Chapter Seven

Lothmelda


Two hands gently held the stem of a white flower. The delicate petals rustled in the warm breezes like foaming waves ripple on a churning sea. Sunlight fell against the sensitive veins of the petals, and purple shadows played between the dancing flickers of light.

Eldarion twirled the flower around slowly, watching it change attitude slightly from one side to the other. A green leaf brushed the back of his hand, and for a moment he suppressed a laugh. If only his father could know his thoughts at that moment, he would surely laugh wholeheartedly.

The tensions of state had relaxed, and the pain of both his father and mother's parting had lessened with the steady roll of days. Heartache could now find solace in memories and slowly fade away; it would become an undercurrent of daily life. Now there was time to relearn emotions that had been shoved aside. Now the dust could be scrapped from cases filled with passions, hopes, and dreams.

She had returned.

That was all that need be said. Though such a simple sentence, he found such pleasure in repeating it to himself continually. He even allowed himself the thrill of saying it aloud once. No one had heard him; his shaking voice was barely a whisper to echo against the walls of his room. Only the flower was witness to his trivial glee.

This little flower had become a symbol to him. It signified that virtue which he did not allow himself to call by its true name: love. It had long been tradition among the Gondorians, and before them the Numenoreans, that a young man in love would leave one blossom of the creamy white lothmelda on the windowsill of the young lady he admired. If she returned his affections, she would accept the flower. If she dearly cared for him, then she would pin it to the collar of her gown and wear it as a sign of her devotion to him.

Eldarion often found himself enveloped in his own thoughts. Since boyhood he had been introverted; always thinking, always watching, always aware. He was afraid to call himself emotional, yet he was. But now he found it difficult to grasp his own emotions. He was embarrassed with himself for his romantic swing of thought.

Yet it could not be cured. As much as he had always longed to avoid it, he now found himself thinking of the white blossom with twitching nervousness and eagerness. He held one young lady in respect above all others, and he wished her to know how he felt. Frivolous childhood promises sworn to friends with shaggy brown hair and dirt streaked faces now screamed for freedom. He had promised he would never fall victim to a maiden, nor would he ever so much as pluck a white bloom. Now he had cut both chains, and all that wanted was the courage to declare his passion.

He had faltered, though, in the action of carrying out his purpose. For days, no weeks, he had desired to clearly explain his position to her, yet he wavered. He had remembered the lothmelda only the day before, and now it presented a simpler form of expression.

He drew a deep breath. He was tired of being shy. He was tired of being held back by his own lack of courage. He rose suddenly, and resolutely left his room, flower in hand. With steady, quiet steps he walked through the halls of the palace, until at last he reached the wing where the steward's family was residing.

It was only then that Eldarion realized a difficulty in his endeavor. Her room had no window that he could reach. Taken aback somewhat, he stood in the white hall, perplexed. He glanced around nervously, breathing quickly. If he had been much younger, the attitude he now adopted unconsciously was one that a small boy possesses after sneaking a cookie from the kitchen. He felt that he was intruding on ground not his own, that he had taken something which did not belong to him.

This phase passed, though, as soon as he thought of leaving without accomplishing his purpose. That was not an option anymore. It had taken so much to get this far, and now he would not turn back. He had stood on the cliff for so long, and now he had taken the fateful step over the edge. He was plunging into a new world, and no amount of grasping at air would halt his fall or carry him back to the old familiarity and security of the plateau.

Desperate, he began to twirl the flower in his fingers again. His hands shook slightly, and the blossom slipped from his grasp. Time slowed, and he watched it fall for what seemed to be years. At last it hit the cold floor, and after bouncing once rested and was still.

Then it occurred to him. He smiled. It was too simple!

He picked up the lothmelda and carried it to the door of her room. He glanced over his shoulder to assure himself that no one was watching. Then he awkwardly kissed a petal, and laid the bloom gently before her door. He turned, his heart beating far too quickly, and strode resolutely away.

