Author's Note: Guys, thanks so much for you kind reviews! It makes sharing this story with you an absolute delight :)
I do want to address one review, that brought up a very valid point, though. You'll notice in the previous chapter, and in a number of chapters going forward, that I've made slight tweaks to the canon timeline. This is intentional, and I promise it has plot-related importance if it diverges from canon. I've read the books more times than is healthy, and have the movies (the extended editions, Mama didn't raise no fool) pretty much memorized.
Anyways, onward! Here be dinner parties, annoying siblings, and revised first impressions ;)
CHAPTER THREE
The dawn grows brighter each morning, but it seems brightest on the morn that the armies finally move into view across the Pelennor Fields. Everyone gathers in the main courtyard in a great crush, but there is too much joy for anyone to complain about the press of people. Lothiriel finds herself wedged between her mother and Eowyn, with Faramir standing sentinel on her other side.
The great gates swing open, revealing the victors.
King Elessar leads the way, with Eomer King to his left, Mithrandir to his right. There is the Elven prince of the Woodland Realm not too far behind, with a Dwarf riding with him; part of the Fellowship that Pippin had told her so much about.
Grand as they all are, it is not these great heroes that she longs to see.
Naneth gives a small cry and Lothiriel follows her gaze: Ada is just behind the first line, flanked by Amrothos, Erchirion, and the rest of the Swan Knights. It has been months since she's seen her brothers, and despite the grime on their armor and the dirt on their faces, she's never been happier to see them.
Eowyn has already broken into a sprint towards her own brother, who swings down to meet her with a warm expression. If the White Lady, slayer of the Witch-King of Agmar, can run to her brother, why should Lothiriel not run to hers?
So, she does, despite Naneth's sigh and Faramir's scarcely muffled chuckle.
Erchirion spots her first and his face breaks into a great grin. He elbows Amrothos, who all but shoots up in the saddle, beaming. She reaches them at the same moment they step down from their horses and then she has an arm around both of their necks, her face pressed uncomfortably against one of each's shoulders, and Lothiriel feels as though her heart will burst with joy.
"Who is this beautiful lady, Erchirion?" Amrothos asks, though she can hear the tears there, and feels his hand, gentle at the back of her head. "Surely it is not our dear Thiri, grown up at last?"
"You must have rattled something loose with that fall of yours, brother," Erchirion answers, sounding as close to tears as Lothiriel feels, "for this can be none other than our own Lothiriel."
"You are both horrible teases," she sniffles, leaning back to smile at both of them. Unable to stop herself, she lays a hand on one of each of her brother's cheeks and winces at the stubble she finds there. "Honestly, you two, did they have no razors in a soldier's camp?"
"We return after a great victory and our sweet sister asks of our shaving habits!" Amrothos cries. "I think you have not missed us at all, Lothiriel."
"I have missed you more than I can possibly express," Lothiriel says, suddenly serious. "Did...did you miss me?"
Amrothos looks stricken but Erchirion-intuitive, kind Erchirion-sweeps her into another hug, tucking her head under his chin. "Of course we did, Thiri. Though I cannot say we wished you with us, after all we have seen."
"I am certainly glad you were safe in Dol Amroth, and then in the Houses," Ada says, interrupting their reunion with a fond smile. "But I do not think Lothiriel is the only princess of Dol Amroth who has missed you, my sons."
Amrothos hurries off in the direction Lothiriel came from, towards their mother, but Erchirion keeps Lothiriel's hand tucked into the crook of his elbow before they follow their brother. Ada falls into step beside them. Lothiriel steps back to allow Naneth her own moment to greet her sons; she smiles as their mother fusses over them, tutting over Erchirion's unruly beard and the new scar on Amrothos's cheek.
Someone clears their throat to her left and Lothiriel turns, expecting Faramir or mayhaps Pippin, who she'd spotted riding with Gandalf. Instead it is the king of Rohan, looking somewhat uncomfortable. It suits him much less than his towering anger the first time she'd met him, and for a moment, Lothiriel is at a loss for words.
