1st April 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth
Éomer alighted from his stallion in the massive courtyard, taking in the sight of the huge marble palace which now surrounded him. Everything was blue and white—the white of the stone, the blue of the banners bearing the Swan-ship of Dol Amroth. And beyond that, the blue of the sea, and the blue of the sky. It was all stunning—more beautiful than he had wished. So, this was where Lothíriel had grown into herself. Curiously he glanced at the glass windows which dotted the palace walls, wondering if he would see her shadow.
"Éomer!" The familiar figure of Imrahil strode through the great oaken doors and down a tall flight of stairs into the courtyard. He was wearing his armor and looking weary; immediately the dread of fighting filled Éomer. But Imrahil's smile was broad as he drew near, clasping Éomer's arm in greeting.
"We were not expecting you for a week yet, my friend!" the prince said. "We are caught—ah, with our trousers down, as soldiers would say. I was just reviewing the lists. Come in! There is room in the stables aplenty, and hay for the horses. Come!"
Éomer was happy to obey, passing the reins to a small stable boy before following Imrahil into the house. Sunlight shone through tall, open windows, and the salty sea breeze permeated the entrance hall. It was all very pleasant, lifting his spirits at once.
"Amrothos and Careth are still in Pelargir with my sister, and Erchirion is on patrol near Tolfalas," Imrahil explained, walking quickly. "And Elphir was assisting me in the lists. I do not know where—"
There was a sound of hurried footsteps, and from a branching corridor to their right Éomer saw with a wrench in his heart Lothíriel rushing towards them, her face red and her breathing labored.
"Ah," the prince said with satisfaction.
"I am sorry—" Lothíriel wheezed, entering the hall. "I only just heard—ah, welcome, my lord king." And she made a clumsy curtsey. That her hands were caked with dirt did not escape Éomer, and he felt a smile threatening.
"Princess," he said, bowing low.
"I am afraid I must get out of this armor before I can be a proper host," Imrahil said. "Lothíriel, will you show Éomer around? I will only be a short time."
She blinked, clearly taken aback, but nodded quickly. "Of course, Father. I have already given the order to have rooms prepared."
"Very good! I take my leave." And with a smart nod Imrahil turned down the left corridor, walking briskly away. Silence followed his departure. Éomer glanced 'round the great hall to find something more interesting to look at than the woman in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hurriedly smooth down her hair, scattering dirt. But he still thought her endearing, not disheveled. Without warning she blurted,
"We were not expecting you—"
"I know," Éomer interrupted, finally allowing his eyes to rest on her. "I am not offended." Béma, he had forgotten how blasted happy the sight of her made him. Even mussed from, well, whatever she had been doing, she was one of his favorite sights in the world. The misery which he had seen in her grey eyes at Éowyn's wedding was lessened somewhat, he saw, but still a shadow remained. She was biting her lip as she gazed up at him, clearly uncomfortable, and his heart softened. He offered her a smile, and she started in clear surprise.
"I am happy to have a tour while my rooms are prepared," he said. "Though as soon as I can—I should like a bath. It has been a long road, and the spring has been infernally warm."
"Oh, I know! Er—about the unseasonable warmth, I mean, to say; not the road, obviously!" Lothíriel tittered nervously, hastily tugging her rolled sleeves down. An endearing sight indeed! "That is—" she added quickly. "I have been in the gardens, you see—some of the plants are ready for harvest. I help the apothecary, when I can. He—he is old and does not see well."
That was good, Éomer thought. Had the apothecary been young, he would have felt envy for the lucky bastard to have Lothíriel's company. And if the man was half-blind, all the better.
"Shall we?" he asked after a pause.
"Oh—yes, yes!" She gestured for him to accompany her, and hesitating only a moment, Éomer offered his arm for her. "Oh! I couldn't!" Lothíriel declaimed, spreading her dirty fingers wide. "My hands—you see?"
"I see," Éomer said solemnly. "But clearly you have not seen my tunic. I have been sleeping out of doors for many days; I am no standard of cleanliness."
Her lips twitched, and that familiar sparkle was in her eyes before she shook her head. "It would still be rude of me," she insisted.
"Nay." And he picked up one of her clammy hands and placed it firmly 'round his arm. "There. My sleeve is no filthier."
Lothíriel laughed then, a genuine laugh—and he felt his heart thump faster. He had missed her laugh; he had missed causing her to laugh. It was a treasure to hear. She was a treasure.