Hours later he sat on the balcony outside his sisters' room. Gilraen sat across from him on the ground, her skirt spread around her in a soft circle. Her fingers worked skillfully at her sewing. Eldarion sat with his back to the railing, his sword on the ground by his side and an open book in his hands. He was not reading, but at least, he reasoned, he appeared to be occupied and not daydreaming. It was a shallow shield; it is very possible his apparently oblivious sister perceived correctly the distant shine and curious question in his eyes.

Suddenly Luthien flew onto the porch. Her face was brilliant, and both brother and sister looked at her expectantly. Luthien was known for bringing them entertaining, if perhaps not authentic, bits of gossip. The look on her face and the fluttery carriage of her self caused them to suspect some such display of knowledge. They were not disappointed.

"You will never believe it!" she giggled.

Eldarion repressed a desire to roll his eyes, but chose rather to smile and cock his head questioningly.

"Yes?" Gilraen asked calmly.

"Theodwyn has a lover!"

Eldarion bit his lip and clenched his hand on the book. Gilraen was not effected.

"Well? Say something!" Luthien shrieked.

Gilraen cared not for the news, but found her sister's excitement to be humorous.

"Who, may I inquire, is this suitor of the steward's daughter?" she asked politely

Eldarion swallowed nervously.

"She said she is not sure, but I don't believe her. She walks around with a spring in her step and a smile on her face, and her eyes say more than her mouth. She is obviously very pleased by the situation."

"How did you discover this, sister?" asked Gilraen.

"I happened to walk past her room, and the door was open. I peered inside, hoping to find her. She was seated at the window, and she held a white blossom."

"Lothmelda?" asked Gilraen.

"Indeed, it is true. Then, of course, I prodded her to tell me about it, but she was as silent as – as you are now, brother. Why do you not talk? Is it not fascinating?"

Eldarion cleared his throat. Gilraen eyed him with suspicion, though Luthien was oblivious to the sensitivity of the question she had just asked.

"Yes, fascinating," he replied in a cracked voice.

Luthien was appeased. She turned back to her sister, but Gilraen continued to watch her brother.

"She will not wear it, you know. She put it in a vase in her window. I asked her why in Valinor she does not wear the thing, but she said she cannot until she is certain who left it for her. I dearly hope she finds out soon, for it is such a shame to be loved and not know who to love in return."

"Quite a predicament, indeed," Gilraen replied. She looked again at Eldarion, but he seemed engrossed in his reading. Except for that tell-tale quivering of his hands she would have dropped her curiosity. But as his hands did quake, she felt she knew the answer to the riddle. Wisely she kept her thoughts to herself.

As soon as Luthien left them Eldarion rose and said he must leave as well. Gilraen bid him good-night, and then he left in a preoccupied hurry. She smiled to herself.

Eldarion approached the steward's wing once more. This time he bypassed Theodwyn's door, and walked instead to the door of her father's study. He was resolved to continue on the road he had begun to tread. He realized that he could not first go to Theodwyn, he must follow protocol and speak with her father.

A steady gleam of yellow light slipped from below the door, indicating that he was inside. Eldarion's head throbbed with a million doubts and reasons to turn away and hide in his room. His heart hurt the inside of his chest, and his hands became cold and sweaty. He rubbed them together and tapped his teeth nervously.

He never remembered how long he stood there in the silent hall; it was dark and fear sent tingles up and down his spine. At long last, when he felt near exploding or crying aloud or retreating in shame, he raised his fist and knocked on the door.

What he does remember is that when he knocked, Barahir opened the door and greeted him with a smile and warm hand on the shoulder.

"My lord king! How good of you to come see me. Come in, come in."

Eldarion walked into the well-lit room, and the door closed behind him. Now there could be no turning back.

Dear readers,

Wow, it's been so long since I last updated. I'm sorry! I've been swamped with college classes, new people, new food, new surroundings, new everything... I just haven't had any time for my writing. –sigh-- Even now I should be working on an essay and studying for a midterm in theater...

But, anyway, here it is at last: The Long-Awaited Chapter Seven! Please read and review! I hope it's okay.

Thanks for all your encouragement and support! I truly appreciate it! You guys make it all worthwhile!

--Vané Alasse--