They stare at each other, and with a jolt she realizes that his eyes are not the light green of his sister's, but rather a brown as dark as her own. They're much nicer looking when not fixing me with a frightening glare, Lothiriel thinks, and wonders what they would look like in a smile, instead.
Shaking the thought from her head, she offers him a tentative smile. "Can I help you, my lord?"
"I owe you an apology, my lady," he says, startling her again. "I should not have spoken to a princess so."
She starts to nod-her anger at him has dulled to a low boil, for after all her brothers would have been equally protective if they'd encountered someone they believed intended their sister insult-and then she blinks. Processes.
"Do you mean to say," Lothiriel says slowly, narrowing her eyes at him as her chin juts up of its own accord, "that it would have been acceptable to speak to me in such a manner if I had been just a healer, and not a princess?"
His face twitches, whether in surprise or guilt she cannot say. "That is not what I meant at all-"
"I would rather hope not, my lord, as either way I would have been owed an apology-"
"Which I am trying to give you-"
"A rather half-hearted one, if I may say so-"
"You-"
"Ah, Eomer," comes Ada's voice, rich with amusement. "I see you've met my youngest."
Lothiriel blushes; she'd forgotten all about her family, standing not three paces away. Amrothos looks hugely amused, Naneth exasperated, and Erchirion's eyebrow is arched in a way that bodes ill for a discussion later.
"We've met before, Imrahil," Eomer explains and she starts at the lack of title. By the Valar, surely her father hadn't befriended him during the march to Mordor?
"In the Houses, if I'm remembering correctly," Amrothos chimes in, looking worryingly smug. "Eomer mistook our Thiri for a healer, badgering poor Lady Eowyn."
"That hardly sounds like something she would do," Erchirion interjects. Lothiriel silently blesses her stable, level-headed brother.
"That sounds exactly like something she would do," Amrothos disagrees, smirking. "I expect our dear sister was desperate for news of the Battle and Lady Eowyn was the only available source."
Lothiriel glares at her youngest brother, feeling her cheeks pink. "I did not-"
"Lady Lothiriel was merely checking on my sister as requested by your cousin, the Steward," the king interrupts, surprising them all. "My original assumption was disproved by Eowyn's own words. I owed your sister an apology."
"Hah!" Amrothos cries. "Good luck getting her to accept it."
"I already have," Lothiriel lies, ignoring the way the king's eyebrows leap towards his hairline.
"Good," comes Eowyn's voice, causing Lothiriel to jump once more. "I should hate for the two of you to be at odds."
The look Eowyn gives her, much like Erchirion's, makes Lothiriel wary.
"Well, the matter is settled then," Ada says smoothly. "I, for one, would like to be out of this armor at last, and I can only imagine that all present feel the same."
So the two groups part, Faramir lingering behind to bid Eowyn farewell. Lothiriel doesn't miss the way the king's eyes narrow at her cousin, and hopes that the revelation of that development will keep him occupied in the days to come.
The rooms provided to them by Lord Denethor, kept orderly and generally quiet enough with just Dejah, Eowyn, and Lothiriel to fill them, have exploded into noise and disarray. Even worse now that the entire Dol Amroth royal family-minus Elphir and Alycia, who are still ruling their city in Ada's stead-is expected at a dinner with some of the biggest heroes from the war, including their new king.
Ada, usually so calm and collected, is visibly excited to introduce his wife and daughter to King Elessar, no matter the fact that they've seen him in passing in the Houses.
"I believe he shall be the greatest king this realm has ever known," he says in a low tone over his shoulder as they walk towards the grand hall. He is escorting Naneth, of course, her arm looped comfortably through his, leaving Lothiriel to be wedged between her two brothers.
"That seems like a lot of pressure to put on a man," Lothiriel murmurs.
"It's the truth," Amrothos says stoutly, hero-worship clear in his voice. "I doubt there is any other man like him."
"He is still a man, Amrothos," Erchirion interjects, in his quiet way. "A great one, yes, but with flaws and fears like the rest of us."
