Disclaimer: The Lord of The Rings is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction and no financial profit is made by writing this.

Chapter 1

Rohan, February the 1st, 3018

Lothíriel rubbed her eyes and sighed: to say that she was tired, was an understatement. She felt exhausted, worn-out, utterly spent…

Ten days spent in the saddle, riding dawn till dusk, in the wind, in the rain and eventually even in the snow, with a freezing wind continuously pounding on them. Ten sleepless nights spent on the hard cot of her tent, trying her best to silence that inner turmoil that left her awake at night and drained at day.

She wasn't even sure how she had managed to make it that far. The past few weeks had been one long, uninterrupted nightmare. One that had turned her life upside down, making ashes of all she had loved, all she had hoped for her future.

There were times when she just wished she could cry out her anger. Others, when she simply wished the ground would swallow her. Every morning, at the first sounds of the awakening camp, she would drag herself out of her tent and put on a mask that would hopefully convince everybody that she was fine. And so she would do for the rest of the day, hiding the numbness and the angst away and trying to keep at a minimum the interactions with the people around her.

Not that it was hard, to be honest. With the exception of a polite greeting in the morning and one in the evening, her husband hadn't spoken a word to her since they had left Minas Tirith. And though she often felt their eyes on her, his men – more than a few of whom didn't speak the common tongue, kept their distance.

The only trouble was her husband's squire: Léod. A young boy, probably only a few years younger than herself, he had been her shadow for the past ten days. He always rode by her side or, if she told him to go away, a few steps behind. Whenever getting on – or down the saddle, he was there offering help. Every unfinished meal he would look at her wide-eyed, stammering about what would my Lady like to eat? And if he ever suspected she wasn't feeling well, he would start pestering her without an end.

Is my Lady unwell? My Lady looks pale! Did my Lady sleep well last night? How is my Lady doing? My Lady is shaking, please take my cloak!

She felt like one more my Lady, and she could throttle him! Even his clumsiness, which she would have found amusing under normal circumstances, was getting on her nerves. Over the past few days, the boy had managed to: trip on his own feet – once a day at least, crash against a tree, spill hot stew on his own breeches, step into a pond – a frozen one luckily, and even let his cloak catch fire. She didn't know what was about her that made him so nervous, but she was fairly sure she had had enough of it.

Right on clue, the boy flanked her and gave her a goofy smile: "Seems like the weather is finally turning for the better!".

Lothíriel stared at him for a moment before lifting her eyes towards the sky: if that was how these people called a weather turning for the better, she did not want to know what the turning for the worse was. Or maybe she already knew it; indeed, if she had to describe the weather in Rohan with one sentence, that would surely be: there is always something falling on your head. If you were lucky, it was just a freezing rain. In the worst case, it could be snow or even hail. In addition to that, she could not even recall the last time she had actually seen the sun: the clouds were so thick and low above their heads, that she couldn't even point at where the sun was. And to make things even worse, for days they had done nothing but going through what felt like an endless sequence of fog banks: at times, in the morning, she could see the mist rising from the streams or from the soaked ground, she could feel it sticking to her clothes, to her skin, to her hair… a few more days in that forsaken land, and she might just start moldering!

"You will see, my Lady: once the sun comes out, you will see how beautiful Rohan is".

Lothíriel barely managed to refrain from snorting, for she did not need the sun to know how that land looked like: a desolate expanse of grass, cursed with an inclement weather and barely populated at all.

Dead.

That was how Rohan looked like: in the seven days since they had crossed the Merin Stream, they had encountered only three travelers on the road, come across two settlements and, with the exception of a few birds, they hadn't seen nor heard any animal.

A land more different from Dol Amroth, probably did not exist. Her home by the sea was a blaze of colors, lively and vibrant: the deep blue waters of Lond Cobas, the white cliffs dominating the bay, the evergreen gardens, the climbing roses. And then the crowded harbor, the musicians playing in the streets and entertaining nobles and peasants alike, the vessels scattering the sea, from the tiny fishermen's boats to the great sailing ships of her father. Every single day of her life she had awoken to that marvelous spectacle, occasionally partaking in it but more often than not admiring it from the reassuring quiet of her father's palace.

Dol Amroth was her home, the place her heart belonged to, the place where her memories had been forged.

And now, it was gone.

Feeling a lump forming in her throat, Lothíriel tried to urge her mare forward, foolishly hoping the damn boy would not follow her.

"Is everything alright, my Lady?", the squire asked, leaning slightly towards her.

