Yes, and he wants to see and talk to you." Faramir brushed his hand slowly over her cheek and lip.
Eowyn trembled, pausing and looking down. "I suppose after all this time... I am ready to face him."
"You are ready for anything now."
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A/N: Hey any long delays will be made up at some point! :)
Happy, Happy New Years Eve- Everyone! Have a fabulous, safe 2014! And onward!. . .
