A salty mist blew from the shore up to the balcony, whipping Lothíriel's skirts and staining the silk with sea spray. On any other day she would have been upset because this was the last passably extravagant gown she owned, but her heart wasn't in it. She felt as she were one of the gulls flying over the blue waves.
Only a short while before, a soldier rushed to the kitchens to inform her that a lone messenger from Minas Tirith had arrived wishing to deliver news. A fortnight had passed since the last missive from her father, Prince Imrahil, informing her of his intentions to ride to Minas Tirith to aid the Steward of Gondor. While his letter was warm, he spoke of the great danger he would face as he raced the gathered Shadow to her uncle.
Lothíriel had thanked the soldier for the news. She had tried to keep her paces even as she ascended from the kitchens to her rooms, but once she had passed from watching eyes she had broken into a run. Upon entering her quarters, she had stripped herself of her plain linen gown. She donned her last dress worthy of her station to receive the tidings of war, be it ill or not. If the news was good, she would look the lively princess of Dol Amroth they used to know long ago. If the news were ill, her appearance would reassure her people that they were in capable hands. Close to tears already, Lothíriel had chided herself as she left the room. She must remain brave for her people, no matter what she was told.
The messenger was Alric, who was apprenticed to his father Alden, the Royal Courier. She had helped look after Alric when he was a toddler, though now he was almost thirteen summers. His mother Rícah was the palace cook, a matronly woman who Lothíriel loved dearly. Rícah had stepped into the role of mother when Lothíriel's own had died when she was eight summers.
He looked grave when she had entered Grand Hall and when he looked upon her face he burst out crying and ran to her, burying his face into the bodice of her gown. Lothíriel's heart dropped into her stomach as she embraced him until the tears subsided.
Alric stepped back and used his sleeve to wipe snot, before assuming a brave face.
"Princess Lothíriel," he croaked out, forcing himself into a stilted bow. "I come bearing news as the-" his voice waned and he took a steadying breath, "I come bearing news as the new Royal Courier from Prince Imrahil."
"Oh, Alric!" Lothíriel couldn't contain herself. Her emotions were at war within: sorrow for the loss of dear old Alden who always had a quick joke and a hard candy in his pocket, and restrained joy for news that her own father remained in this world with her.
Something caught Alric's eyes behind Lothíriel, but he bravely continued on. "Prince Imrahil has entrusted me with sharing these glad tidings with you: Sauron has been overthrown and the War of the Ring has ended. Your father and brothers have all survived battle and-" he ran his arm across his eyes to catch fresh tears as they began to fall once more, "and a descendent of Elendil sits upon the throne of Gondor once more. Your father bids me tell you to make haste to the city of Minas Tirith for the coronation, so that you may be joined with your family. Here." He shoved a letter into her hands before walking behind Lothíriel to join Rícah who had entered shortly after Alric had bowed and was now silently sobbing uncontrollably. She embraced him and their sorrow, while not dulled, was shared.
Lothíriel shook her head, dispersing the memories. She let her eyes trail out across the waters. A true blue reflected the sky. White foam hit rocks at the foot of the white sandstone walls of the palace. Gulls screeched and dove and emerged with fish clutched in their claws. A lone butterfly fluttered against the wind before disappearing from view. She stepped away from the balcony back into her quarters, away from the peace of the sea to the chaos inside. Her governess, Maren, frantically paced around the room while clutching the letter from Imrahil in her hand.
Maren was ranting, throwing gowns from the wardrobe into a pile on the bed. "Your father bids you leave as soon as a possible! To 'make do with what you have'!"
Lothíriel gingerly sat on the settee next to the bed when Maren whirled around at her.
"You have absolutely nothing fit to wear at court, let alone for the first coronation Gondor has seen in eight hundred years!" Maren huffed.
"It's actually eight hundred eighty-one years," Lothíriel helpfully offered.
"Don't you start with me, young lady!" Maren pointed her finger at her, causing Lothíriel to bite her bottom lip lest she remind Maren that such an action was hardly genteel. "All of your gowns look as if you are farmer's daughter instead of a princess, or they are irredeemably stained from traipsing across the village—"
"If by traipsing, you mean dispensing food to the townspeople so they don't starve to death as is my duty, than yes, I was—"
"Aha!" Maren exclaimed. She rushed out of the room before Lothíriel could get in a word edgewise. She was gone long enough to make Lothíriel wonder if she was supposed to have followed when Maren returned with servants lugging an old, heavy trunk, placing it in front of her with a dull thunk. A maidservant followed them with a rag, curtsied and dusted it off before being dismissed by Maren. The newly clean desk smelled like lemons grove south of the town. It was made of cedar and intricate wood carvings of waves and ships decorated the lid and the edges. The metal latch was shaped like the neck of a swan, with the nose fitting into a protruding ring to keep the lid closed. The chest was familiar to Lothíriel but was unclear to her how, like a distant memory. She reached out to touch it but was startled by Maren unceremoniously dumping all the dresses off the bed to the floor. Maren's spindly fingers shifted the swan latch and lifted the lid.