She nodded, trying with all she could to hold back the tears.

Léod narrowed his eyes, unconvinced: "Are you sure, my Lady? Aldburg is very close, but if you need a break I'm sure that Lord É…".

"I said I'm fine! Would you just let me be for once?", she snapped.

A deep blush spread on Léod's beardless cheeks and he stammered something unintelligible as he finally held back the reins of his horse to give her some privacy. A few riders glared at her but she ignored them, focusing instead on the road in front of her and almost holding her breath as she waited for the city of Aldburg to finally emerge from the mist: even though she knew her fate had long been sealed, arriving in what was supposed to be her home for the rest of her days gave her an almost overwhelming sense of dismay.

How could that happen? How did things manage to go so terribly wrong?

Only one month earlier she had been sitting on the sill of her room, sipping on her tea with Bathor's soothing purr to keep her company, her only preoccupation being when the books she had asked her cousin for would finally arrive. And now there she was, in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers, with only a small chest to carry fragments of her old life into her new one.

Three books, four dresses, a necklace which had belonged to her mother and a carefully stored drawing set: that was all she had been allowed to carry with her. Everything else, everybody else, she had been forced to leave behind.

Like Gaeril, her sweet maid, to whose warm smiles she had awoken every morning of her life. Gaeril, who knew her better than anybody else: she knew what she liked, she knew what she did not like, she knew when she needed to be alone and when she needed the company of an old friend. Gaeril, who had been too old to move to Rohan and thus had been forced to stay behind: the day her ship had set sail towards Pelargir, she had stood longer than anybody else on the docks, a tiny smile on her lips, her eyes misty.

Or Bathor, her beloved cat, her oldest and most trustful friend. Bathor, whom she had found on the beach of her father's palace many years before, when she had been but a child, still trying to cope with the sudden loss of her mother. A bundle of fur and flies he was, and to this day she could still remember her father's horrified expression when she had pleaded him to allow her to keep the wee little kitten with her. Only after throwing a veritable tantrum, had she managed to convince him and for the following thirteen years, Bathor had never left her side, entertaining her with his antics and soothing her his constant purring. But like Gaeril, Bathor too could not follow her: not only he was old, but also almost completely blind. Even if he had survived the nightmare that travelling to Rohan was, she knew he would have never settled in in a place he did not know, could not see, a place packed with foreign smells and stranger noises. On the day she had left Dol Amroth, she had held him tight and cried shamelessly, knowing all too well that the odds that he would still be alive the next time she would manage to visit Dol Amroth, were pretty darn low.

Lothíriel sighed but before she could continue entertaining herself with the thoughts of those she had lost, a loud echoing of horns had her jumping in her saddle, her heart racing. More horns rang in distance and seeing how the riders around her were smiling broadly, she knew they had finally reached Aldburg.

Scanning the landscape in front of her, she eventually caught sight of a wall, a gate, and then some buildings.

At first, she thought Aldburg to be just as dead as anything else in Rohan. The streets were totally empty and if it wasn't for the steady columns of smoke rising from the chimneys of the cottages, she could have bet the city wasn't inhabited at all. However, unlike the settlements they had crossed on their way from Gondor, as soon as they stepped onto her muddy streets, the city quickly came to life: doors banged open and a few children run towards them, careless of the rain and clearly very eager to welcome home their fathers.

In front of her, a rider hauled a young boy in the saddle, earning himself a delighted squeal and an enthusiastic hug. Observing him as he held tight the child, his eyes shut and a blissful smile on his face, Lothíriel felt as if someone had punched the air out of her body: never in her whole life had she ever felt more alone, more out of place.

When her husband stopped by her side and politely asked her to follow him, all she could do was staring blankly at him, unable to formulate any type of response. It was only when Léod extended an arm to take Rohiril's rein and guide her up the street, that she realized she was dumbly standing in the middle of the way. She looked around: the eyes of the whole city seemed to be fixed on her and sure enough there was curiosity, but there was also something else. Many seemed wary of her presence there and she even spotted two young girls pointing at her and whispering Valar knows what to each other, before sharing a sneering laughter.

Immediately, Lothíriel felt a sense of uneasiness spreading inside her: she may have been a Princess of Gondor, but she had always hated being in the spotlight, she had never been like those ladies who basked in being the one everybody is looking at. But if anything, being raised in Gondor had taught her how to behave in such situations: squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she snapped the reins from Léod's hands and urged Rohiril forward, feigning indifference to her surrounding and only occasionally glancing around.