Éomer was a fool for coming to Dol Amroth. He would never be able to resist her.
But did he wish to?
The beauty of this palace by the sea intensified as Lothíriel led him further in. Birdsong warbled all around them, and he wondered how and why birds had gotten indoors, but the curiosity was soon explained. The southern corridors were open to the sea, affording a fantastic view of the stretching Bay of Belfalas below white cliffs. When he glanced up, there were nests in the curves of the ceilings. Éomer imagined that during storms or rain such openness might present a problem, and he did not hesitate to point this out to the princess.
"Small rain showers rarely enter the corridors," she told him, pulling him towards the columned view and pointing above their heads. "The overhangs extend quite far, you see? When the rare hurricane is on the horizon, thick sheets of canvas are fastened to the walls to block the windows. And there are many corridors in my father's house," Lothíriel added with a smile. "One may simply take another route."
"Ah. That would be the simplest." Éomer leaned his head out further, glancing down and immediately regretting it. His head swam with dizziness at the unfathomable height to the sea below and straightened quickly.
"The gardens next, I think," Lothíriel said, and he spied a dimple in her cheeks. She was amused by him—that was good. They continued in silence until they came to a high carved archway which led into an open courtyard filled with greenery and bright blooms of color. Here was the sun was especially bright, and Éomer shielded his eyes from the sun to glance around. To his surprise, there was a hunched figure in black several feet ahead of them, and he heard Lothíriel sigh as they continued. She knelt beside the man, for surely it was a man crouched on his feet, and she picked up something which flashed in the sunlight.
"Here are your spectacles, Malbeth," she said loudly, and the man looked up. His hair was steel grey and his face lined with wrinkles. He put out a crooked, dirt-covered hand to take the spectacles—and missed by several inches. Éomer could see Lothíriel's smile even from above as she placed the spectacles on the man's nose for him.
"Oh! Hello, princess," he said, blinking at her. "Are you back so soon? Whyever were you called away?"
"So soon! I am sure it has been a half hour. Our guests from Rohan have arrived early," Lothíriel said kindly, now picking up a pair of shears and a dull knife, which she tucked into a cloth bag at Malbeth's waist. "Did you find everything that you needed?"
"Surely I did! Except I could not, for the life of me, find where we planted that blasted comfrey! I was so sure that we marked it out clearly and that I memorized the map you made for me in the autumn. But—"
"It is here, Malbeth," Lothíriel said gently, pointing towards purple blossoms directly in front of them. "It appears that you lost your spectacles in the comfrey itself!"
"Oh! Oh, dear, oh dear me. How silly! Perhaps I need stronger spectacles."
The princess laughed at this, and Éomer smiled as he watched her retrieve the knife from the baffled man and cut the comfrey herself. The flowers were placed in a woven basket which sat on the ground, bulging with cut foliage, and she returned the knife.
"Thank you, princess. I am sure that your father would send me to the stocks for my idiocy if you were not here to help me."
"I am sure he would not! Your salves are best in the principality." Lothíriel clasped onto Malbeth's elbow to help him to stand, which he did laboriously and with a groan. She gave him the basket of flowers, and he patted down his black cloak absently.
"Your shears and knife are in your pocket, Malbeth."
"Oh! Thank you, again. Oh! Who is this?" The man finally noticed that he was not alone with Lothíriel, for now he was blinking up at Éomer and looking completely startled.
"I am Éomer, Master Malbeth," he said.
"Oh! Oh! Éomer! I have heard that name before, I am sure. Lothíriel, is this your—"
"This is the King of Rohan," Lothíriel interrupted loudly, with a definite pink flush to her cheeks.
"Oh!" Quickly the man made a credible bow. "Sire, I do apologize—"
"There is no need," Éomer said with a laugh. "I am not in the habit of punishing people for not recognizing me on sight, and certainly not in a nation other than mine."
There was a giggle hidden behind the princess's hand, and Malbeth gave a beaming smile. "Lothíriel was right about you," he said, unheeding as her cheeks turned a bright pink and she gave a strangled choke. "Such a good nature! But now I must be off. Good day to you, sire. Princess."
Lothíriel farewelled Malbeth fondly though still clearly embarrassed, watching his back as the apothecary left, shuffling into the house with his dark robes sweeping behind him. But Éomer was watching her, and the wistful affection he saw in her eyes. She must have noticed him staring, for she cast him a quick, tight smile.
