Chapter Twelve
Setting Course
"The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;
Young blood doth not obey an old decree:
We cannot cross the cause why we were borne;
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn."
—Love's Labor's Lost, , William Shakespeare
The party slowly wound through Minas Tirith that afternoon, surrounded by white stone and a gaping crowd of onlookers. The lower levels of the White City had been ravaged by the armies of Mordor. Despite the year of rebuilding and recovery, piles of rubble and stacks of stone lined the streets. Scaffolding obscured the walls and building fronts. Even the Great Gate, once tall and proudly inlaid with the history of the Númenóreans, was dented and twisted from the orcs' siege machines. Dwarves milled about the construction sites, hoisting stones and supplies even as the large party rode through the winding avenue.
Lothí stared at the scarred city, awed at the extent of the reconstruction efforts about her. Her heart was heavy at the toll the war had taken on this once shining city. She'd loved coming here as a child, convinced that it was the setting for old faery stories. Now, it was nearly unrecognizable. Even landmarks like the Old Guesthouse weren't immune.
She and Erchirion rode just behind their father and the king. Her brother must have sensed her mood for he made the effort to distract her, telling winding jokes with horrid punchlines and pointing out their childhood stomping grounds as they passed. It did little to lift her spirits.
Seeing the state of the city had worsened her foul mood, initially set off by the earlier conversation with her father. Her pride rankled as she thought back on the encounter. Lothí and the king had been finishing a perfectly pleasant midday meal, talking quietly and sharing an apple, when Imrahil's shadow fell across them.
"Iell, Éomer," the prince started, stonily staring down at his daughter. "I've had some disturbing news—and it concerns you."
Lothíriel stole a glance at the king before rising. "Who have you heard it from?"
"Does it matter?" Imrahil asked, voice low and dangerous. He rarely spoke like that, like a simmering pot on the verge of a boil. Her spine went ramrod straight when she heard it, the first prickles of fear setting her hair on end.
"It does, Imrahil. It seems that Lord Duinhir is aiming to smear your daughter's reputation and ruin our betrothal," Éomer said, taking one of her hands in his to stop its fidgeting. He gave her a reassuring squeeze as he drew the prince's attention away from her.
The older man scoffed at that, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "Duinhir is concerned about you, Lothíriel. He's always been fond of you and believes you're acting out of character—that you're being unduly influenced."
"Then why is he spreading gossip that could hurt me?" she countered, years of frustration with her father's excuses for the man giving a hard edge to her words. She'd thought he'd realized the truth of Duinhir's actions the day she'd learned of the betrothal. It seemed any hope of having her father believe her over his friend was truly in vain.
Imrahil's nostrils flared at that, his glare intensifying. "What have you done?"
The king edged in front of her, shielding her from her father's seething temper with his body. He spoke calmly to the prince like he would a panicking horse. Éomer told him of their attempts at a secretive courtship—thankfully leaving out the less than appropriate moments—and how Duinhir had learned of a private moment between them. He told him of the man's threats leveled towards the Mark and Lothíriel personally, his seeming involvement with the Lady of Anfalas and one of Éomer's own advisors. The king spoke plainly but was met with only a stoic frown.
"Lothíriel and I were simply trying to build a foundation for our marriage, Imrahil," Éomer defended, never dropping her hand. "Her behavior has been above reproach, but his lordship is twisting these rumors to suit his own ends."
That was a generous estimation of her conduct, but she wasn't about to contradict him before her father. The man could all too easily decide that Duinhir's claims had merit and call off the betrothal today if he didn't like what he was hearing. Grateful for his defense all the same, she squeezed the king's hand.
Her father shook his head, shooting her a glower over the king's shoulder. "You know what's at stake, Lothíriel. I know you're a foolish creature, but I'd hoped the weight of this situation wouldn't be lost on you. You could cost us everything, and then what would I do with you? No respectable man will have a whore for a wife."
"Imrahil, that's unfair—" Éomer started, his stare fierce.
"Adar, nothing inapp—" Lothí tried to defend herself but one sharp look from her father had her jaw audibly snapping shut. He was in fine form as he continued lecturing her, and there was no stopping it.
"You were taught better than this. When I sent you away, I know that your aunt drilled proper decorum into that thick skull of yours! The slightest shred of doubt can call Éomer's entire line into question and threaten civil war in Rohan, and you would be responsible. I doubt he is prepared to defend a throne against his own countrymen and Gondor is in no position to send aid after our numbers were depleted in the war. Would you expect my help to keep your power and your head intact? Even now when your behavior has compromised not just your reputation, but mine?" His silvery glare cut truer and deeper than any dagger. "Your willful actions and entitled sense of freedom have put this entire arrangement at risk."
His voice never rose above an angry hiss. It somehow made her feel even worse. The sun seemed to shine from behind a veil and the wind, once teasing and warm, was now cold. Lothíriel felt herself begin to shake at her father's ire.
She'd fought her whole life for him to be proud of her, to notice her. That fight had only redoubled after her mother died. Nothing she did ever seemed good enough—she'd gone to her aunt without complaint, learned all of the feminine arts required of her station, entertained the suitors sent her way, and excelled at trading and negotiation. The princess had done everything she could to be considered accomplished and earn some sliver of his approval, but it was never enough. Some part always fell short of his expectations.
Even now, she continued to strive for his approval. She'd done it when she'd agreed to a betrothal her father had entered without so much as a warning, started to learn of her intended and developed feelings for him. But still, all her father could see were her defects and mistakes.
"I wanted to know if there was a chance at happiness with my betrothed," Lothí bit back, her expression stony as she stared him down. "You promised me away to a stranger, but I'm the one who has to live with your decision. You'll have to forgive me for wanting to know the man I'll spend my life with."
"You put our family's reputation and standing at risk because you're a selfish girl," Imrahil snapped back, running a hand through his graying hair in irritation. "I will not tolerate any more misbehavior from you."