Although bigger, Aldburg did not look much different from the other Rohirric villages she had seen. Located on a small hill and defended by what looked like rather modest walls, the city was entirely built in wood and, contrary to Dol Amroth, none of the streets were paved. The main road winded around in several bends before finally leading to the highest point of the city, where a larger building – calling it palace would have been unfair, stood out over the town. Staring at its wooden façade, Lothíriel couldn't help but thinking that when compared to the grandiosity of Minas Tirith or the sophisticated elegance of Dol Amroth, the old seat of the Kings of Rohan looked like merely more than a farmers' village.

Again, Léod appeared by her side: "May I help you dismounting, my Lady?".

Lothíriel rolled her eyes: at least arriving in Aldburg meant she could finally get rid of the boy.

Ahead of them, her husband had already dismounted his huge grey stallion and after a quick glance towards her direction, he strode towards the entrance: Lothíriel watched in disbelief as he accepted a cup from an elderly, stern-looking woman, before disappearing inside the building without even saying one word.

She clenched her fists: how she hated him! How she hated them all!

Her hands shaking with rage, she dismounted her mare and pushed Léod aside.

Perfectly tuned with the rest of the villagers, the old woman who had welcomed her husband greeted her with cold, almost hostile eyes: "Welcome to Aldburg, Lady Lothíriel".

Lady Lothíriel. No longer Princess. No longer of Dol Amroth. She barely suppressed a growl as she snapped the cup from the woman's hands and swallowed its content: it was awfully sweet and she regretted it immediately.

"I am Meregith, Aldburg's housekeeper. And this is Runhild", the old housekeeper said, introducing a young girl with red hair and a multitude of freckles spread on her pale cheeks. "She is the daughter of our healer and has spent some years in Minas Tirith with her father. She speaks fluently the common tongue and as such, Lord Éomer has chosen her to be your handmaid".

Lothíriel bit down an angry remark about the thoughtfulness of her husband: "I shall thank him later for his kindness. Right now, I feel very tired: Runhild, I want a hot bath to be immediately prepared and I want dinner to be served directly to my room".

The girl exchanged a hesitant look with Meregith: "I…o-of course, my Lady. Come with me, I'll show you to the master bedroom", she finally said, making way inside the dark ally in small, quick steps.

Lothíriel followed her, too angry to even notice her surroundings and wholeheartedly hoping her husband would find another master bedroom to sleep in.

If anything, he hadn't forced her to that.

The evening of their wedding, she had entered their bedroom as a bundle of nerves, tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the idea that she would have been forced to lie with him, to allow him to use her body as he wished. She had sat on the bed, waiting for him, and when he had finally entered the room, her fingers had gripped almost painfully at her knees. But he hadn't moved from the door, the light of a single candle only partially lightening his features. You were forced into this marriage as much as I was. I won't force this on us as well. He had wished her goodnight and spent the night in an adjacent study, sleeping on a ridiculously small sofa.

Now, she could only hope he would find another couch where to spend his future nights.

All of them.

"You shouldn't have married her. She is a spoilt, arrogant, haughty girl. She doesn't belong here", Éothain muttered, waving his beer in front of him.

Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose: "And what would you had me do?".

"Anything but marrying her. You could have married someone else! Literally anybody else would have been better than her, even Sorrun!".

"Who's Sorrun?".

"Dungar's sister. You know her: short, plump and as bitter as gall".

He chuckled: "I think you're exaggerating".

Éothain snorted: "I'm not. I mean, have you seen her? Her Royal Highness Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth hasn't spoken more than a word over the past ten days. Maybe we're not good enough, maybe our ears are not noble enough to be graced by the sound of her voice".

Éomer sighed: "I had no choice, Éothain…".

"I know, damn it! I'd really like to know what was on Théodred's mind when he came up with this brilliant idea", he snapped.

"I've told you a thousand times: he had wanted to marry her himself, but Grima convinced the King that it would have been unwise to have a Gondorian as Queen of Rohan one day", Éomer explained, feeling his patience running thin.

"Well look at that! I'd have never expected to agree with that Wormtongue on anything in my whole life, but it seems I was wrong! Bema, I bet she's as warm as an ice-block in bed". Éomer threw him a murderous look: "What? You want to tell me she makes for good sport?".

"Can we change subject?".

Éothain's eyes widened, his mouth gaping: "Hold on a moment: are you serious? You, the most wanted bachelor of all Rohan- after your cousin naturally, but being the heir to the throne he would be wanted even if he had the looks of an orc; you, at whose feet girls throw themselves wherever you go; you, spent your wedding night as a cast virgin?!".

