Author's Note: Eek, you guys, thanks again for such a positive reaction to the past chapter! And many thanks to Adelie P for the notes on grammar; apparently I edited the document on my computer, but not the version that ended up online! I don't bite, y'all, and I appreciate the comments/recommendations/critique.
And now, onward! You'll find more dancing Hobbits, Gondor's version of Mr. Collins, and a discussion of beauty ;)
CHAPTER FIVE
The wedding of the King and Queen of Gondor follows the coronation ceremony as quickly as decorum will allow, or in Amrothos's words: too bloody long.
In truth, it is a mere two weeks before the entire glittering assemblage is gathered once more; Aragorn, Lothiriel suspects, pushed for this break-neck pace for two reasons. One, out of respect for their Rohirric allies, who are clearly chomping at the bit to return home and bury Theoden King and honor their other dead. Two, because even for one of the Dunedin and an Elf, forty years was a long time to wait to wed.
The ceremony itself is beautiful and mercifully-everyone suspects Gandalf's influence-brief.
The feast afterwards? Decidedly less so.
The entirety of the court seems to have decided to drink as much ale as possible, even the most reserved. Lothiriel even spies Naneth having an uncustomary fourth glass of wine; the spots of pink on her cheeks give her mother's unusually giddy state away.
"Erchirion, look," she whispers, nudging him.
Her brother follows her gaze and smiles, fond. "She and Ada have always found such joy in one another. I think she is willing to to have more wine than usual now that he is home and safe."
The undisguised longing in his voice is unmistakable. Of all of the royal siblings of Dol Amroth, it is Erchirion with the poet's heart, Erchirion who would happily throw down the mantle of soldier and prince for a girl who truly loved him.
"You will have that too, 'Chirion," Lothiriel murmurs, squeezing his hands. "Of that I feel certain."
He offers her a wistful smile. Their quiet conversation is interrupted by Gimli's sudden arrival.
"What's this I hear of you giving the pointy-eared princeling a dance at the coronation and not offering me one in return?" He grumbles, though Lothiriel has come to know him well enough to spot the twinkle in his eyes.
"A grave error on my part, Master Gimli," she assures him. "Shall I set this to rights? I should hate to see Dol Amroth suffer the lack of the friendship of your people because of my foolish mistake."
Gimli flaps his hands at her, indicating she should stand. "Yes, yes, my lady princess, I shall claim a dance."
Amrothos guffaws as they pass him; Lothiriel has not the usual height of Numenorean descendants, but Gimli still stands a good head shorter than she. But she had danced with Legolas and with the dear hobbits. It would not be right to refuse the Dwarf, not when he has been so kind.
Gimli is not the best partner she's ever had, but he makes up for it and more with his conversation. He manages to tell her a story about Boromir that she's never heard-Pippin has been very remiss in not telling her-and has to stifle a laugh at the picture he creates: two tiny hobbits, banding together to take down the Captain of Gondor.
"He would have loved to have seen the city like this," she says, feeling melancholy all of a sudden. "Alive. Happy. Hopeful."
"Perhaps he can, lass," Gimli answers. "Wherever he is, he deserves his peace."
She offers him a small nod, forcing a smile back to her face as the music finishes. "Has my debt been sufficiently paid, Master Gimli?"
"Aye," he says roundly, the twinkle back in his eye. "Though if you dance with Legolas again, I shall be forced to beg another of you."
Agreeing on this fair price, she allows him to lead her back to her seat.
It's not long before the hobbits arrive, a bemused Eowyn and a fond-looking Arwen in tow. Even Master Samwise, usually so quiet, has clearly been buoyed by the flow of ale and wine.
"Can we persuade you to dance with us, my lady?" He asks.
Pippin shoots her a toothy grin and Merry nods eagerly.
"If you have already commandeered my queen and future cousin, I do not see how I can refuse," she laughs, offering Sam her hand.
She senses the eyes of the court on them as the hobbits lead all three ladies to the dance floor. Were the queen not among them, she suspects whispers would have been flying already. But Arwen has done an admirable job of charming the court in her short time here, and Eowyn is all but promised to Faramir, who would not care what the nobles whisper anyway. The censure will likely fall on Lothiriel's shoulders, and hers alone. Eowyn sees the sudden apprehension on her face and frowns mightily, so resembling her brother in that moment that Lothiriel has to hold back a surprised laugh.
"Damn this court," She mutters, squeezing Lothiriel's elbow. "Why must everything be 'good' and 'proper' in Minas Tirith? This is a wedding feast, for Bema's sake!"