"Malbeth is a dear friend," she said, as if in confession. "He is very absent-minded, I am afraid, but truly genius in his work."
"I see," Éomer said, picking up her hand again to continue their wandering. "Are you his apprentice, then? For it seems you assist him quite a lot."
"Oh, I do! But I am no apprentice. It would be odd for a princess to be an apothecary; do you not agree?" Her head was tilted curiously, gazing up at him.
"I could not say. I am not an expert of princesses." His tone was perhaps more bitter than he intended, and immediately he smiled down at her to belay any discomfort. "I am sure you can follow whatever path you choose," Éomer added.
Her eyes lowered to the stone path in front of them, and she bit her lip. "Well," Lothíriel began, and hesitated. Then in a rush, "I may very well choose such a path, for there are few other options."
Éomer waited a moment, then asked, "Why do you not marry?"
The question fell like a stone between them, and the ensuing silence grew thick. Their steps slowed as the path curved to an outlook to the sea, a marble railing marking the cliffside. Lothíriel stared up at him, her jaw twitching. But when she spoke again, her voice was level.
"The war killed many young men. There are not enough for every young woman to have a match."
"But surely—as Imrahil's daughter—" Éomer could not speak more plainly for fear of betraying his own intensifying curiosity.
"As the youngest of my father's children, there is no real need for me to wed," Lothíriel said stiffly. "I have work aplenty here." Her voice hardened as she added, "I think you might be the better person to question upon this topic, for you are king and are obliged to provide Rohan with a queen and an heir. Why do you not marry?"
He paused, gazing into her grey eyes. There was hurt there, and defiance. He hardly knew what to say, or what to think. And so he spoke his true feelings, his hand tightening on hers. "I cannot marry. For my heart is not mine to give."
There was the softest intake of breath and she blinked owlishly up at him.
"Ah—oh. Well, I suppose that may present an obstacle. The gardens are quite nice, are they not?" Lothíriel's voice rose in volume as they continued walking, her eyes determinedly looking away. "When my brothers return from Pelargir, we will take you on a ride to Ulmo's Temple; it is fifteen miles north of the city and quite beautiful, even if it has been in ruins for centuries. And of course, you will want to see the beaches, and to swim in the ocean. It is quite nice, and—"
Her nervous babbling filled Éomer's heart with relief, and he smiled to himself as he listened to her. She was not indifferent to him, just as he had hoped. Her cheeks for red, and her fingers were clenched on his arm despite his surety that she was not meaning to. Even Malbeth would recognize her symptoms as nerves.
Whatever panic his arrival sent the palace of Dol Amroth into, everything appeared to come together flawlessly. After his meander with Lothíriel was complete, she directed him to his private chambers and subsequently fled with a mumble about seeing that supper was in hand. Éomer smiled to himself as he washed and changed into clean clothing.
Supper that night was a small affair; it was held in the prince's private dining chamber, with only Imrahil, Elphir and his wife and children, Lothíriel, and Éomer present. Éomer knew Elphir least of the prince's progeny, and found him an engaging man, open-natured like his father and sister, though he spoke more solemnly than his relatives. There was a general discussion of the different watchtowers which dominated the coast of Belfalas; Éomer was intensely curious of patrol routes on the sea and sea-battles, and there was no shortage of stories from the prince and his heir.
He could not help noticing, however, the silence of the princess. She spoke rarely, and usually to Elphir's wife Nessiel. Éomer was not entirely certain why, though he could guess that perhaps his presence discomfited her, or she did not care for stories of battles. Instead she tickled the chin of the baby Nessiel held on her lap, giving her smiles and attention to the child. Elphir's eldest son, Alphros, was old enough to sit properly in a chair, staring at his grandfather with rapturous attention.
"—the lighthouse burned down soon after, a century or so ago. It was never rebuilt, oddly enough, considering the strategic location of the outpoint," Elphir was saying, with a glance at his father. "It may be wise now, Father, as it does face Umbar."
But Imrahil was shaking his head in disagreement. "I shall not," he said firmly. "There are too many tales of ghosts; no soldier would wish to man such a location!"
"Ghosts?" Éomer asked in surprise. Alphros's mouth fell open and his lips formed the word ghosts.
"Tales of ghosts," Elphir clarified with a frown. "But only tales."