As Imrahil's two youngest children, everyone expects she and Amrothos to be close-and they are, and have been all their lives: partners through every mischief, bitter rivals when their tempers got the best of them-but it's Erchirion's opinion that Lothiriel values, wants. Her even-keel brother, wise without Elphir's occasional condescension, funny without Amrothos's accidental arrogance.
Her thoughts are wiped clean when the doors swing open and they are announced; there are fewer people here than she realized. Mithrandir is present, near to the king as always, and the Elven prince and Dwarvish warrior are not far behind.
"Prince Imrahil," the king greets, and Lothiriel thinks she understands what her father means. His voice alone is noble enough, but paired with the sincerity of his expression and the obvious steel in his spine, she would almost agree with Amrothos's earlier assessment, that there are no other men like him.
"Lord Aragorn," Ada answers. "Thank you for welcoming me and my family."
"It is an honor," the other man assures them. "Your sons do you credit, and I heard many a tale of Lady Dejah's skill while in the Houses."
"My skills are nothing when compared to the healing hands of our king," Naneth answers. "But I thank you, all the same."
The king inclines his head, a smile warming his features. "I have heard tale of your daughter as well, my lord."
Lothiriel tries to keep her face smooth, implacable, but she knows from Amrothos's silent laughter that she had flinched. Everyone the city over knows of the great friendship between the new kings of Gondor and Rohan, and she has no doubt what kind of stories King Elessar has been told about her.
"Lothiriel," Ada says, motioning her forward.
She drops into her deepest curtsy, trying to avert her eyes. "Well met, my king."
"I have heard your praises non-stop for nearly the entire march," he says, startling her into an expression that can only be described as a gape.
"From who, my lord?"
She receives her answer in the form of a tug at the waist of her gown; turning, she finds Pippin grinning up at her.
"Pippin!" She cries, bending to hug him tightly-she had seen him return, but not yet been able to see him in person-and laughs as the hobbit pats her back. The rest of the room has broken into chuckles as well, but Lothiriel cannot be bothered with that at the moment, not with her friend standing before her, whole and unhurt.
"And here I'd thought you'd forgotten all about me, my lady," Pippin mock pouts.
"Never," she assures him. "But I will have to scold you for telling tales to my new king, Pippin."
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Pippin assures her staunchly. "Now, come, there's a few people you need to meet!"
He pulls her away eagerly, and she can only offer her family a helpless smile over her shoulder as she follows. Merry is the next to greet her, shaking her hand with an exuberance she's only found in hobbits, and then she's being presented to Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Gloin.
"Well met, my lady," Gimli says, dimples somehow visible through the enormity of his beard. "Our wee Master Took's been going on nonstop about you the entire march."
Pippin blushes, shrugging helplessly. "The princess has been a good friend to me. Especially with providing all sorts of tasty Gondorian treats. That's enough to win the loyalty of any hobbit."
Merry and Gimli began badgering the badgering him about what delicacies they could look forward to during dinner, and Lothiriel turns her attention towards the Elvish prince.
"It is an honor to meet you, my lord," she says, in lieu of anything else to say. Lord Legolas is an Elf, and beautiful in the way that most Elves are, and Lothiriel is grateful that being tongue-tied has never been a particular vice of hers. "My brothers speak very highly of your skill with a bow."
"I take that praise with pride, as your brothers are formidable warriors themselves," is the response. "They speak highly of you in general, my lady."
"They're all a bit biased, I'm afraid," Lothiriel says conspiratorially.
"I do not think any of their praise is unwarranted," he answers, surprising her by lifting her hand to his mouth for a kiss. A perfectly perfunctory gesture, but she blushes all the same. Dimly, she's aware of the great doors opening and closing somewhere behind her.
"You are too kind, Lord Legolas," Lothiriel manages to say, scarcely avoiding stuttering.
Faramir appears at her elbow suddenly, startling her. "Legolas, may I borrow my cousin a moment?"
Legolas nods his consent, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. Lothiriel scarcely has time to wonder what could be so amusing before Faramir is all but dragging her across the room, his long steps outreaching hers in his haste.