Éomer held up a hand then, interjecting in this spat between father and daughter once more. "Imrahil, Lothíriel is not to blame here. I approached her according to my people's customs, and she was courteous enough to learn more about her future home. She's only ever acted to strengthen our union."
"She can learn your ways after the marriage," the prince countered coldly. "Until then, she is a Gondorian and you are on Gondorian soil. I will not risk further rumors of impropriety. As it is, one of your councilors has already voiced his displeasure with these rumors. We will have to take drastic measures to assuage these concerns."
"What does that mean?" Éomer asked tightly, his jaw clenching and eyes blazing. His hand spasmed around hers as he sought out Wermund in the crowd.
Lothíriel did the same, easily finding him standing out of earshot. The man wasn't even subtle about his interest in this scene. He stood with a few of his supporters on the council watching the conversation between his king and the two Gondorians. She could almost swear he wore a smug smile at her chastisement.
"It means that my daughter will have to face the consequences of her brashness," Imrahil huffed, weariness deepening the wrinkles lining his face. "You will begin arrangements for a dinner to announce the betrothal immediately upon arrival and I will handle the clean-up from there. I'm not even sure I can trust you to behave that long."
He turned on his heel and marched away with those parting words, leaving his daughter to deflate in his wake. She held strong for a beat before sagging under the weight of his disappointment. Foolish. Entitled. Selfish. Everything her father thought of her had been spelled out—there was no room for misunderstanding. And Éomer had heard it all. She'd known how he felt for years, but it was a new low for her intended to hear it laid out so plainly.
He turned to her then, pulling her chin up so their gazes met. "We'll weather this, swete."
The quiet confidence in his tone was astounding. He seemed so certain that they could stare down any challenge, so quietly assured that Lothí felt herself responding. Her shoulders squared and chin rose stubbornly in the air.
"How do you know?" she asked. Their hands were still entwined, and she pumped his. Despite her embarrassment at him witnessing her dressing down, Lothíriel met his eyes.
"Because I am meaner than any nasty old nag, and you are made of tougher stuff than you look," Éomer teased her, kissing her wrist. He felt her pulse flutter under his touch and couldn't hide his satisfied grin.
She barked a weak laugh at his ridiculousness. "I'm not sure about that assessment. You know that Gondorian princesses are made exclusively of moonbeams and faery dust."
"Then you must be a changeling because you're steel hidden in silk spun from the moonlight," the king joked. His broad smile revealed a set of dimples that were almost completely hidden under his dark beard.
"And you are ludicrous," she replied fondly, twining her fingers through his.
"Only for you," he murmured, pressing another kiss to her hand. His quiet confidence in their relationship revived her hope, like they stood atop a mountain with the world at their feet. It was so impossibly tender that she almost couldn't stand it.
Lothíriel reared back then, the hairs on her neck standing on end. It was never pleasant to feel eyes peering and prying, and she felt it then. She shot him an apologetic look before glancing around for their audience. Several heads turned away when they saw her looking. Only a few were bold enough to continue watching once they knew they were caught. Duinhir, for one, watched from her father's side. Ladies Maegwen and Cerphedis stood nearby, openly glaring daggers at the princess.
"We'll never be alone again, will we?" Éomer asked, following her gaze with a sigh.
"Not without making everything worse," she replied, staring into his amber-flecked eyes. "Or until we marry."
"I'll risk a little censure if you will," he said, tilting her head back to meet her eyes. "Meet me in the tower gardens after the feast tonight?"
"Of course," she breathed, pointedly ignoring their audience. "Éomer… you have to know that I want this. I want you. We're to be married either way, so we may as well do it on our terms."
Éomer nearly growled, his hands squeezing her tight at the notion. "You know that I'll take you as my wife before the Valar at the first real rumblings of discontent with our engagement, but we're going to try doing this the right way first." His gaze pierced her as he made his promise, releasing her to press a hand over his heart.
She positively itched to kiss him, wanting nothing more than to show him everything she was feeling in that moment. But she couldn't. Not after what had just passed with her father. It would be a stupid risk to take. It was an actual, physical ache to restrain herself, but she knew it was the right thing to do.
Instead, she forced a smile and said, "Come, we should be back on the road soon."
He escorted her to their waiting mounts, the great beasts tossing their heads as the couple approached. The king helped her back into the saddle, his fingers trailing down her hip and leg when he released her. Flushed with a surge of liquid heat, Lothíriel stubbornly focused elsewhere. She didn't miss the satisfied smirk flit across the king's lips.
They resumed the journey, the White City looming closer with every step. Éomer and his men joined the prince up front while Lothí and Erchirion fell back. The rest of the ride passed slowly, despite the party making it to the Great Gate just a few hours later. Her mood steadily sunk as they plodded along, her father's words chasing each other around in her head. She could feign imperviousness, but it did nothing to stop the words from hitting home. Seeing Minas Tirith in this state did nothing to lighten her spirits.
It took the party almost a full hour to wind their way up through the city's levels. The houses grew larger and further apart the higher they climbed, the clothes on the passersby became finer. The scorch marks and crumbling buildings below seemed like a different world altogether. Pockets of greenery could be found scattered amidst the white stone, little parks and gardens tucked away for the wealthy. Other families traveling with the procession began peeling off once they passed through the fifth gate, more and more falling away the higher they climbed.
By the time they reached the seventh and final level, only the parties from Dol Amroth and Rohan remained. They emerged from the tunnel into the Citadel. The roar of the city was hushed up here, merely a whisper, and the fields of Gondor stretched as far as they could see. The Anduin glistened in the distance.
A strong gust of wind tore around the party as they dismounted, ripping the leather from Lothíriel's braid. A wild mess of curls danced about her face and the dusty, deep blue riding habit billowed about her legs. She cursed quietly and passed Hærlith off to a groom. The mare whickered at the unceremonious treatment, but Lothí would simply have to make it up to her later. She had to straighten her appearance at least a little before meeting Gondor's king for the first time.