"A wedding feast should be most proper of all," Lothiriel whispers back. "Tradition, you know."
"We have traditions in the Mark as well," Eowyn argues, "but none of them involve punishing a woman for dancing with a friend!"
The queen, in that unerring way of hers, touches Lothiriel's shoulder gently, though her eyes twinkle with mirth in a way not dissimilar from her new husband. "Be well, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. Any friend worth having will not begrudge you dancing with decorated war heroes, no matter their stature."
Eowyn smothers a laugh at that and Lothiriel cannot help but grin; Aragorn and Arwen's marriage makes more sense all the time.
But then the music starts and she turns to face a suddenly shy Sam, and Lothiriel privately thinks the court's opinion be damned. Tonight was an evening for fun!
From his position at the high table, Eomer can only watch in mild horror as the hobbits lead three of the highest ranking women in both kingdoms out onto the dance floor.
"Those hobbits," Eomer mutters, "they could charm a warg into gentleness."
"I hope you are not comparing to my wife, your sister, and a princess of Dol Amroth to wargs, brother," says Aragorn, looking far too at ease. "I should hate to break the peace between our countries so soon."
Eomer does not have the chance to reply before Gimli interjects, settling his large mug of ale down on the table with a clatter. "Bah, let the wee ones have their fun. They have earned it."
"I hope you mean the hobbits, not the ladies," Legolas murmurs, face serene.
Gimli splutters in outrage as the rest of the table laughs.
"Truly, I do not think there has been such an overabundance of beauty in the court of Minas Tirith in an age," Gandalf murmurs thoughtfully. "Not to mention the strength of the ladies' spirits as well."
"I should think strength of spirit should come first and beauty second," Imrahil adds sagely, giving his wife a warm look. "Beauty may fade, but heart does not."
"Unless you're an Elf," Amrothos quips.
The topic of beauty goes round and round for a while-all of them are fairly deep in their cups, save perhaps Legolas-until Gimli declares he has seen the fairest lady in all of Middle Earth, and it is not any of the ladies present.
"Fairer than the queen?" Amrothos asks, in clear disbelief. "I do not believe such a lady exists!"
"That is because you have not met the Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood." The Dwarf's eyes grow misty. "She is as fair as the dawn, with long golden hair…"
"Not so different than the Lady Eowyn, then," Amrothos teases.
"What say you, Eomer?" Gandalf asks. "For you come from a country of fair-haired maidens, and can surely pass the best judgment."
"Alas, the Lady Galadriel's beauty is too high and distant for me, for all of her fair hair," he admits. Gimli gives him a stony look and Eomer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I would have to award the title of most fair to Lady Arwen."
"Well, at least you have good taste," Aragorn says, grinning. "Peace, Gimli, I will not believe you do not consider my wife also deserving of the title."
"If not Lady Galadriel, then Arwen is an apt choice," Gimli agrees, his good humor returning.
"Faramir, what say you?" Amrothos asks.
His cousin smiles softly, eyes clearly on Eowyn. "I think it should be obvious who my choice would be."
"Spoken like a man in love!" Gimli cries, clapping Faramir on the shoulder.
Erchirion, who looks a little glassy-eyed over his seventh mug of ale, murmurs something. His mother gives him a fond look and prods him gently, prompting him to sit up straighter.
"What was that, Erchirion?" She asks.
"I do not see why we need argue over who is the most fair," he finally says, speech surprisingly without slur. "For they are all lovely in different ways."
A sudden silence falls over the table. "Do explain, dear boy," Lady Dejah says again, stroking her son's hand. It seems that Erchirion has taken this matter more to heart than the rest of them, unsurprising when one considers his romantic nature.
"I have not seen the Lady Galadriel, but if we are to go by Gimli's tales of her beauty, than she is Lady Dawn, bright and otherworldly. And if she is Dawn, than surely Lady Arwen is Lady Moon; a darker beauty, more serene, less harsh. And Lady Eowyn is certainly Lady Sun: warm, passionate, bold."
"Surely you will not leave your sister out of the celestial beauties you are describing," says Legolas.
A fond smile pulls at the corner of Erchirion's mouth. "Certainly not. Lothiriel is Lady Twilight."
"Twilight is often considered to be a foreboding time of evening," Faramir murmurs, frowning slightly. "I am not sure Lothiriel would like your choice."
"But she can be foreboding, when she puts her mind to it," Erchirion argues. "And yet sweet at the same time, with all of the warmth of the Sun and the dark beauty of the Moon. Twilight should not be feared, but respected, treasured."