"Fara, I need to be able to speak when we get wherever it is we're going," she manages to hiss. Faramir nearly stops, causing her to hurtle past him. Her cousin is nervous in a way she's never seen before; pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and jittery. She narrows her eyes at him for a moment before comprehension dawns. "This has something to do with Eowyn."
His cheeks only grow pinker and for once, Lothiriel thanks the Valar that she was not blessed with her cousin's fair complexion. "She spoke to her brother this afternoon."
"And?"
"He agreed. Or will, once I ask him for her hand."
Lothiriel hugs him before she can think better of it, beaming up into her cousin's face. "This is wonderful news!" He nods, but she can feel the tension in him still. "You are worried about something, cousin."
"I scarcely know what to say to the man," Faramir admits, looking stricken. "Eowyn and I have known each other for so short a time-"
"No one who has seen the two of you could doubt the sincerity of your feelings-"
"-but a brother might," Faramir interjects, smiling wryly. "Imagine, if a man you'd only known for a number of weeks asked for your hand."
Lothiriel shakes away such a ludicrous thought; she is not a romantic by nature, in the way that Faramir and Erchirion are, and doubts she could fall for someone in such a short time span.
"If I loved him the way Eowyn loves you, even Elphir would not refuse him," she insists, squeezing his hands. "Tell him of your respect and admiration for her, of how being together has helped heal you both."
Faramir gives her an appraising look. "Can this be the same cousin who once dumped sand on Lord Adrahil's son for mocking Amrothos's hair?"
Lothiriel pinches him, but is unable to keep a smile from her face. "I am not two and ten any longer, Faramir."
"No, you are not. You have grown wise, little flower, and I am very proud of you," he says, sincerity in every syllable. "Come, Eowyn said not to return without you. I think the idea of so much silverware unnerves her."
Eowyn does look relieved at her arrival, but her true happiness is saved for Faramir, and Faramir alone. Her brother, on the other hand, looks more than a little disgruntled at their sudden appearance.
Perhaps that's just his customary expression, Lothiriel thinks with a small smirk.
"Lothiriel, please tell me you understand the function of all of this blasted silverware," Eowyn begs, though her eyes are fixed on Faramir's face.
"A proper Gondorian lady is required to know their function, my lady," Lothiriel says in the snootiest tone she can muster. Faramir snorts, Eowyn grins, but the king frowns, his likely already dismal opinion of her only increasing. She leans closer to her friend then and whispers, "The fish fork, in particular, is a prime projectile."
With an agility borne of being the youngest and smallest of four, she plucks the nearest fish fork from the table and flings it deftly in Amrothos's direction, turning back around before she hears it give a satisfying thump.
Eowyn muffles her laughter into Faramir's shoulder as he sighs at his cousin's antics, and Eomer King could not look more surprised than if she'd just clubbed him over the head.
"I did tell you, my lord," Lothiriel says, lifting her chin to meet his incredulous look, "we Gondorian ladies are more than mere trinkets."
Bema above, but Eomer loathes everything to do with Gondor's court.
He was not made for this. Theoden King had been far from young, but was not yet old-he should have ruled for years yet, with Theodred after him, as the rightful king. But the war has robbed him and Rohan of both men, and so it falls to Eomer to pick up the mantle of king, no matter how ill prepared he feels for it.
Eowyn had frowned when he had said as much; she misses their uncle and cousin as much as he does, if not more, but is clearly unimpressed with his gloom.
"You have all the makings of a great king, Eomer," she had said as they prepared for dinner in Minas Tirith's great hall. "You have been a leader a dozen times over, led your men through battle and times of peace, and no one can doubt your bravery."
"But I know nothing of this," he spat back, gesturing helplessly at the tunic Aragorn had loaned him. Where his friend had found something this fine, so soon after a bloody war baffles him, but it's not necessarily the fine clothes he is so rattled by. Leading men into battle is one thing, but interacting with Gondorian nobles, running a country, keeping his people fed? It feels beyond him.
