Princess Imelwen was infamous for her superstitions. She adhered to them as she did the laws of the land, and even her husband, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, could not easily ease her mind.

It was almost comical to some—how the princess adhered to her superstitions and the old wives tales. She was more superstitious than oldest sailors of Dol Amroth, and would only sail on certain days and months of the year—and even then, would chart the weather and tides, to determine if it was safe for her boys, the young princes, to even take a walk along the shore.

She would avoid certain foods on certain days, and some days she was sleep facing the west, and other days when she would have the maids turn her bed so she would be facing the south, and so on.

But Prince Imrahil loved her, for all her eccentricities. And they were quite happy.

"Your Highness," one of the ladies of the court of Dol Amroth began, and Princess Imelwen looked up, an expectant smile on her face. "Do you think you will be giving our Lord another son? You are lucky to have had three already."

The other ladies nodded their heads in agreement. Princess Imelwen smiled, smoothing her dress out, caressing her pregnant belly. "I do not know," she said, finally, "But my husband and I hope for a girl. I feel so outnumbered by a husband and three sons…I wish to have a daughter. And of course, His Lordship has expressed his desire to have a daughter to dote on." She smiled again, "But we will see."

The other ladies smiled. "It is true," Lady Melsa said. She was older, and well respected amongst the nobility of Gondor. "The bond between a mother and daughter is special. And you have had three sturdy young boys already—your husband has many heirs, so a daughter would be good. It would be good for your sons to have a little sister to protect and dote on."

Princess Imelwen nodded her head. "Yes, we are in agreement in that."

The princess returned her attention to her needlework, before giving out a gasp of pain, her needlework falling out of her hands onto the floor, as she pressed her hands against the swell of her belly.

The other ladies clambered from their seats, rushing to aid her.

She waved them off, a frown settling on her lips as the pain ebbed, but did not disappear. It was too soon for a healthy birth—she would need to seek out her midwife, to see what had caused the pain. Her husband would disapprove—Prince Imrahil would rather her to use the royal healers, but Princess Imelwen would only trust Dua, the midwife from her childhood home, who had followed the princess to Dol Amroth when the now princess had married Prince Imrahil.

"Forgive me," Imelwen said, rising from her seat. "I must go rest."

She turned, and with the help of her maid, returned to her chambers. She lay in her bed, and waited with much stress until her maid returned with Dua.

"Pain?" Dua asked, approaching Imelwen's bed.

Imelwen nodded. "Yes—it happened so suddenly, and has not dissipated. Surely—"

Dua put up her hands. "Let me see," she said. She placed her hands on Imelwen's belly.

Imelwen continued, as Dua moved her hands across her belly. "It happened to suddenly—I was speaking of how I wanted a daughter…and how good it would be for our sons to have a little sister—" She let out a cry of pain, as the stabbing pain deep inside her increased.

Dua looked at her in concern, before returning to inspecting Imelwen's belly. She used some tools—and even sang a few songs. After some time, the midwife straightened.

"I know what is wrong," she said, a deep frown on her face. "Your child…has a dire doom. If a girl, she will suffer in this world."

Imelwen sat up straighter, shaking her head. "What shall I do?" she gasped, reaching out and grasped Dua's hands. "What shall I do? How can I—how can I prevent this suffering?"

"If a daughter, she will suffer greatly at the hands of men," Dua continued.

Imelwen shook her head harder. "How? How will she suffer?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Through love will she receive the greatest suffering," Dua said, looking grim. "The love of men will be her doom."

Imelwen let out a soft cry as the pain returned, her head falling back against the pillows.

"There is little we can do to prevent it," Dua said. "We cannot play with fate—there is only one outcome to that game."

"I will protect her," Imelwen whimpered, her hands rubbing against her belly, trying to ease the pain. "If I have a daughter, I will protect her."

Dua gazed at her, pity in her eyes, before slowly nodding her head. "You are not in labor yet," she said. "The pain should subside. I will prescribe an herbal tea for you to take three times daily. Rest, for now," Dua said, grasping Imelwen's hand, before leaving.

"I will protect her," Imelwen whispered to herself. "I will protect her."

When Princess Lothíriel was born, they say her mother died from grief at the birth of a daughter.

But before she died, the mother had whispered a spell to the little princess. To many, another one of her superstitions. But her noble and Númenórean blood gave power to her words. And they were whispered into the wind.

"Never trust the love of men."

HHH

TO BE CONTINUED...

Hi! This is a story I've been posting over on Ao3, but forgot to post over here apparently!

I have to admit, this prologue isn't my best work, but I'm quite proud of this story going forward :)

Thanks for reading!

See you soon!