Important Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any works by J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema.
I just admire them and try to live by their values. (The good values. Not the covetous weird values, gollum! Gollum, sez I!))
This story is about the courtship and marriage of Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil, Lord of Dol Amroth. She marries Éomer in the last year of the Third Age, two years after the events described in Return of the King.
My sincere thanks to those of you who have read or indeed reviewed my other story 'Memories of Lorien'.
Also thanks to 'Blue Iris' for giving me some much needed background info on Eomer's grandparents…
Chapter 1 – The Fruits of Victory
It was the day of the King's wedding.
The graceful presence of Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of her people, had filled the hearts of all present with a serenity most welcome after the darkness and fear wrought by the Dark Lord and his war. To them she was the embodiment of the grace and beauty they had been fighting to preserve. Aragorn, the new King of Gondor, took his bride's hand with undisguised joy.
'My people,' he intoned, ' I present to you my beloved bride, your Queen, Arwen Undómiel daughter of Elrond!'
The crowd erupted into applause, the calm beauty of Arwen had won everyone over days ago. Only the Lord Elrond Halfelven allowed any sign of sorrow to cross his features. But everyone knew that his joy was marred with foreknowledge of a parting that would endure beyond the ending of time. For Arwen, his most beloved daughter, had forsaken the immortal life of her kind to join with Aragorn and unite again a bloodline that had been sundered since Elrond's brother, Elros, had made the choice to be of the race of Men and so became the first King of Númenor. Aragorn, as a descendant of that noble line in which ran the blood of Lúthien Tinúviel, was indeed a worthy husband for Arwen. And all knew it that saw them thus together. Indeed it seemed that in their union there was a light of such belonging and blessedness that could never be equalled elsewhere.
Almost everyone thought so.
Almost everyone.
Lothíriel fidgeted furiously. She wanted to look away from the happy couple, but against her will her gaze was drawn inexorably back to the King. How handsome he looked! Such a portrait of nobility as was told of in the Elder Days. Days long gone, but not forgotten by those who lived in the shadow of the memories of the West and all it had once meant.
He should have been mine! she thought heatedly, plucking at the lace shawl around her slim shoulders. She tore her gaze away yet again only to have in dragged back as Aragorn held aloft his bride's slender white hand. The crowd applauded once more.
Could she not have found a husband amongst her own haughty people? thought Lothíriel resentfully.
She pushed to the back of her mind the truth that her own family claimed descent from the Eldar of the distant past. It was a fact borne out in the physical characteristics of many people now living in Belfalas, uncommonly tall as they were with sea-grey eyes and the men were generally beardless, a true sign of elven heritage. It was a fact her father never let her forget and now she bitterly resented him for it. 'You must remember that your lineage is that of the Eldar and the Edain,' he never tired of telling her, 'and you will make a marriage that will reflect and honour that fact.'
When Prince Imrahil returned victorious from the Pelennor Fields, Lothíriel had been relieved beyond measure. The growing darkness had terrified the stoutest of hearts and many thought the end of their world was nigh. The way her father had held her and kissed her forehead before he left had frightened Lothíriel and the tales filtering back from the Last Battle had done nothing to alleviate that fear. When he told her of the miraculous return, unlooked and un-hoped for, of Isildur's Heir, Lothíriel's heart had leaped. Surely this was the man foretold to be her own. Surely he was the only one it was fitting for her to wed!
Prince Imrahil spoke on telling her of the final victory and the ending of the power of the Dark Lord but Lothíriel was impatient for details of her future husband. When they came, she had run to her chamber to be alone and quell the fury that rose within her. Aragorn was already betrothed! He would marry as soon as his bride arrived from Imladris. She would not even have the chance of charming him!
Her future lay in ruins…unless…unless she wed her cousin the Steward of Gondor! It had not been a thought she had entertained previously, but needs must! Faramir, the younger son of Denethor, the thought of him had kept her afloat during the ghastly visit to Minas Tirith for the royal wedding. Denethor's line was noble and the vigour of Númenor ran strongly in his family. It would be an honourable match if not the glorious one she had hoped for and Lothíriel breathed easier when she thought of it.
Grateful for the idea of Faramir, Lothíriel cast her gaze about, searching for him in the crowd. At last she spied him, not far off, he was talking to someone and smiling.
'Who is that?' Lothíriel asked sharply of her father.
'Who is who, my dear?'
'That long-haired savage-looking woman fawning over the Steward,' answered Lothíriel impatiently, smoothing back her own sleek dark hair, which today she wore in a modest knot at the nape of her neck.
She did not see her father turn white or notice the expression of horror on his face.
A tall armoured man in front of them stirred at her words and turned a curious eye on her but Lothíriel ignored him. Come to think of it, he looked rather savage too with his red gold hair and darker beard. His armour was all of red and copper and bore the device of a white horse. She started as he opened his mouth and addressed her. She turned to her father for aid, but his face was in his hands in an agony of embarrassment.
'Allow me to enlighten you,' said the stranger, courteously enough, 'that is Éowyn, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. She stood alone against the mighty Witch King of Angmar and defeated him. She is a lady of great courage and I am proud to call her my sister! Oh, and she does not fawn…'
Lothíriel felt the blood rush to her face as the stranger stopped speaking and turned back to the spectacle.
Her father spoke up with a hint of wry amusement in his eyes, 'Éomer! Heed not the words of a young and foolish girl. Let them not make enemies where once there were the fastest of friends!' he cried in mock dramatic tones.
Éomer, for he it was that had spoken, turned then and took Imrahil's outstretched hand, grinning widely.
'Well met, Prince Imrahil! I had heard the tales of the ladies of Belfalas that my grandmother, the Lady Morwen, had to tell,' Éomer said genially, casting a mischievous look at the stricken Lothíriel 'but in truth the sweetness of their words was esteemed too highly!' He smiled at Lothíriel and she felt a surge of angry shame that choked her voice. In fact she was silently vowing never to open her lips again. Those disconcerting green eyes bored into hers and Lothíriel wished she had the power of invisibility.
As a result of her shock she was slow to realise the meaning of what Éomer had just said. Lothíriel winced anew as his words sank in through the fog of embarrassment. Morwen…a lady of Belfalas…could he mean Morwen of Lossernach?
Lothíriel quailed internally. She knew now she had erred even more terribly than she had first thought. To insult a man's sister was bad enough, but now made even worse when they were distant cousins of hers!
Lothíriel's attention was momentarily diverted from her shocked realisation by Faramir's laugh as he took Éowyn's hand in a loving clasp. He bent down to say something to her and Lothíriel could see a smile soften her face.
'I'm sorry, Father,' murmured Lothíriel faintly, 'I should not have spoken so disrespectfully. Forgive me…' Her voice trailed uncertainly as Éomer continued to regard her curiously. 'And you , my Lord Éomer,' she continued though her voice was fading, 'please accept my apologies for slighting your noble sister.' Lothíriel sighed and bit her lip, drowning in an unpleasant mix of bitterness and mortification. Why did Éomer keep staring at her?
Suddenly unable to endure any more, Lothíriel closed her eyes against Éomer's gaze and the far more cruel sight of her dashed hopes. Aragorn and Faramir were both beyond her now. And not even a chance had she ever had at either of them! Imrahil took her arm, concerned as she slumped slightly against him.
Sight receded from her eyes and Lothíriel sank downwards. All the sounds of the joyous city coalesced into a faint hum as her head fell back. The last thing she remembered were those green eyes looking concerned.
'But Father's eyes are grey,' she thought abstractedly before darkness claimed her fully.