He rolled his eyes: "Bema, Éothain. We are strangers…".

"Half of the girls you bedded were strangers. I bet you can't even remember all their names", he rightfully pointed out.

"This is different!", he retorted. "She's my wife, she's young, she's a virgin and knowing Gondor, she probably has no clue as to what happens in a bedroom between a man and a woman. No, it is for the best to wait".

Éothain snorted: "If you think she'll ever welcome you in her bed, then you'll wait for the eternity. Which is why, if I were you, I'd prepare myself for a long, very long chastity and f…".

The arrival of Runhild put an abrupt end to Éothain's ranting and Éomer mentally thanked the girl: things were already bad as they were and Éothain's cynicism was definitely unnecessary.

"My Lord, the Lady Lothíriel has decided to have supper in the bedroom…".

"No way, who would have guessed!", Éothain declared, mocking a shocked expression. "Éomer, I'd purchase some Gondorian chairs if I were you. Maybe they would be fit for her royal…".

He slammed his mug on the table: "Enough!".

Runhild winced, her eyes shifting nervously between him and Éothain: "It's…it's just that the Lady is very tired and so…so she thought…".

"It's alright, Runhild", he reassured her as he stood up. "Do me a favor and tell Meregith I'll eat in my study".

Ignoring Éothain's glares, Éomer crossed the Hall: one more spiteful remark, and he would have thrown him out of the hall. As if things weren't already complicated enough, as if he hadn't enough problems: orcs raiding the land, herds decimated, harvests destroyed, the King growing weaker by the day, a wife he had not wanted, whom hated him and would probably welcome the day an orc would finally manage to put his filthy sword through him. Now Éothain as well!

Open war is upon us, Éomer. We need to strengthen our ties with Gondor, his cousin had told him, only a few months back. Grima had found many grounds to oppose the idea of a wedding between Théodred and Lothíriel, but there hadn't been much he could say about him. He wasn't going to sit on the throne and though related to the King, he was but a Marshall. Indeed, marrying a Princess of Gondor was something that in normal circumstances would have been considered way beyond his reach. In normal circumstances, he would have been left free to decide who to marry and when.

But there was nothing normal in the times they were living in and if there was even the slightest chance that marrying Lothíriel might have helped Rohan one day, how could have he ever refused his cousin? No: Théodred was right. With the enemy slowly but inexorably closing on them, they needed all the help they could get.

That was the only reason why he had agreed to the wedding and the day he had met Imrahil, he had even dared hoping that his marriage with Lothíriel wouldn't have been a total catastrophe. He seemed a good man, had welcomed him warmly to his house and, unlike most of the Gondorians he knew, he hadn't looked down upon him. His son Elphir and his nephew Boromir too, had left him with a positive impression. Surely the daughter of such man couldn't be that bad.

The moment he had seen her, he had immediately understood his mistake.

She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever met. There was a tinge of green in her grey eyes: framed by long lashes and black eyebrows, they were almost hypnotic, unsettling. Unlike most Gondorian women she was quite tall, surely taller than his own sister. And she moved around with such grace, that it almost looked as if her feet never touched the ground, as if she was floating.

Floating, yes: a few inches above them all.

Indeed, his appreciation for her aesthetics hadn't lasted longer than the blink of an eye. She had greeted him with polite words but the disdain, the loathing in her eyes had been impossible to miss. It was everywhere: in the way she looked at him, in the way she would always put some distance between them, as if his mere presence by her side might have spoiled her refined beauty, in the way sometimes she would abruptly disappear, as if taken by a sudden urge of being as far as possible form him and his men.

He had seen the discomfort and the embarrassment in Imrahil's eyes, he had seen him dragging her aside, no doubt to scold her for her behavior. She hadn't cared. Actually, she had looked at him the same way. His words hadn't had any effects and not even during the ceremony, had she had the decency of giving it a break. Imrahil had tried to apologize for her: this was all very unexpected for her, I'm sure she will see reason.

She hadn't so far and he doubted she ever would.

What was most infuriating wasn't the way she looked at him. That he could take, he could blame it on the fact she was forced into that marriage: who knows, maybe she had wanted to marry someone else and was forced to do otherwise. It was a hatred he could understand.

No: it was the way she looked at everybody else that was infuriating. The way her eyes had scanned his men head to toes, as if they were disposable goods. The way she had stared at the villagers, as if afraid their simple manners and dirty clothes could be contagious. The way she had eyed every house, every building, as if they were nothing more than a pile of shit she had been forced to step on.

