This is where the supernatural touch comes in...any text in italics is either a memory or a dream or both....sometimes it's clear which, sometimes it's not, but that was the point at the time I wrote it XD
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Lothiriel was halfway up the high hill, in a land she did not know. The sky was an odd shade between black and violet, the color of shadows. Lighting crashed above her head, eerily soundless. Her heart did not seem to beat, her head too numb to even be afraid. She could only climb the hill, her feet stumbling along the hard, packed earth.
Coming to the top, she could see a great span of land in all directions. And in the East, the cloud that had been black for so many years was blood red. Lothiriel gasped...
"It hasn't happened yet." A voice said. She looked beside her...to see her father. But she was not surprised. The wind, ice cold, blew at his long hair, and he seemed.... much younger then she remembered him. His eyes didn't leave the waving grasses below them, where orcs crept, unaware of the two.
"But it might yet." He looked at her then. "You'll have to let him go, Lothy." He reached out and touched her face. "Both of them." Squinting into the distance, she could barely see the burnt remains of a once great city, set upon a hill. And them a beam of lightening crashed before their eyes, and Lothiriel was blinded...
Her eyes flew open, looking around wildly as she fought for a gulp of air. When it came, she sat up, safe in her own bed. Morning was just touching the sea outside of her windows, glassed for the winter. She shut her eyes, breathing easier. She rubbed her hands together...the feel of the dusty hill still lingered.
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Summer had long since passed, and now, at the end of February and in the early days of March, Lothiriel had gotten used to waking up from nightmares. Sometimes she saw her mother, sometimes Edemer, but most often her father. What had he been trying to say these weeks? She sighed, banishing it from her mind for the time being.
After dressing, she went to her mirror and brushed her thick dark hair up and pinned it. It was not a common style, but one only a grown woman could wear. As soon as the weather had gotten too chilly for her taste, Lothiriel had started wearing her hair up instead of letting it blow free. She was nearly 7 months past 18, and if she had no ring to show for it, she had her upswept hair. With a rueful smirk to the looking glass, she left the room.
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There were always whispers now, ever since the few days before when Helm's Deep had been rumored attacked. Rumored. In Lothiriel's dreams, she had seen a glimpse of the battle. "Did you hear my lady?" One of the handmaidens passed her saying, "The rumor confirmed, The Rohirrim were indeed attacked in force, yet they overcame the enemy!"
Lothiriel gave a small smile to the young girl. "Yes, I have heard." And she hurried on, to avoid anymore talk of such things...
Deliann looked up at Lothiriel with tired eyes, as the girl came and sat at the foot of her Aunt's bed. Deliann tried to smile...but it was forced. Lothiriel took her pale, thin hand.
"How are you feeling?" She whispered, smile never leaving her face, "Tired, my child." The Lady replied with a sigh. "Always tired..." She weakly reached up to touch her niece's face. "You have not been sleeping?"
"Dreams." Lothiriel shook her head. "Only dreams."
"You are stronger then I." Deliann smiled again, dropping her hand. "But then, you always did take after your mother...and Eodier..." She coughed.
"Where is my Uncle?" Lothiriel asked, steering the conversation. Deliann blinked slowly, "Tending to business." She said softly. "You can probably find him in his council room."
"My thanks." Lothiriel bent to kiss her brow, noting at how her hair was touched with more grey then it had been in months. "Be well, Deliann."
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Imrahil had asked her before if she had been sleeping well, but Lothiriel had avoided the question. Now, she decided, it may be best to tell him. She went to the kitchens to grab a hurried breakfast, bread and tea, the latter she carried along with her through the halls. Not that her body really cared for food, it cared for answers.
At the council room entrance she stopped. Edemer was there, leaning against the wall, looking over at Imrahir. Imrahir stood on the other side of the room; arms folded his fist covering his mouth as he looked at his father. Imrahil was behind his great desk, reading a letter in his hand, bearing a seal of Denethor.
Lothiriel's footsteps caused him to look up suddenly, and the look in his eyes was one she had hoped to never ever see. The letter...the boys...she gasped, her cup falling to shatter on the stone floor...
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He watched the ocean. He hadn't really had the heart for much else. The ocean was like the grasses; you could look at them forever. He hadn't thought it would be so. But as usual, he had been wise in heeding Eomund's words. The sea worked hard at healing the pain in his heart. Though Eodier doubted he would ever really be the same. From his spot on the dunes, he took a deep breath of the salty air. He remembered Theodwyn regarding him with a worried eye, much as he imagined his mother might have. Never mind that Theodwyn was a few years his junior. She had balanced her two-year-old son Eomer on her hip, and reached out to hug him farewell. The ocean would do him well. It had taken all that was in him to give her a semi-reassuring smile. Do not worry, he would be fine. And then Eomund, his father's dear friend despite their difference in age, had clapped his shoulder in friendship...though his eyes could hardly meet those of his friend's son. And then Eodier had left...
"My brother invites you to dine with us, Lord Eodier." A soft voice brought him back from his thoughts. He glanced up, to see the gentile eyes of Imrahil's young sister regarding him. Lethemine her name was, he remembered. She was a mite on the thin side, he thought absently, looking back to the water. "I thank his Lordship for the invite, but I think I must decline." He replied quietly. Lethemine nodded. "And pray do not call me by any title, my Lady. My family is not of noble blood."