Erchirion's words are poetic and sound, but Eomer cannot help but think he does his sister a disservice with them. Foreboding seems the wrong word...vexing, perhaps, but only on occasion and only when provoked. But twilight is vexing, too; the end of a day when you are perhaps not ready for it, or the beginning of a night that you do not care to face...
"Ugh, no wonder you are her favorite brother," Amrothos pouts, his voice interrupting Eomer's train of thought. "Erchirion always waxes poetical when praising Thiri."
Erchirion's face pinks but his mother pats his hand again, smiling. "You do your sister a great credit, Erchirion."
"And the other ladies as well," Aragorn agrees. "Though I cannot help but wonder if they will appreciate learning what we have been talking in depth about for such a long time."
Imrahil grimaces, "And we may have been remiss leaving them in the hobbits' care for such a period; they all look rather worn out."
Indeed, Eowyn's face was nearly red with exertion, the princess faring scarcely better, and only the queen looked composed, though whether that was due to more practice or her Elven heritage, Eomer could not say.
Aragorn stands, grinning. "Not that Arwen has ever needed rescuing, but I think I shall offer her an escape now, should she desire one."
"As giddy as a youth and twice as smitten," Gandalf murmurs.
"Can you blame him?" Amrothos asks. "If I had a lady half as fine, I should be able to do naught but gawk at her all day long."
Faramir has risen to join his king, gently plucking Eowyn's hands from a grinning Merry. Eowyn looks utterly relieved at his arrival; Queen Arwen looks bemused at the sudden appearance of her husband, but Pippin gamely releases her, clearly already on the hunt for food.
That leaves Lothiriel alone with Sam Gamgee, both of them smiling but exhausted, neither willing to upset the other by suggesting an end to their dance.
"It is always the quiet ones," Lady Dejah laughs, nodding at Sam, "a week ago, I would not have guessed Master Gamgee to be so light on his feet."
Gimli launches into a story about Sam from their long journey as part of the Fellowship, but still, no one makes a move to rescue either hobbit or princess. Amrothos, the lazy slug, merely leans back in his chair with another mug of ale. Erchirion looks very on the edge of brooding after his impassioned speech and Imrahil seems loathe to leave his wife…
Eomer contemplates following Aragorn and Faramir to rescue 'Lady Twilight' but that choice is taken from him before he can even begin to rise out of his chair. A Gondorian noble has appeared, bowing over the princess's hand and somehow maneuvered himself between her and the hobbit. Both Lothiriel and Sam look affronted at this sudden interruption, but the hobbit's characteristic shyness reasserts itself, and he backs away without a word.
The man bows again, clearly offering himself as a new dance partner.
"Has that bastard no manners?" Eomer growls, surprised at his own irritation.
Legolas follows his gaze, blinking owlishly as the unknown man leads the princess into the first steps of the next dance. "He merely asked the lady for a dance, Eomer."
A lady flushed red in the face, clearly in need of a rest or at the least, a mug of water...þyrnihtu cwén or not, in Rohan even the drunkest of suitors would have realized a woman's need for a breather.
Erchirion suddenly utters a harsh curse, earning a murmured, "Language, my son," from his mother and an affronted look from Imrahil.
"Ada, look at who has claimed Thiri in our inattention," he spits, loathing written into every syllable.
Imrahil looks and groans, the most undignified sound Eomer thinks has ever come from the mouth of his wise friend. "Valar be merciful."
"What is that toad doing here, anyways?" Amrothos demands. "Did he not learn his lesson last time he tried to pay suit to Lothiriel?"
"Who is he?" Eomer asks.
All four Dol Amroth royals share a grimace. "Lord Gwordir, of Linhir."
"A more odious man has yet to exist," Lady Dejah says, in an uncharacteristic show of temper.
"He believes Lothiriel should consider his suit because 'so few others would have her'," Amrothos growls. "His words, not mine, and what's worse: he said them to her face!"
"As if it is not her right to choose whom she marries, as a Princess of Dol Amroth," mutters Erchirion.
"Peace, children, wife," Imrahil sighs. "Our Thiri is no green girl, and there is nothing on this Earth she loves as much as besting someone of an unworthy sort."
Briefly, Eomer wonders if the fact that she so often bested him made him an unworthy sort, but his attention-and that of the rest of the table-is soon claimed by the unlikely couple on the dance floor.
"You grow lovelier all the time, Lady Lothiriel, if I may say so," Gwordir drones on.