"Éomer Cynig, mellon nîn!" called a towering man with the customary dark hair and silver eyes of the Númenóreans, embracing the golden king with a bright smile. The two men greeted each other as long-lost brothers, though they were complete opposites in appearance.
Imrahil received much the same treatment. His usual reserve melted away into true affection for his king as they embraced as brothers. It was strange to see her father so at ease with another person, though Lothí supposed the iciness was reserved for her alone.
The princess watched this new side of her father unfold as she desperately tried to tame her cascade of curls before it was her turn to greet her sovereign. She'd never met the man before and had hoped to make a good impression, or at least one that wouldn't make her father even more ashamed of her. Her heart pounded in her throat, nervousness at meeting this legendary man sending a bitter taste flooding her mouth.
Her father pulled back, still smiling, and gestured his children forward. Erchirion bowed to the king and then they clasped each other's elbows in a warrior's greeting. She'd known the king was on good terms—friendly, even—with her family, but it was so strange to see her wild older brother so embraced by their king. The princess dipped her best curtsy to her monarch and held it when he turned to her.
"Elessar, may I present my youngest and only daughter: Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth," Imrahil said, his voice ringing loud enough for everyone in the courtyard to hear. Never let it be said that her father missed an opportunity.
Lothí rose from her deep curtsy, knees nearly popping with relief, and pressed a light kiss to her liege lord's signet ring. "It's an honor, your majesty."
The king chuckled kindly and waited until she met his clear, silver gaze. "There's no need for such formality, my lady. Any child of Imrahil's is someone I'd be proud to call 'friend.'"
"That's very generous of you, sire. I very much look forward to strengthening the ties of friendship between our families," she said with a smile and a final, shallow curtsy.
It was hard to reconcile this polished, finely arrayed man with the ranger from her families' stories, but she knew that she had to observe the niceties demanded by their stations. Regardless of his call for familiarity, she knew her father would be upset if she were less than the perfect princess he'd had her molded into.
Éomer stepped forward then to offer her an arm. She gladly took it, not realizing just how exhausting an extended curtsy could be. Lothí's knees nearly knocked together from the effort of holding the perfect curtsy at the perfect depth for her sovereign king.
"I can't help but notice how different this meeting was to ours," he whispered to her, the slight upturn of his lips and sparkling eyes the only indications he was teasing her. He had his king face on.
"Well, Elessar didn't ogle me like I was a common tavern maid," she prodded back, giving his ribs a quick poke.
It was then that the most beautiful woman Lothíriel had ever seen stepped forward. The raven-haired beauty took Elessar Telcontar's arm and smiled beatifically upon the gathered party. She dipped her head, rosy cheeks lending her a softness as she nodded to them. The king beamed at her before speaking again.
"It's my greatest pleasure to introduce you to my wife and queen, Arwen Undomiel," he said, the adoration and pride evident in his voice.
The queen nodded graciously, her star-bright eyes alighting on the princess and sharing a kind smile. "I'm so pleased to see you all," she said in her warm, soft voice. "Please, join us and relax for a time. You must be road-weary."
Éomer fell into step with their majesties, leading her easily alongside him. With a few easy moves on his part, the man had stationed them ahead of her father and walking as the equal of legends. It was daunting to be the only one in the entire party not to have played some storied, integral role in the War of the Ring—not that Lothí wanted to witness more suffering. She was out of her depth, having only been distantly involved on the peripheries when everyone else here had been nearer to the heart of the action and destruction of the One Ring.
She instinctively wanted to fall back behind her father and brother—it was easier to hide at the back of the party. Only Éomer's steady presence at her side kept the princess from quailing. He was making a show of supporting her. It warmed her heart to know that, in his own way, he was sending a message to her father in her defense.
'Look at us,' he seemed to say. 'Nothing inappropriate here; it's your friend that overstepped boundaries, not us.' Nothing mattered except the feelings between them. Everyone else could shove their opinions.
The royal couple led them through white halls lined with black marble columns and checkered marble floors. The Tower of Ecthelion was an austere place, filled with sunlight filtering through arrowslits in the walls and making the high-ceilinged corridors sparkle. The place had been unchanged for centuries, since before the last King of Gondor.
Lothí looked about, remembering the way she'd run through these halls after her brothers and cousins, laughter and squeals echoing off the cold marble. Those happy sounds were always silenced by the appearance of her uncle and the Steward of Gondor, Denethor. His sharp glances and stern scowls only softened when he beheld Boromir, his eldest son. The man always set the princess and Amrothos cowering as far from him as possible.
They passed a stone staircase, spiraling up into the depths of the tower and leading to Lothí's favorite library in the city. It was there that she'd embraced Boromir for the last time before he'd set off to Rivendell. She'd returned to her father's palace by the sea only days after his departure, never to see him again. Denethor had hoped to wed her to his eldest son at one point, but the war and his distaste for her opinions quickly killed that notion. The Steward had feared that the young princess would whisper in Boromir's ear and turn the favored son against his father. In actuality, the pair simply didn't wish to be anything other than cousins. They'd been fond of each other, but no more. Boromir's great love was Gondor.
Memories continued washing over Lothí while they were shown into guest quarters to wash off the grime of the road and change. Alone to freshen up, Lothí stripped off her clothes and shoved them into her saddlebags. She eagerly poured water into the wash basin and scented it with one of the bottles generously displayed on the washstand. A bright citrus scent—lemon and verbena, she guessed—soon perfumed her skin as she wiped away the sweat and dust of travel. A wet comb served to untangle her wild locks and undo the worst of the travel damage to her hair.
She quickly donned a gown of fine lavender silk. The skirt split in the front to reveal a creamy underskirt made brilliant with multitudes of blooms in shades of ivory, lavender, and pink. Lothíriel pulled the top half of her hair back in a simple plait, her only other adornment the ring glittering on her left hand. It never failed to make her smile when she looked down at the sparkling symbol of their commitment.