No wonder Éothain thought even Sorrun a better choice. And though he had been the only one to speak plainly, he was fairly sure that every single person who had been lucky enough to make Lothíriel's acquaintance thought the same. But what could he do now? They were married: married according to the Gondorian law and to the Rohirric one. There was no turn back, they were stuck together whether they liked it or not!

A knock on the door interrupted his brooding: Meregith entered the room and as soon as the smell of roasted pork and potatoes reached his nose, his stomach rumbled. He grinned but was rewarded with a frown: "What is it?".

She didn't answer, instead placing the plates in front of him, her movements frantic.

"Meregith?", he called her, bracing himself for another unpleasant conversation.

She threw her arms in the air: "Who does she think she is?".

Éomer sighed: if that was how his days were going to be from now on, he might as well deliberately fall on the sword of the next orc. "What happened?".

"She arrives, starts bestowing orders without even caring for being introduced to the household, she retreats to your bedroom and find any possible reason to complain: the water is not enough, the water is too cold, the water is too hot, the scent is not to her liking, the food is too heavy, the ale is bitter. When she is done, she orders Runhild out and slams the door behind her!".

"I will speak to her".

"Ah! And you think she will listen?!".

Éomer rubbed his eyes: "First Éothain, now you. Meregith, please: have mercy".

"I held your mother's hand when you came into this world, Éomer. You're too good for the likes of her, you deserve better. You deserve a woman who would welcome you home after a long day and make you forget about all the awful things happening outside of these walls".

He smiled: "Doesn't everybody deserve such luck?".

"I don't care about everybody, I care about you. She will make your life, our lives, impossible".

"Maybe she just needs some time to come to terms with her new…situation", he tried to put in, his voice unconvinced.

"Maybe. Meanwhile, I guess I shall better prepare one of the guest chambers for you".

The sun had not risen yet when Lothiriel eventually decided to get up.

Not that she was used to waking up early: in fact, back in Dol Amroth she had never woken up early. But there was a limit to the number of hours she could spend tossing from one side of the bed to the other, wishing desperately to catch some much-needed sleep while being simply too restless to catch any at all.

She pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders as she walked towards the window: it was a moonless night, the streets were dark and empty, the city still asleep. The unmistakable call of an owl broke the silence but all Lothíriel could see, was a shadow flying fast above the roofs of the city.

Sighing deeply, she retreated to a chair and sat down.

She looked around: Aldburg's master bedroom, meaning her husband's bedroom, was the most impersonal room she had ever seen. Despite being huge, it had only a few furniture - a giant bed, a couple of chests, a desk with two chairs, an armour stand. The dark walls were completely unadorned and there seemed to be absolutely nothing to account for her husband's previous presence in the room: no books, no letters, no personal belongings, no clothing around. Nothing.

She thought back of her room in Dol Amroth: dozens of carefully stored books, a block of white paper and a box full of charcoal for her sketches, two elegantly carved wooden cases where she kept her correspondence – one for her cousin's letters, the other for her aunt's, paintings on the walls, a neatly organized vanity, two big closets… Much of who she was and what she liked, could be easily guessed by just looking at her room. But then: what did that empty room tell her about her husband? What type of man was he?

In a sense, she already knew.

Arranging their wedding had taken months of negotiation, of couriers hurrying to and from the palace of Dol Amroth; dozens of letters had been exchanged, details agreed upon, and yet not him - nor her father, had thought it sensible to inform her. Not until the very last moment, at least.

What time of man marries that way? What time of man does not wish to be introduced to his wife before the wedding, even if just in writing? What type of man rides in the city one day, marries the next and departs on the following? What time of man answers with a dry I have no time to spare in Gondor, when his wife of just a few hours asks him for a couple extra days before leaving her family behind? What type of man allows his riders to make fun of his bride without saying a word?

Her father might have called him horselord, her father might have called him an honorable man, but she could see no lord and surely nothing honorable about him.

Nor about her father, for the matter: he had always been her hero, the rock behind which she could find shelter from any storm, the one she could trust with her life, because he loved her and because he would have never betrayed her, he would have never forced her into something she did not wish for herself. Even though combined weddings were normal among Gondorian nobility and very rarely women could afford the luxury of choosing the man with whom they would spend the rest of their life, she had always thought that such fate would not have been bestowed upon her. Because with three older brothers the succession of the House of Dol Amroth had never been her concern, but most importantly because she had never wished to marry. While normal girls of her age dreamed about it, she had never cared for it and her father knew it, her father had never pressed her. And so for years she had given for granted that she would have been left free of doing whatever she wanted with her life, just like her beloved aunt.