"And yet, tales are enough to shake the stoutest heart," Imrahil said wisely. "Very few brave that cliffside. Lothíriel, I believe, has ridden there before—Lothíriel?"
The princess started, evidently not expecting to be drawn into the conversation. "Indeed, I have," she said. "Many times. It is a beautiful place; covered in poppy and anemones, and the cliffside white and unmarred."
"And are there ghosts?" Éomer could not help asking, smiling across the candlelit table at her.
"It depends who you ask," she said primly. "But I saw none."
Imrahil was casting a look between princess and king, his eyes glittering. "Tell Éomer the story, Lothíriel," he urged. "I am sure you will do it the most justice."
Lothíriel's cheeks were pink as she glanced briefly at Éomer before speaking, her expression unfathomable. "The sailors called it Jutting Point, as Elphir explained earlier," she said. "But those in the city called it Lover's Point. Many women would meet their soldiers there when the menfolk could not leave their posts."
The light in the room flickered, and even the baby grew quiet as she continued.
"When the lighthouse burned down, one soldier was caught in the blaze. It was a tragedy, to be sure, but the toll could have been much higher. His death was discovered and made known, but his betrothed was inconsolable." Lothíriel paused. "She threw herself from the cliffside and into the ocean."
Éomer felt heat crawling up his spine.
"And she died, naturally," the princess finished in a pragmatic voice, lifting her wine glass for a sip. "Anyways, whether it is true or not—it is certainly believed."
"I have heard that both died in the fire," Elphir said with a skeptical frown. "Which likely makes the entire tale untrue."
"Father," Alphros said in a hushed, squeaky voice, drawing all eyes to him, "Why did she throw herself off the cliff?"
"That is enough for tonight, I think," Nessiel said sternly to her son. "We ought to go—"
Alphros's lips immediately formed a frown. "But I do not want to go—"
The boy's whining protests and his father's loud voice set the baby crying. Her small arms flailed, knocking over a glass of wine. Nessiel tried to catch it, but was too late, and it splashed onto the tablecloth and her dress. Elphir stood quickly to move a stunned Alphros from his chair before the wine leaked on him, and Imrahil barked for a servant. Éomer could only watch, feeling useless.
Lothíriel lifted the baby from Nessiel, settling the squalling child into her arms comfortably, clearly crooning to her but inaudible over the chaos in the chamber. Éomer watched her movements as she rocked the baby, kissing her head and cheeks until at last, the wailing ceased. There was a sharp pang in his stomach and a wrench in his heart at the sight. Had she married him, she might be consoling their child…
"No harm done," Elphir said with an attempt at cheeriness, evidently disregarding his wife's stained frock. Nessiel's cheeks were pink as she apologized profusely to Imrahil, who now held Alphros on his lap away from the mess.
"It is quite alright," the prince assured her. "Between my four children, I am sure that we have ruined more than an entire household of linens."
"Nessiel," Lothíriel said gently. "Do go change into something dry in my chambers— it is nearest, and my maid is there; she will help you. You do not wish to remain in a stained frock, I am sure!"
Nessiel's reply was weak. "Quite right. I—I will go. Oh, I am terribly sorry—" Elphir, having attempted blotting her dress, was quick to take her away, and the chamber quieted again at their departure. Lothíriel was pacing the room, and in the silence Éomer could hear her sing—
I often go walking
In meadows of clover
And I gather armfuls
Of blossoms of blue….
I gather the blossoms
The whole meadow over
Dear child, all flowers
Remind me of you…
Lothíriel's gaze was on the baby, either unaware of unwilling to acknowledge Éomer's attention, though her cheeks were flushed. The feelings and regrets rolling through his chest caused his fingers to clench around the stem of his goblet, and for the hundredth time he wondered. Oh, how he wondered! Why had she refused him? And did she still love him? For her behavior in his presence was not of an indifferent heart...
Éomer felt Imrahil's eyes on him, and quickly looked away from the entrancing sight of the princess and the babe. He cleared his throat, offering the prince a forced smile.
"I will retire now," he said. "I am weary from travelling. I thank you for your hospitality, Imrahil."
"You are quite welcome. You may rest as long as you need before we, ah, overwhelm you with exciting experiences," Imrahil said with a grin.
Éomer was laughing as he stood. "I do appreciate that!" He started, then paused briefly as he turned towards the door. "And good night to you, Lothíriel."
The princess glanced at him, her eyes dark in the dim light, and nodded in return.