It wasn't too long before a servant showed her into the parlor where the others gathered. It was a cozy room, a stark contrast to the rest of the building, all warm woods and plush, richly colored rugs. It was a welcoming haven in the harsh black and white palette of the White Tower. It was an intimate gathering of friends that greeted her. That those friends just happened to be royalty didn't escape Lothí's notice. The Rohirrim had all been shown to their chambers, it seemed, while their king had been invited to relax with the Gondorian monarchs.
He'd waited for her, standing with two glasses in his hands and chatting with her father and Elessar. The golden king handed one of the glasses to her as she approached before settling them on the nearby loveseat. She felt heat stain her skin as their legs pressed together. Neither moved away from the touch, savoring the subtle contact necessitated by the small couch. They kept their posture straight and hands occupied with their drinks, observing every other constraint dictated by propriety.
The men were all deep in their talk of the summit, recent goings-on at court, and asking about old friends. Lothíriel wasn't offended; it had been ages since the two kings had seen one another, and they had much to catch up on. Instead, she smiled at the queen and sipped her cool juice as she waited for her social superior to speak or indicate a preference for silence.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lothíriel," she said, her soft, deep voice instantly putting the younger woman at ease. "Faramir speaks most highly of you."
"And I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance, majesty," Lothí replied, surprised at the queen's familiar address. She didn't begrudge it, she simply hadn't expected it. Maybe elven nobility did things differently. Following the queen's lead, Lothí shot her a conspiratorial smile and joked, "I'd say I hoped my cousin has only told you good things, but I know all too well the kinds of stories at his disposal."
Her tinkling laugh was like drops of silver and starlight in a bubbling stream. It easily captured the men's attention, earning an easy smile from her husband and mystified looks from the others.
"I promise to keep any embarrassing stories under lock and key," the queen promised, smiling brightly back at the princess.
"I'm forever in your debt," Lothí chuckled, sounding painfully ordinary and clumsy in comparison. "How do you find life in Gondor, majesty?"
The pair made pleasant conversation while the men talked business. Lothíriel found the Evenstar to be a delightful companion. She was never condescending or cold even with her lifetimes of wisdom and experience. No, the queen was the exact opposite. She was warm and open, eagerly engaging with the human woman as a friend and equal. Her natural radiance and good humor put everyone near her at ease, and Lothí couldn't help but be charmed by her queen.
When a knock sounded and the door swung open to reveal a familiar face, Lothí couldn't help but beam. It took all of her willpower to stay seated while Faramir bowed at his sovereigns and strode further into the room. He warmly shook Imrahil's hand and embraced Erchirion before turning to his youngest cousin.
"Gwanur!" he exclaimed warmly, catching the princess in a hug and spinning her about. "Gwannas lû and!"
"Mae govannen," she laughed when her feet were on the ground once more. Lothí cupped his dear face to search for any signs of weariness. "It seems Stewardship has been good to you."
Faramir led her towards the drink cart while conversation resumed with the rest of the party. She took the chance to examine him more closely then. It had been several years since she'd last seen him. They'd written regularly before the war, but it hadn't been the same after. He was the Steward of Gondor and had taken on a large portion of the burden of ruling in addition to the resettlement of Ithilien. Rebuilding a nation and establishing a principality were no small feats, and he was planning a wedding to boot. His attention had, understandably, been elsewhere.
Lothí missed the closeness they'd once had. They'd been so alike in temperament, loving books and growing things over the martial arts, that they'd naturally bonded. It seemed like it was one more casualty of the war, though that fondness certainly hadn't disappeared.
"Don't be fooled, nethig," he said with a brilliant smile as he poured himself a drink. "My happiness has little to do with the fulfillment my duties bring, and everything to do with love. Éowyn arrives this evening."
She laughed at that, delighted at the boyish flush brought on by the mere mention of his betrothed. "Oh, I see! How long have you been without your ladylove?"
"Almost a year," her cousin replied, sipping his drink as he led her about the perimeter of the room. "Since she and the Rohirrim bore King Théoden's casket home."
Lothí winced at the thought of going so long without a loved one. She laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder as they strolled. "I can only imagine how difficult it's been for you."
Faramir spared her a sidelong glance before casting his keen eyes on a certain golden king. Even when he was caught staring, Éomer showed no shame. Instead, he raised his glass to them and smirked at the princess. Her heart skipped a beat and she couldn't hide the smile creeping over her face.
Her cousin saw everything. "I'm sure you'll know all too well before long."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Lothí said haughtily, wrestling to erect the perfect princess façade.
"You'll have to do better than that, gwanur." The Steward simply arched a disbelieved brow at her and chuckled at her flush. He prodded her shoulder playfully as they continued walking. "I saw you on that couch—the two of you were practically glued together."
She batted his hand away, stealing another look at the Rohirric king. Heat coiled in her belly when his dark gaze met hers. His sinfully handsome smirk was nearly enough to have her fanning herself. The man was all too aware of the effect he had on her. Lothí couldn't deny it—she was painfully aware of him, every teasing word or hungry glance shooting something primal through her veins.
"Fine," she told him breathlessly, not breaking eye contact with Éomer. "We're betrothed, but ada hasn't announced it yet."
"I know." Faramir shot her an impish grin. "I was there when Aragorn approved the match. But I'll leave it for now. If I tease you anymore, I fear your face may catch fire."
"You're wicked!" Lothí swatted at her cousin, face heating right up to her hairline. "Tell me of your plans for Ithilien."
The pair continued their circuit about the room while Faramir waxed poetic about his plans to revitalize the region and build a stronghold in Emyn Arnen. He'd already plotted out the location for the manor house and its defenses in the rolling hills. His bride had much to say on that subject, apparently, though she was also eager to begin studying the wide variety of herbs native to the area. The princess couldn't help but laugh at the lovestruck look on her cousin's face every time the Shieldmaiden came up. It was beyond time for Faramir to have some happiness, she thought.