Biting down a show of temper, Lothiriel fights to keep her most neutral expression on her face. "You have already said so, my lord, so I think that makes you capable of the task," she answers. He is too dull to detect the barbs underneath the words, and smiles benignly down at her.
Sweet Elbereth, what she would give to have Sam back again as her partner. She would even choose Master Gimli again, for all that she has to stoop over to reach him, or even Eomer King. At least neither of them gave her the urge to spontaneously commit murder in the middle of the king and queen's wedding feast.
Though Eomer did suggest I should harm Amrothos at this exact venue…
"-and I said to myself, 'Gwordir, my lad, you simply must inquire about the lady's position on needlepoint', and so I am."
Lothiriel blinks, her mind having drifted entirely. "I beg your pardon?"
"Needlepoint," Gwordir says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "My mother quite enjoys it, as I suppose all ladies do."
She does not fight the urge to grit her teeth. "As all ladies also love pretty jewelry, fluffy dogs, and poetry?"
Gwordir seems to begin to realize her irritation. "Well...yes."
Thankfully, the song ends and Lothiriel is able to extract herself from his grip. "Then I fear I am no lady then, my lord, for I prefer a practical gown to a string of diamonds, a lithe hound to a yapping lap dog, and stories of valor to poetry. If you will excuse me."
She offers him a curt curtsey before all but fleeing back to the table that she last spotted her family at. To her surprise, they are all staring at her, along with Mithrandir, Lord Legolas, Gimli, and Eomer King.
"Is something amiss?" She asks, wondering if someone managed to dump wine on the corner of her gown.
Amrothos, abruptly, bursts into laughter. "Oh, sister mine, whatever did you say to him? He has been unable to close his jaw since you walked away!"
"Nothing that wasn't true," she answers pertly, plucking a goblet of wine and downing it in one fell swoop. "Oh, by the Valar, I was thirsty."
"Did he say something offensive?" Erchirion asks. "I will put my hands on him, lord or not, if-"
"Peace, 'Chirion," she soothes. "He merely chose his usual inane, boring topics of conversation. I found that, yet again, I did not care for them."
Her brother gives her a searching look and she squeezes his shoulder until he relents. "I am sorry, I feel guilty that he even had the opportunity to speak to you, let alone claim a dance-"
"Yes, I was wondering what kept you all from sparing me his presence," she teases, dropping into an unoccupied chair between Erchirion and Legolas. For some reason, this causes the men around the table to squirm rather uncomfortably in their seats-exempting Legolas, who Lothiriel cannot ever imagine doing something as undignified as squirming, and Mithrandir, who looks oddly amused.
Naneth, smiling in a way that would not be out of place on Amrothos's face, says, "I am afraid they were distracted by the topic of beauty, Lothiriel."
Rolling her eyes, Lothiriel takes another large sip of wine. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Can you blame us, my lady?" Gimli asks. "With such fair ladies on display after being surrounded only by sweaty, swearing men for so long?"
"Dwarves are not known for smelling like roses on the battlefield either, my friend," Legolas interjects.
"I have heard of no people who do," adds Lothiriel, offering the Elf a wide smile.
That shakes the table of the awkwardness, though Lothiriel cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching her. Scanning the table, she locks eyes with the king of Rohan. Offering him a questioning look, he shakes his head before rising.
"My lady, would you like some more wine?" He asks suddenly.
Thankful that the other occupants of the table-namely her brothers and father-have become occupied with other conversations, Lothiriel stands, nodding. She is perplexed by his odd behavior, but their tentative new friendship bids her to find out what is troubling him so.
For he does look troubled; his drawn face looks rather out of place beside Merry's laughing one, Even Legolas's more reserved expression of amusement further along the table holds more cheer.
She slips her arm into his, suddenly more aware than ever just how much he towers over her. Gwordir is shorter than even Amrothos, and being on his arm is unpleasant at the best of times, despite his height being close to hers. In contrast, her head scarcely clears Eomer's shoulder. Walking arm and arm with the king of Rohan should be tedious, or difficult, but instead it is merely...pleasant.
Realizing she's allowed her thoughts to keep her silent, Lothiriel offers him a small smile. "Thank you for the offer to walk me, my lord. I confess that after spending even a moment in Gwordir's presence often calls for an entire bottle of wine in place of a glass."
This does not draw the smile she's been hoping for; instead, his look only darkens.
"Lady Lothiriel, the truth," he all but growls-merciful Valar, if he does not sound like Eowyn in the mornings in that moment-"what did that damned idiot say to you?"