"Your family is sworn to the friendship of our distant kinsman." The young princess reminded him, in her quiet way. "That is enough for my brother."
"Your brother is too kind." Eodier murmured, pushing long hair from his face as the ocean wind picked up. Lethemine slowly dropped to the grass beside him, still watching him closely.
"You loved your father very much." She stated softly, and Eodier turned to look at her. Slender and said to be frail, she had a boldness he'd never thought to look for in one of Gondor's women. With grey blue eyes, she simply looked back at him, a slight smile on her lips. For the first time in weeks, Eodier felt himself smiling true, though it was small.
"Yes..." He whispered, looking back at the sea. "He was all I had to my family...and I couldn't save him." The smile faded, "I don't deserve any title, princess."
In the grass, he felt her slim hand come to rest on his. He met her eyes again, looking at him closely, honestly. "I know you are noble." She told him, "It is in your eyes. You deserve whatever honor is given." She brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes...he knew from those sea colored eyes that she meant what she said.
"Thank you." He told her, and Lethemine smiled fully. And it was then he knew he loved her....
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Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time
And I wondered why.
As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea
A vision came o'er me
Of thundering hooves and beating wings
In clouds above.
As you turned to go I heard you call my name,
You were like a bird in a cage spreading its wings to fly
"The old ways are lost," you sang as you flew
And I wondered why.
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She was in the great room, where she had learned to wield a blade as well as Edemer and Imrahir. It was the only place where there were none who would pull her into the chaos above, or so she had thought. "Lothy?" She looked up from holding her old sword. Edemer was looking at her seriously, his sword at his hip. "Uncle has asked to speak to us."
Lothiriel frowned. "What does he need my audience for?" she asked, only a touch of disdain in her voice, "I have little say in these matters."
Edemer's look went a bit softer, and he reached out to take her arm. "I don't know little sister, but come along anyway." He tried to give her a reassuring grin, and she tried to return it. But they both knew the other was just as scared as they were.
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When they entered the council room, Imrahil looked up, the lines of worry on his face deeper, and yet his eyes told them he was brave in the face of Gondor's enemy. Lothiriel held her head a bit higher, trying to look as if she was just as assured. The Prince smiled, though a bit sadly. She noticed he was looking at both of them in a rather tender way, as if remembering something from long ago.
After a moment, he walked to one of his great chests that stood against the far wall. They were old, those chests, no doubt having been there since before Imrahil had even been born, but always there was something put in them the last generation had not. They had carried the treasures of many a Dol Amroth Lord. Now, Imrahil took from one of them something wrapped in paper, and returned to his desk, resting the covered item there. He looked at it for another long moment, Lothiriel and her brother glancing at each other, waiting for their Uncle to speak. He look up at them, again with that sad smile.
"You've been told much of your mother these eight years you've dwelt in my home." He said at last, and Lothiriel nodded. "Very little has been said of your father." He sighed, suddenly seeming far older then his fifty-seven years. "And so I shall tell you of him, of Eodier son of Edemer." Edemer looked up from staring at the floor with a start.
Imrahil nodded, "Yes boy, you were named after your grandfather, a fine soldier of Rohan. He was a dear friend to my far kinsman, Eomund, Marshal of the Mark. It is said that Edemer saved Eomund from drowning when he was a boy, and that, despite your grandfather being much older, they became good friends. Such that when Edemer's first and only son was born, he carried a name of Eomund's line, Eodier. Your grandmother died shortly after your father's birth, and so Edemer took to the plains of Rohan more and more of missing her. He was always said to be a quiet man, and a wise one...it is he who is credited with more then once countering the hot temper of his younger friend. They were always at each other's side, one to defend the other in times of war and battle. Their friendship was strong, unwavering, well known."
Imrahil took a breath, remembering what had been told to him, "One day...seven years before Eomund's death I think it was...there were Orcs about Rohan's borders and well, Eomund could not be stopped from riding out to meet them. Edemer followed him, of course, to fight at his side. Your father, at 35 years old, rode as well, as he had been for years by then. Edemer fell...in his son's arms."
Lothiriel stifled a gasp. She had...never imagined such. They had always been told that their grandfather had died of his heart giving way. Imrahil went on. "Eodier came here...seeking solace, healing. You know how he met my sister, and wed her, and went to live in the mountains as his mother's people had. He could not bear to go back to Edoras, to the Golden Hall, without his father there."
Slowly, Imrahil unwrapped the item he had taken from the chest, and without a word, Edemer found himself reaching to touch the rich green fabric the paper revealed. It came unrolled on the desk...a banner, not too big, and green as the grass met their eyes. A white horse danced upon it, and Lothiriel knew it to be the standard of Rohan. But unlike the standard, behind the horse there was a sword, it's hilt held by two hands on either side. A sign of friendship. Of loyalty. "A blade shared..." Imrahil said, "A fate shared. When I ride to Minas Tirith, my sister son, you will be at my side...but should proclaim your own legacy proudly."
Edemer looked at his uncle, standing up straight, holding his head high, bravely. Lothiriel touched his hand, her heart feeling as if it were being torn, and yet...her other hand touched the banner. Their history, their loyalty...their country. She took on her brother's brave face. If he could be as strong as their father and grandfather had been...well, then so could she.
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