By some silent agreement, the conversation stayed light. Though Lothí felt it looming like a thunderhead, she couldn't bear to think about the war and their roles in it much less talk about it. It was neither the time nor the place. Instead, they spoke of happy things, the progress of the city's rebuilding, changes the king was instituting, and family. They completed one more circuit of the room as the reunited cousins caught up on the latest news.
She settled back in at the foreign king's side, unable to wipe the smile from her face. Risking a little boldness, she pressed her leg against her betrothed under the pretense of arranging her skirts and happily settled there. The conversation continued without interruption, and only Faramir's sharp eyes seemed to notice their closeness. He hid a grin behind his cup though it did nothing to hide the amused twinkle in his eyes.
Éomer slowly entwined their fingers under the folds of Lothí's skirt, her heart leaping at the forbidden contact. She ran a thumb over his knuckles, unable to resist feeling his skin against hers even in the tiniest of ways. No matter what was happening around them, Lothí only wanted him. She didn't care about the titles and power—if she'd met Éomer while he was still the Third Marshal of the Mark, she just knew she'd have given up everything to be with him. As if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, his fingers tightened about hers. It was in that moment, surrounded by new friends and family, that Lothíriel knew she would stop at nothing to be his and make him hers. They'd get through whatever was thrown at them one way or another, and he would be her husband at the end of it all.
The queen leaned close to her then, resting her elbow on the arm of the loveseat. Lothí turned to peer curiously at the other woman. She shared a conspiratorial smile and whispered, "I know it hasn't been announced yet, but I wanted to congratulate you on your betrothal."
She flushed and grinned in return. "Thank you, majesty. You're too kind."
"I'm really not," the elven beauty laughed. She placed a gentle, lily-white hand on the princess's arm and continued, "You'll be good for him. I've heard of your reputation for diplomacy; it will be invaluable as the Queen of the Riddermark."
The air left Lothí's lungs with a whoosh. Her chest constricted painfully at the realization of what was in store for her. A marriage to Éomer, a man she was hopelessly in love with, but it also meant more. They wouldn't be just a man and a woman leading an ordinary life. She would be a queen, a leader—she'd be thrust into that spotlight she had never truly sought. Certainly, she wanted her father to recognize her worth, but this was so much more. An entire nation would look to her for an heir, for stability and guidance. She would be loved or hated based on the consequences of their decisions and her ability to bear a son. What would happen if she was left in charge of another calamitous situation like the siege? How many more people would her good intentions kill? Would the king's council even allow for her input, or would they slam the door shut in her face?
Her stomach roiled as the enormity of her future weighed down upon her. Éomer glanced at her in alarm as her hand went clammy in his, but Lothí barely registered his concern as she focused on her breathing.
In and out. In and out.
The queen noticed her distress and quietly excused them from the parlor. She wound an arm about Lothí's waist and led the way through the labyrinthine corridors to a peaceful garden. Riots of color met her eyes, almost garish against her panic as the cheery blooms bobbed in the breeze. The scent of the flowers mingled with freshly tilled soil to ease some of her mounting anxiety.
The Evenstar guided the princess to a low stone bench near a bubbling fountain and clasped Lothí's hands in hers. Even her hands seemed softer than any human's.
"We can speak freely here," the queen said. Her delicate frown did nothing to diminish her beauty. "I did not mean to frighten you so."
"You did nothing wrong, your majesty," Lothí rasped, shaking her head. She sucked the fresh air deep into her lungs. The absence of brine struck her then. Was this how it would be? Forever missing the salty sea air and painfully reminded of all she was without?
"Your panic says otherwise." The queen arched a knowing brow at the younger woman. She watched her closely, noting the too-pale skin and rapid breathing. "Talk to me—I may understand better than you think."
Lothí let out a shuddering breath and dropped her gaze to her lap. "I know that marrying Éomer means I'll be his queen, but it always seemed… abstract, like a remote, vague thing. Like a mirage. A moment ago, hearing you say that title—it became real. It's foolish, I know…"
"It isn't," the queen insisted, staring intensely with her star-bright eyes. "It's a daunting thing to realize just how exposed you'll be as a ruler. Every eye will be on you, servants will gossip about the most intimate details of your life and the pressure to conceive will start on your wedding night. There won't be a moment of rest from it while you're at court."
The princess nodded emphatically, her heart quailing at the enormity of the situation. "That's exactly it. If the speculation is bad now, how much worse will it become? And there's no way to prepare for the decisions we'll have to make—how can I hope to do right by the people of the Mark when I don't think I can do right by my own people?"
The older woman sat back with a pensive look on her face as she studied Lothíriel. The two women watched each other, but the prickling at the nape of Lothí's neck told her that the queen saw through her. That she was seeing more than the princess knew and knew more than Lothí necessarily wanted to share.
Full, rosy lips parted before the queen's shoulders rolled forward. All tension and perfectly trained poise evaporated as the queen slouched. "Did you know that I had no real experience ruling before I married Estel? My grandmother made sure I was well-versed in politics and how to command, of course, but I had very little practical experience with the art of queenship before this last year."
It slowly dawned on Lothíriel what she was confiding. The princess cautiously met those ageless eyes.
"I've been learning at Estel's side, just as he is learning day by day," the queen continued, gracing the other woman with a kind smile. "No one is born knowing what is right—I don't know that rulers have choices so clear cut as 'right' or 'wrong.' All we can do is focus on the best of the options presented to us."
"It's much less black-and-white."
"That's leadership," the queen parried. "Éomer is still learning, as you are. The best advice I can offer is that you learn together."
Gratitude welled up in Lothí's breast and threatened to spill over at the queen's gentle, practical guidance. It wasn't often her concerns were met with understanding and such sound, concrete advice. It was the sort of advice she'd only ever gotten from Ilhan. Unable to contain herself, the princess wrapped her arms about the queen in a hug.