"I will be there to help you, as will Eothain and the rest of uncle's staff at Edoras," Eowyn had said soothingly. "Have faith, déorest."
Faith is hard to come by these days, Eomer thinks grumpily, as they make the short walk from the rooms Aragorn had so generously offered them to the hall.
Eowyn is nearly vibrating with nerves; she'd told him of her Steward the night before, and while wary, Eomer can find no fault in what he knows of the man. Gandalf spoke highly of him, and coming to know Faramir's kin from Dol Amroth, Eomer is sure he is a good man, kind and just.
Well, with the exception of one particular cousin. The Princess Lothiriel was everything her father is not: quick to anger, quick to offense, and utterly, utterly infuriating. How Eowyn had come to have such a high opinion of the girl, he cannot begin to understand.
"One last thing, before we have to act the part of lady and king," Eowyn mutters out of the corner of her mouth. "Do try not to antagonize Lothiriel tonight. She and her mother have been very kind to me, and she is my dearest friend in Minas Tirith. I meant what I said when I would be pleased not to have you two at odds."
"I do not intend to speak to the princess at all," Eomer murmurs in response, "so the chances of my antagonizing her are slim."
Eowyn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like we'll see about that before the doors open.
Aragorn steps forward to greet them, looking as much at ease as Eomer has ever seen him. His new role as king sits easily on his shoulders, as if he was born to it. Eomer envies him.
"My dear Eowyn," he says, "it is wonderful to see you recovered."
All traces of the haunted, hungry look Eowyn used to give the former ranger are gone, replaced with a deep contentment. "I owe you my thanks, my lord."
Aragorn waves that away and Eomer lets his attention wander around the room; he spots the royals of Dol Amroth, deep in conversation with Gandalf. Merry, Pippin, and Gimli are a little further away, conversing animatedly about something. Legolas has the attention of the þyrnihtu cwén and he bows over her hand as Eomer watches, pressing a gentle kiss to its back.
"Pointy-eared bastard," Eomer mutters under his breath. The girl would be charmed by him, with his Elven looks and manners.
The sudden pause in Aragorn and Eowyn's conversation draws him out of his reverie; he blinks and looks to find them both staring at him, smirking.
"Has Legolas done something to upset you, brother?" Aragorn asks. The tone of his voice bodes very ill, and Eomer wishes desperately for a distraction. It arrives in the form of Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins, who mercifully require Aragorn's attention. His friend is effectively distracted, but Eowyn's expression remains dangerously smug.
"Did you, or did you not, just refer to a prince of Mirkwood as a 'pointy-eared bastard'?" She asks.
"Your Steward approaches," he says by way of distraction, gratified that he can avoid the question. He's less than pleased by Eowyn's beloved's companion; it seems he is not to escape the princess's presence after all.
Faramir opens his mouth to speak, but Eowyn cuts across him, her nerves betraying her. "Lothiriel, please tell me you understand the function of all of this blasted silverware."
The princess flutters her eyelashes and straightens her spine, looking every inch the haughty noblewoman he suspects her to be. Bema, how can Eowyn abide her? "A proper Gondorian lady is required to know their function, my lady," she says, sniffing delicately. Faramir snorts, as if such a display is amusing, and Eowyn grins. The princess's eyes flick towards him, face faltering a little as she takes in his stony expression. Good. And then, she leans in, as if rewarding them all with a great secret: "The fish fork, in particular, is a prime projectile."
Eomer can scarcely process what she's said before the girl turns, plucks the nearest fish fork from Aragorn's immaculately laid out table, and flings it towards Amrothos. It makes its mark, colliding solidly with the back of her brother's head, but Lothiriel sees none of this, as she's already turned back to face them, looking like a proper princess once more.
Eowyn is all but quivering with silent laughter, Faramir looks exasperated but fond, and Eomer knows his mouth has fallen open to a decidedly unkingly expression.
"I did tell you, my lord," she says, brown eyes alight with mischief and mirth, "we Gondorian ladies are more than mere trinkets."