There had been no sign, no clue of what was going to happen. Apart from the sudden appearance of those foreign-looking couriers, with their green cloaks and unusual blonde hair, that is. But she had never cared for her father's political undertakings, hadn't even asked who they were, why they were there.

She wondered: had she asked him, would have him told her the truth? Would have he admitted what he was planning for her and given her some time to prepare for what was to come, to bid farewell to her life as she had always known it?

Probably not. And for that, she hated him.

She remembered clearly his words: a horse fit for the bride of a Horselord.

Yes, for all his supposed wisdom, for all his supposed sensitivity, that was how her father, the mighty Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, had chosen to tell her that she was to marry a Marshall of Rohan. He had summoned her to stables, pointed at the most beautiful mare she had ever seen, smiled at her and whispered in her ear: a horse fit for the bride of a Horselord.

Valar, at first she hadn't even understood who he had been speaking about! Who's marrying? Which Horselord?

So stupid, so naïve!

The moment she had understood the she was the bride and a Rohirrim the Horselord, she had cried. Oh, if she had cried! She had yelled, she had screamed, she had cursed her father, but nothing had managed to make him change his mind. Desperate, she had run back to her room with the intention of locking herself inside and never come out, not until all that madness had ended. But once there, she had been despaired at finding Gaeril already busy packing her belongings. She had tried to stop her, she had teared the dresses from her hands, pulled the gowns out of the chests and back into her closets. To no avail: for each dress she would pull out, two more would be put in.

It had been then that it had first happened.

Faced with the irreversibility of her father's decision and with the fact that there was nothing she could do to escape her faith, she had felt a rush of panic surging through her veins, the kind of which she had never experienced before. Hidden in a dark pantry – the first empty room she had come across, she had gasped for air, she had felt her heartbeat accelerating to the point she had thought she would have simply died. But she hadn't and instead, an uncontrollable sobbing had shaken her body.

She didn't know for how long she had cried, for how long she had stayed in that tiny room: all she knew was that by the time she had finally managed to muster enough courage and strength to get out, the sun had already set and the whole Palace was in uproar, thinking she had run off to escape the wedding.

Ah, now that would have been a smart idea! But who did she want to fool: she was but a Princess and she wouldn't have lasted one day on her own.

Over the course of the following days, twice more it had happened: twice more she had felt that sudden rush of heat creeping up her neck, twice more she had found herself reduced to a shaking mess, barely able to draw enough breath to keep alive, twice more she had been forced to hide in the most improbable places, least someone might have seen her. For the whole length of the journey to Rohan, she had been terrified by the idea that it might have happened again. Only then, she would have had no place to hide, everybody would have seen her. She had spent her days trying to keep that awful little monster inside her at bay, focusing on anger rather than sadness because somehow, some why, that seemed to be the only deterrent she had.

But in the loneliness of that big, dark, empty room, it was so damn hard to do so…

Author's notes: so here I am with another story!

I had meant to start posting it much earlier, but life has been busy and although I had the story pretty much outlined in my head, I found it very difficult to write it down. I had planned on waiting until I had a few chapters ready before starting to post it, but eventually changed my mind. To Grow Into Love was my very first attempt at writing a fanfic (let alone in English) but I quickly realized that reviews were beyond motivating and that they truly helped me in making the story better (hope so at least). So in the end I figured I should better start posting the story immediately and see how it goes!

It goes without saying that updates will be slow (haven't yet written chapter 2…). But as I already said in the past: I never leave things unfinished so even though it might take some time, I am committed to complete this story.

As it's probably already clear at this point, this story is very different from my previous one but hopefully will turn out into something nice. This chapter might have been a bit confusing and without much characters' interactions, but I thought it was needed in order to set a few key aspects in place. If you have suggestions of any kind, I'd me more than happy to read them! Once more, I'd like to remind you that I'm not a native English speaker and that mistakes are to be expected. If there is any interested Beta out there, I'd be glad to get in touch!

As for me, end of last year I finally managed to realize a long-time dream of mine and spent a few weeks travelling across New Zealand. All I will say is that it truly is a breathtaking country with some of the kindest, friendliest people I have ever met. In fact, I'm fairly sure I left a little – maybe not so little, piece of my heart down there!