The Evenstar laughed in surprise and returned the embrace. It was such a human reaction, and not the sort of thing she received a lot of. She had ladies in waiting, of course, but none of them would ever dare to be so familiar. Not even her elven friends would have embraced her so; their affection was aloof and ethereal.
"I'd very much like to consider you a friend, Lothíriel," she ventured as she drew back to examine the much younger woman. "We're to be peers, after all, and there are certain freedoms my ladies-in-waiting are hesitant to enjoy."
Lothíriel couldn't hide her answering smile, the weight lifted from her shoulders for the moment. "I'd like that, Arwen. I think it'll be nice to have another queen to talk to."
The queen smiled serenely, clasping their hands together. "It's settled then! We're to be friends. Now tell me of Dol Amroth. I've never been there before."
They spent the remainder of the afternoon in the gardens, roaming as they pleased and talking about anything and everything. It did Lothí good to be surrounded by green, growing things, and she suspected the queen felt the same way. The scent of earth and fresh flowers perfumed every step they took, and their laughter filled the small garden.
Formality flew out the window as the two women simply delighted in each other's company. They spoke of lighthearted things: happy memories and favorite pastimes, books and songs, and their well-guarded penchant for sweet treats and warm drinks. Lothí discovered they were rather alike in their preferences, if not in their temperament. Where the princess could fret over a problem and how best to resolve it, Arwen had a gentler, more patient approach borne of centuries of experience. The younger woman could only hope to learn from her example.
The pair were sitting on the grass and weaving flower crowns without a thought for stains on their clothes when a messenger arrived to inform them of the Rohirrim's arrival. They quickly finished their work, tying off the crowns before rising.
Arwen stopped by the palace door, her gentle touch halting the princess too. "I'm a queen, and you are a princess—we should look the part, don't you think?" With that, the elven queen placed a crown of lush peonies of the softest pink and white poppies atop Lothí's head. She adjusted the blooms and said, "It's in your name, after all."
The princess could only grin as she placed another crown on her friend. The bright roses were a stunning contrast to the queen's jet-black hair. Arwen grinned and, laughing, led the way out to greet the new arrivals.
Lothí could only follow, her stomach giving a funny flip when she realized she was about to meet her future sister-in-law for the first time. She'd heard the stories of the fearsome Slayer of the Witch King, and Éomer's descriptions of his sister did little to assuage her concerns. The princess could only imagine how she would appear to the storied shieldmaiden, sheltered and young. Soft. Weak. She could only hope that the White Lady didn't disapprove of her—she wasn't sure if Éomer would still have her without his sister's blessing.
At least she wouldn't be empty-handed. The third and final flower crown seemed silly now, an inadequate offering for the legendary woman. Lothí only hoped that the other woman wouldn't think her a simpleton for such a paltry gift. Her hands trembled with nerves as they made their way to the Citadel where a bevy of activity awaited.
She and the queen joined the receiving line while riders swarmed out of the gate tunnel. Hoofbeats echoed off the stones paving the way around the Court of the Fountain, the sward of green that housed the White Tree a stark contrast to the white stone. Full, joyous voices rose in song and laughter as they streamed forth, their golden hair flashing in the sun.
Stable boys and grooms waiting to take charge of the horses, allowing the riders to dismount with the grace borne of lifetime of practice. Large men and bright, buxom women all chattered cheerily amongst themselves. It was a stark contrast to the quiet welcome party of dark-haired and serious Gondorians.
A hand on Lothí's elbow pulled her attention away from the bustle and up to the smiling face of her betrothed. She couldn't help but smile back at him. Tension drained from her shoulders just from his nearness.
"Stand with me?" he asked, eyes twinkling merrily at her.
She stole a glance at her father, deep in conversation with Faramir, before nodding. Lothí followed him a few steps away to a position nearer the king and queen. A laugh was stifled just in time at the playful wink the queen sent her way.
Éomer nudged her with a meaningful glance down at her hands. "Is that for Éowyn?"
"Do you think she'll like it?" Lothí asked, all of her uncertainty returning tenfold.
He gently took it from her shaking fingers and examined the circlet of daffodils. The cheery yellow blooms bobbed in his large hands, like a school of fish dipping with the current.
"It's foolish, I can get rid of it—" she started, utterly convinced the storied lady would hate something so simple and childish. Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
"Don't you dare," Éomer commanded gently. He passed the flower crown back with a pleased smile her way. His dark eyes crinkled happily down at her. "I think she'll appreciate it, my flower-garlanded maiden."
Lothí touched a hand to the blooms atop her head with a strained laugh. "You can thank Arwen for this."
"It will be alright, swete." He captured her hand in his, winding their fingers together and giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Just stay with me and it will be alright."
The new arrivals came forward, neatly arranged behind a willowy woman who seemed like she was carved from ivory and spun gold. She was radiantly beautiful and moved with a cool confidence that reminded Lothí of the man at her side. Her white gown practically glowed in the sunlight as she greeted the king and queen with poise before abandoning all pretense and launched herself in Faramir's waiting arms.
A shocked murmur went up amongst the Gondorians, quickly drowned out by the cheers and whistles of the Rohirrim. Lothí was surprised at her cousin's quick acceptance of the passionate greeting, but a glance at her betrothed soon had her adding her own polite applause to the crowd's approval. Propriety be damned, she couldn't imagine using any restraint after a yearlong separation from Éomer.
The pair parted with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and the lady continued her greetings. Soon, she was exchanging a traditional greeting with her brother and king before embracing him tightly. Quick, low words in the rhythmic language of the Rohirrim were exchanged, and Lothí could only smile at their obvious affection for each other.
The White Lady stepped back from her brother with an eye roll and turned to the raven-haired princess at his side.
Lothí dipped a curtsy and greeted her, "Westu hál, Lady Éowyn."