Eomer begins to suspect he may have gravely misjudged her.
Eventually, they are all seated for dinner. Aragorn takes one head, Imrahil the other; Imrahil's seat had been offered to Eomer first, but he'd declined. The older man has had years to perfect being a ruler and sovereign. Eomer is all too happy to allow him that place of honor and enjoy what is sure to be one of his last nights in a less exalted spot.
He ends up between Merry and Erchirion, an agreeable enough arrangement for all of them. Merry is always one for lively conversation and ale, without the slightly inane bent of Pippin's brand of humor. Erchirion is the quieter of the Dol Amroth princes, but Eomer likes his sense, his quiet wit.
What he likes less is the scene directly across from him; the princess sits there, with Eowyn to her left, and Faramir beyond that.
Eowyn is as giddy as he's ever seen her; though he knows only he, and perhaps the source of her giddiness, can tell how happy she actually is. Her head is inclined towards Faramir's in deep conversation, leaving the princess to fend for herself.
She looks unaffected by this development, meeting his stare with an arched eyebrow.
"So Eomer," Amrothos asks, leaning around his elder brother with a leer Eomer's not sure he likes, "what do you think of Minas Tirith?"
In truth, Minas Tirith is unlike any city he's ever seen. Even the largest cities of Rohan-Edoras included-held half, if not less, of the amount of people that usually lived here, not to mention the great stone walls and rings of houses. But it is cold in a way that the Golden Hall is not, even with Aragorn's new appointment as king. Cold and foreign in a way that makes Eomer itch for the rolling plains of home, for the warmth and familiarity of his father's house at Aldburg, or even Theoden's Hall when last he'd been there.
My hall, now, Eomer realizes with a jolt.
Erchirion clears his throat lightly and Eomer blinks, returning to himself. "The city is beautiful."
"But?" Prompts Amrothos, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Perhaps he is more like his sister than I realized, Eomer thinks, resisting the urge to scowl at the younger man.
"Do stop prying, Amrothos," said princess interjects, fixing her brother with a stern look. "Minas Tirith is beautiful and cold, as we ourselves have said for years. There's no need to put Eomer King on the spot like that, other than for pure mischief."
Eomer blinks at her, stunned. Amrothos looks far from apologetic, tipping his wine goblet in his sister's direction. "Lothiriel speaks truly, Eomer. I merely wanted to see if you were of a like mind."
"Then perhaps you should have asked," Erchirion chides, gently, "rather than make a newly minted king insult the city he and his people sacrificed much to save."
Awareness finally dawns on Amrothos's face and he grimaces, chagrined. "You are right, Erchirion. Eomer, my apologies."
The topic drifts towards more comfortable subjects; the elder prince of Dol Amroth is an expert horseman and is happy to discuss their respective mounts. Eomer is grateful that Pippin has managed to engage Amrothos in conversation-he will not forget the prince's penchant for mischief-and surprised to find the princess listening in to his own discussion.
"The greatest of our horses are descended from the Meras, at least in part," Eomer is explaining to Erchirion. "We cannot keep them in our stables, of course, but from time to time they visit during the breeding seasons. The foals are left to us to raise."
"Was your horse such a colt?" The princess asks suddenly.
The corners of Erchirion's mouth twitch and Eomer raises an eyebrow at the woman across the table. Lothiriel promptly flushes, one hand fiddling with the end of her long braid.
"Why do you ask, my lady?"
"I have never seen a dappled horse like him before," she admits, "nor one so large. My brothers mentioned how quick he was to obey you on the field of battle, in a way that even none of the most well-trained horses can."
She's more observant that I would have thought, Eomer thinks. "Your brothers spoke truly, but I am afraid that Firefoot is merely an excellent mount."
"And Eomer a more than fair rider," Eowyn chimes in, finally aware of more than her suitor. "The pair of them could best all of Rohan, and I suspect Gondor too."
"I wonder how Firefoot would fare against your Niphredil, Lothiriel," Amrothos muses. In a lower tone, he murmurs, "My father has three sons and yet chooses to give his daughter the best horse."