"These used to be your mother's," Maren said, lifting up a gown and shaking it out. From the fabric, sprigs of lavender used to prevent insects dropped to the ground. She delicately placed it on the bed before reaching for the next one. "Now, while these are severely out of fashion by almost two decades, they are suited to your station and we can embellish them while we sail to Minas Tirith."
Maren continued chattering about threads and ribbons and stitches but Lothíriel heard not a word. She reached out her hand and stroked the fabric of the nearest dress, smoothing out a pleat. For a moment, the scent of her dear Naneth floated around her before being lost forever. It made her heart ache. Her hand stilled when she noticed Maren's eyes appraising her with a frown.
"You are much plumper than your mother ever was," she announced to the room, before rifling through the trunk. Lothíriel flinched and wanted to argue. She wasn't plump. She just wasn't comparable to a twig used for kindling. Everyone this side of the Ered Minrais knew that her mother had been willowy. Maren pulled out a corset, which had been unpopular in court as long as her mother's dresses. "Hopefully once we lace you into this, the dress will fit," she said, pulling out a kirtle and an overdress. "You'll have to wear it every day until we get there to get used to the shallow breathing, especially if you are to dance with any of the lords." She arched her brow at Lothíriel. "Speaking of attracting the lords, when did you get so dark, child?"
Lothíriel glanced down at her arms and grimaced, trying to be thankful for her genetics even if it did get her into trouble with Maren. Maren was, to put politely, ancient. She had been Naneth's governess. Naneth came from the coast of Harondor and had met Imrahil while he had been touring with the Dol Amroth navy. Maren had helped raise her ward's children and often commented on the similarities between them.
Elphir had inherited their mother's slenderness. Like Naneth, he had an uncanny ability to both read and command a room. Lothíriel often went to Elphir to ask for his honest opinion. His insight could never disappoint her and she admired his wisdom. How fortunate that the eldest son was born to fulfill his role of future Prince of Dol Amroth.
Erchirion had inherited Naneth's ability to put anyone at ease, as well as her love of the sea. He was, in Lothíriel's opinion, the best sailor out of the four of them (although Amrothos would protest if he heard that). Maren often told her that their mother was constantly causing disturbances in her childhood due to racing on the sea. Lothíriel had to guess that her wildness was part of what attracted her father. Her Naneth had the knack for being so easy-going that people who had never met her felt like they were life-long friends. Lothíriel was sure that these character traits were critical in winning the people of Dol Amroth's favor, since her mother wasn't exactly from the noblest of families.
Amrothos' story-telling ability was just like their mother's, although Ada said that the truth-stretching was unique only to him. Amrothos also inherited Naneth's large eyes, which made him look entirely too innocent. Maren swore someday he would trick a woman into marrying him just by looking at her. She once said this in front of Amrothos and his facial expression had Lothíriel burst into giggles.
Lothíriel had inherited her mother's hair. Lothíriel had dark hair like her father and brothers, but in the summer if she stayed out in the sun long enough, it developed a sheen of deep red. It always held a naturally relaxed curl which was envied at court. However, Lothíriel had also inherited her mother's complexion. Her mother had, as far as Lothíriel could remember, stayed inside as much as possible. When forced to go outside, she had powdered herself to achieve a pale appearance. Lothíriel was forced into powdering her face every so often at Maren's insistence. She knew Maren was only looking after her, but Gondorian standards of beauty did not taint the love Dol Amroth held for Imrahil's bride. Lothíriel wished that she, too, could be accepted.
"Child, I won't be able to hide you with powder," Maren whispered, horrified. "You've not a light patch a skin anywhere."
Lothíriel had to concede. In general, her skin was naturally darker than her mother's. But when Lothíriel stayed outside, her naturally tanned skin turned positively golden.
"I've been following Ada's orders, Marin, while everyone else is away. And I can't do that while sitting in the palace embroidering."
Maren sniffed in response before turning back towards the dresses. "Then we truly have our work cut out for us. We must improve the dresses or else I'm afraid you will remain unattached permanently, for who would want a princess when she looks like that!"
Sindarin Language Guide:
Naneth - mother
Harondor- South Gondor; Harondor was part of Gondor until the Kin-strife and frequent assaults and invasions by the Corsairs of Umbar and the Haradrim meant that, by the later years of the Third Age, Gondor lost control over this region. Its climate was described as fluctuating between mild winters and very hot and dry summers.
Ada -father