"Mae govannen, your highness," she responded in kind, a teasing smile upon her lips. The cleft in her chin only added to the appearance of impishness.
"I—I made you a little something to welcome you to Gondor and into the family." Her hands trembled the slightest bit as she held the crown of flowers up for the lady's inspection.
"Thank you." Pale eyebrows flew up and her mouth formed a perfect "oh" at the gesture. With a cautious smile, she accepted the gift and placed it atop her head. "Is it on straight?"
Lothí shook her head and quickly made a small adjustment. "There. According to Taweron, the daffodil symbolizes 'new beginnings.' It seemed fitting."
"It most certainly is," the lady laughed, eyes darting to her brother who watched them with a small smile. "I look forward to getting to know you, highness."
With that, she swept back towards Faramir with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. It was clear to anyone with eyes that the pair adored one another and weren't afraid to show it. He was the Steward of Gondor and she was a Shieldmaiden—what did public opinion matter to them?
Lothí felt a pang at the thought. She wouldn't be able to share that same openness with Éomer until after they were wed. Her family's good name, the legitimacy of her future children, and the entire union hung in the balance. A betrothal to a king was a delicate thing, much more so when it involved international relations.
She glanced up at Éomer, worry clearly written on her face. He read it easily and pulled her against his side. He placed a chaste kiss to her temple, and some of her anxiety dispelled just from his nearness. He, much like his sister, didn't pay the gossips any mind.
"My sister seemed to like you," the king whispered, squeezing her hip.
"She's intimidating," Lothí replied with a chuckle. Her eyes darted about, relieved to find her father preoccupied with the other new arrivals and not paying them any mind. "Does she know about the betrothal?"
Another of his countrymen approached with arms open to his king. In response, Éomer simply nodded with a wink and released Lothí. The two blond men clasped arms and greeted each other with quick, cheery words. Lothíriel was introduced and received laughing kisses on each cheek. Flustered at the unexpected welcome, all she could do was laugh and simply brace herself for similar enthusiasm as a greeting line formed.
Éomer kept her at his side to welcome his countrymen, all of the Rohirric nobility curiously eying the dark-haired woman by their king's side. He simply introduced her and added that she'd acted as a Gondorian liaison during the negotiations. That seemed to appease the men, but their wives and daughters were frostier. For her part, Lothíriel was content to follow the tone Éomer set though she knew they at least suspected something of the truth. He was their king and knew his people better than she—as he'd followed her lead in Dol Amroth, she would follow his now.
He practically beamed when an older man and his wife drew near, a stunning young woman trailing in their wake. Their daughter, Lothí assumed, as the girl had the same cornflower blue eyes as the woman and the red-gold hair of the man. Delicate features and rosy cheeks made the girl look like a porcelain doll come to life as she boldly pressed herself against Éomer to drop a kiss on his cheek.
The king recoiled faster than was necessarily polite, sliding a hand to rest on the small of Lothí's back. She pasted a gracious smile to her lips and stepped forward. The princess refused to be intimidated by someone's interest in her betrothed, however presumptuous that interest may be. Her heart beat frantically when his hand snaked around to rest low on her hip—an intimate touch that didn't go unnoticed.
"Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, I'd like you to meet Erkenbrand, the Second Marshal of the Mark and Lord of the Westfold. His wife, Lady Wynfled, and their daughter, Eafled," Éomer introduced, voice strong and clear.
The princes dropped a polite curtsy to the notable family before speaking the traditional Rohirric greeting. "Westu hál. I hope you had a pleasant journey."
Wynfled, a tall, freckled woman, smiled warmly at her. Sharp eyes didn't miss the way the king's hand returned to rest possessively on the princess's hip. "We did, your highness. You have a beautiful country."
"Thank you, hlæfdige," Lothí said. She immediately warmed to the older woman, her rosy cheeks and bright smile infectious. "Yo—"
"Yes, your land is charming even if that charm is somewhat… flat, at times," the daughter chimed in with a titter. She sent a pointed smile to the princess, also not missing her familiarity with the king.
Lothí felt her hackles rise at the girl's biting tone, her message coming across quite clearly. No matter how much venom she spewed, it was not she who was betrothed to the king. Secure in that, the princess smiled sweetly at her.
"The lands between here and the border were, tragically, ravaged by war, as I'm sure you know," Lothí informed her, easily keeping pace with Éomer as the party moved towards the Tower. "But you should know that these are not my lands. My home lies further south and is quite lovely—it's warm and sparkling, and the ocean stretches on beyond the horizon. It's vastly different from this region of Gondor."
"Aye, it's like nothing I've ever seen before and beautiful to boot," Éomer chimed in with a fond smile.
"Though I'm sure it is nothing compared to the beauty of the Mark." She returned the grin with one of her own, missing the sour twist of Eafled's pink lips.
"There's no comparing such different beauties. It would be like comparing the moon and a flower." Éomer's dark eyes twinkled with a wry amusement as he shot a wink at his deorcung feacwēn.
The party came to a stop in the entrance hall where servants worked to show guests to their quarters before the banquet that evening. Merry voices filled the hall as conversations continued and news was quickly exchanged.
"Of course, min cynig," the girl simpered with a bat of her long lashes. "But one could argue that the moon is a lasting, untamed beauty while a flower wilts and dies at the slightest change in circumstance."
Lothí glanced up at the king again, the question written in her eyes: did he want her to parry the girl's advances, or should they simply let it be? He gave her a wink and eyed her parents. The girl was obviously infatuated with the king and upset to find another woman at his side. Erkenbrand and Wynfled simply looked exasperated, both alternating between watching their daughter and looking for a servant to direct them to their rooms.
"That may be true if the flower is mishandled. I've found that the right touch makes all the difference." She couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the girl. Eafled was smitten and it was clear that Éomer did not return those feelings. The news of the betrothal would probably crush her.
"It doesn't change how fleeting and inconstant a flower's beauty is," Eafled sneered back. Impossibly blue eyes narrowed with the force of her glower and irritation lined her pretty face.