"I earned Nipredhil," Lothiriel grumbles, glaring at her brother, "and you would do well to remember just how, Amrothos."
"How?" Eowyn asks.
"Yes, do tell us, my lady," adds Pippin, from further down the table.
The princess blinks, cheeks pinking again as the majority of the table turns its full attention on her. "Oh, no, please, it's an old family story-"
"All of us here are friends," comes Aragorn's voice from the head of the table. His eyes are alight with nearly as much mischief as Amrothos's had been earlier, and Eomer wonders what he has done to deserve such scheming friends. "And we could all certainly do with a light-hearted story."
Amrothos tries to pipe in, "Really, it's not so interesting-"
"I disagree," Faramir interjects. "I think it is one of my favorite stories about the pair of you as children."
After a few more moments of persuading-with Eowyn leaning heavily on the arm of Lothiriel's chair and Merry offering her a winning smiles-something in the princess deflates, softens.
"When I was ten," Lothiriel begins, seemingly smiling despite herself, "Naneth's mare gave birth to a filly."
A more beautiful filly there had never been, according to the princess. With a gleaming white coat and deep brown eyes, she'd fallen in love with the foal instantly.
"But it was my year to claim a foal," Amrothos adds, still frowning. "I had one mount already, but Ada always cautioned about having more than one ready horse, should anything befall the former."
"So I challenged him," Lothiriel continues. "To whatever contest he saw fit, to prove that the filly was mine and not his."
"And what did you choose, my lord?" Asks Legolas.
Amrothos mutters something unintelligible.
"I believe it was a wrestling match," comes Imrahil's amused voice. "A rather unfair choice, my son."
"You challenged a wee princess to a wrestling match?" Gimli asks. "That was in poor taste, Prince Amrothos."
"Yes, yes, I know," Amrothos sighs. "I have heard the same sentiment many times over since I chose the damn trial."
"It mattered not," Erchirion adds, smiling, "since he did not take into account our sister's habit to fight like a warg when she truly wants something."
"Not to mention a few key lessons from her fearsome cousins," Lady Dejah murmurs.
There's a moment of silence as the table digests this.
"You...won the match?" Eomer finally asks, as none of the rest seem to be able to find their voices.
"In fine form, too," Faramir chuckles. "How long did you sit on his back after you'd beaten him, Lothiriel?"
"Oh, around an hour, I'd say," Lothiriel answers. "And I only let him up after he swore he'd never ride Niphredil without my express permission, and that he'd have to carry me around on his back for a week instead if he hadn't asked."
Every eye at the table turns towards Amrothos.
"And...how old were you at the time, laddie?"
"...five and ten," Amrothos mumbles.
The table dissolves into laughter; Pippin laughs so hard he nearly falls from his chair, and even Gandalf has tears in his eyes. Amrothos, unsurprisingly, looks mortified, but Lothiriel looks as at ease as Eomer's ever seen her, her head tipped helplessly onto Eowyn's shoulder and her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back her giggles.
Perhaps I was too harsh in my original judgment of her, he thinks.
If nothing else, it is Amrothos who is the most annoying of the Dol Amroth royals, and he can like the princess a little better by that fact alone.
Author's Note: Aaaaaaand we have progress! Lothiriel has officially been downgraded from 'haughty noblewoman' to 'less annoying than Amrothos' which, to be fair, isn't a hard feat. Baby steps, my darlings, baby steps. We'll be back next chapter with more interactions between our favorite duo, with plenty of chances for them to annoy-er, I mean-get to know each other ;)
Also, you'll note in this chapter onward the presence of "Rohirric" (Old English) terms popping up. I'll do my best to translate them, as most of them are plot/character important, but please point out if I've left one out!
déorest: dearest
þyrnihtu cwén: prickly princess
Niphredil: Sindarian for 'little pallor', but references the snowdrop-like flowers that bloomed at Luthien's birth (Lothiriel's name, coincendentally, means 'flower-garlanded maiden' so she had to stay on brand, obviously)