Lothí still didn't rise to the bait. Another glance at her parents showed that no one truly minded the little debate unfolding. Éomer and Lord Erkenbrand were fighting to hide their smiles while the Lady Wynfled rolled her eyes at her daughter.
"I suppose it comes down to personal preference," she replied with a shrug. "However lovely the moon may be, it is still remote and distant. Untouchable and cold. Flowers are a tangible sign of life and a testament to perseverance. While the pleasure of a fresh bouquet wanes, blossoms are sure to return after a frost."
The girl looked ready to spit when her father finally stepped in, his cheeks pink with suppressed mirth.
"You debate well, feacwēn. I've heard news of your assistance in the talks and wish to thank you for your help." He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed before the princess. Her face flushed with the gesture; a simple bow would have sufficed, but he'd taken it to the next level—he signaled his respect and fealty with that single motion, taking Lothí aback.
She looked to Éomer for answers, his shallow nod leaving her swallowing desperately. Erkenbrand knew of the betrothal, and meant to display his support of it—of her—here and now.
"Please, my Lord Marshal, it is an honor to aid the Rohirrim however I can." Lothí clasped her hands tightly before her, resisting to the urge to toy with her skirts or twist her ring nervously. She noticed a servant approaching over Wynfled's shoulder. "But come, I'm sure you'd appreciate the chance to refresh yourselves before this evening's feast."
"Aye, feacwēn," Wynfled said with a knowing smile. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you. Éomer has written only the kindest things about you."
Her answering smile was genuine. "And I you. I look forward to speaking further!"
They were escorted to their rooms, leaving Éomer and Lothí to sag with relief that the greeting line was over. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much, and she had to resist the impulse to bury herself in his chest as exhaustion gripped her. The day was far from over and all she wanted was to drop into a deep, dreamless sleep. That tiredness melted away when the king tugged her behind a wide pillar, out of sight of the servants and lingering nobility—all too distracted with work or chatter to notice their disappearance.
"You handled Eafled well," Éomer said. His rich voice rumbled and sent a pleasant tingle through her body. "She's always been a bit territorial."
"Does she have any reason for such possessiveness?" she teased, fighting the sour frown at the mention of his friend's daughter. The marble pillar was cold through the back of her dress. Another shiver ran down her spine at the sensation of being sandwiched between the hard stone and his warm body.
He shrugged and ran his hands down her arms until their fingers locked together. "None that I can think of. Éothain says she's always been infatuated with me, but I've never encouraged it. The lass is far too young—I remember when she was in diapers."
Lothí nodded, guiding his hands to her waist. "Alright, then. I'll protect you from her attentions."
"You've proven yourself a most capable defender," he chuckled, pressing kisses along the column of her neck. "Béma, I want to devour you."
"Then do it," she breathed, pulse thundering under his lips. "I'm yours, Éomer. Completely and utterly yours."
He stifled a groan in the curve of her breast, nipping the tender flesh. It delighted him to watch the skin turn pink in a brief reminder that she was his. "You're wicked, swete. But, for now, I need to return you to Imrahil."
They rounded the pillar after steadying their breathing, Lothí casually pointed to a tapestry hanging nearby as a pretense for their brief disappearance. She could feel eyes boring into her back as they examined the work. Ignoring it would only work for so long. There was no privacy in these halls, and they'd pushed the envelope as far as it could go. Leniency could no longer be expected; rumors already swirled about the level of their involvement and her father would demand nothing short of perfect behavior from now on.
"We'll find time tonight, lufestre," he assured her in a whisper as they pretended to examine the tapestry. With that, he swept her back over to her father and departed with a curt nod.
Lothí watched him go with a panging heart. She couldn't wait for the day when they didn't constantly have to part. Gathering her courage, she turned to face her father. The sour turn of his lips was enough to tell her he'd noticed at least one infraction. Eyes cast down, she followed him back outside to their waiting mounts.
Erchirion walked with his sister, noticing her cheer evaporate at their father's palpable chilliness. He did his best to keep up light chatter and draw Lothí out of her mood on the journey back down to the sixth level. Imrahil simply grunted at his middle son, while her throat tightened painfully with every glance she stole his way. Frustration bubbled in her stomach, the first true rumblings of anger coloring it. What had she done but make the best of the situation her father had forced her into? That she'd found an understanding and love for the king should be a comfort to him, not a burden or embarrassment. These thoughts roiled in her mind, giving way to a fierce determination. She would be Éomer's, one way or another. If her father sought to stop it, she resolved to do whatever was necessary to fight for her happiness.
A/N: I'm really sorry for the delay between updates. I've been steadily plugging away at future chapters and have had a lot of recent changes in my personal life. I've officially left my old job that was so needlessly stressful and toxic for a new one, my husband and I are getting ready to move into a bigger, beautiful apartment, and we're planning a lot of travel to various weddings and holidays in the next few months. The stress of it all has been getting to me a bit and I've just been too tired to really write. But I've got this week off and am making the most of it!
I wanted to thank you all for sticking with this story (and with me). Your reviews and kind comments always make my day, and I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to you guys. Often, reading what you have to say and hearing your thoughts and insights are the best part of my day. Seriously, my husband can always tell when I've been reading over what you say because, in his words, they "make [me] glow."
Melethel: My love/my dear
Gwanur: Cousin
Gwannas lû and: It's been too long (lit., a long time has passed)
Mae govannen: Well met
Nethig: Little one (f.)
"Flower language" became really popular in the nineteenth century. Joseph Hammer-Purgstall wrote Dictionnaire du language des fleurs in 1809. This was the first published list of flowers with symbolic meanings. The first dictionary of floriography, Le langage des fleurs, was written by Mme. Charlotte de la Tour (Louise Cortambert's penname) in 1819.
Lufestre: Love, darling
Deorcung feacwēn: Twilight princess