His vehemence surprises her, but Eowyn has warned her time and time again how over-protective Eomer can be, when someone he considers a friend is threatened.
"He asked me about needlepoint," she answers.
This nearly stops him in his tracks and Lothiriel has to pull on his arm a few times to prompt him into motion again, lest they attract the attention of the court.
"And that is all?" His voice is incredulous.
Rolling her eyes, she grabs two goblets and presses one into his hand. "Yes, Eomer King. What did you think he said?"
Amazingly, two splotches of color appear in his cheeks that she is certain have nothing to do with the large sip of wine he'd just taken. "I...I wasn't certain, but your reaction seemed so strong-"
"You, above anyone, should have learned about the strength of my reactions," she teases. "My temper is near as legendary as yours, my lord."
That coaxes some mirth out of him. "Have your glares been rumored to kill men on the spot?"
Lothiriel shrugs. "That depends on the man. My brothers, likely not. Irritating kings who insinuate I am pestering their sisters, however…"
Finally, a laugh!
Lothiriel is glad of it; now that they have stopped needling each other at every opportunity, she understands what her brothers see in this man, what her father respects, and what Eowyn adores. She would happily call him friend, if they can keep their tempers in check.
He offers her his elbow again and she gratefully accepts.
It's not until later, when she is curled under her covers in her room, that she realizes he'd never answered her question: what had he been so concerned that Gwordir had said?
It is Imrahil who calls him out, after Lothiriel and Dejah have escorted a drooping Amrothos and a lightly snoring Erchirion to bed. Most of the wedding guests have retired before them-the King and Queen of Gondor included-so now only he, the prince of Dol Amroth, Legolas, and a slumbering Gimli remain, quietly sipping their last drinks.
"My friend," Imrahil murmurs suddenly, "I could not help but notice that Gwordir's dance with my daughter upset you nearly as much as it upset her brothers."
Eomer ignores the pointed look Legolas gives him. "It is not what you think, Imrahil."
"Have you developed the Elvish skill of mind-reading?" Imrahil asks in a droll tone. "For that would be wondrous for the Mark indeed, to have such a skilled king."
If Legolas were a human, Eomer is sure he would have snorted, but as he is an Elf, and likely far too graceful for such noises, he merely chuckles.
"I apologize," Eomer says. "My concern for the princess was out of my respect for her having earned Eowyn's friendship, and due to a number of unsettling remarks I heard at the coronation celebration a few weeks ago."
Gone is the indulgent father and husband; Imrahil sits up suddenly, looking every inch the prince. "Tell me all."
Wincing, Eomer takes a long sip of his ale. Not nearly as strong as Rohirric ale, but a little sweeter; Bema, the hangover he would have tomorrow.
"At the coronation ball," Eomer begins, wishing anyone else in the world could tell Imrahil-his friend! A man he respected! The man who had found Eowyn on Pelennor!-this tale. "Merry and Pippin asked the princess to dance, and she accepted."
"I believe this was after her turn with me, Amrothos, and Aragorn," Legolas adds, looking grave.
Eomer nods; it had been. "And I was standing with my captain, Eothain, away from the dancing. A few Gondorians-minor lords, I suspect, from dress and accent-began remarking on the ladies in the dance, including-"
"My daughter," Imrahil finishes, looking weary. "I suspect I already know what you are going to tell me, Eomer, but continue."
"They remarked that she was darker of complexion than Amrothos, and acted in a manner not befitting Minas Tirith's court." At this, Eomer snorts. "As if that were a bad thing."
"Her manner or the matter of her skin?" Imrahil asks in a new tone.
"Either. Her coloring is something she has no control over and should not be held against her. She is a princess of Gondor, by birth and right, and should be treated as such. As for her manner," he pauses to smile, "the White Lady of Rohan is my sister, Imrahil. A strong will and sharp tongue is nothing new to me."
"And you did not confront these men?" asks Legolas
"I do not think the Rohirric manner of confrontation would have been appropriate at a coronation feast," Eomer admits-though he would have liked to do nothing more. "So I asked her to dance instead. Having the king of Rohan's approval is surely enough to quiet a few jumped-up lords."
At the time, he had not considered it would set tongues wagging, as well.
"And you thought that Lord Gwordir had said something along those lines-disapproving of her manner and complexion-tonight?"
Eomer had almost been certain of it, but instead, he shrugs. "The thought crossed my mind."
"Gwordir is a simpering fool, to be certain, but even he would not insult my daughter to her face. Particularly since he-or rather his mother-would like to be connected to my family," Imrahil sighs, rubbing his eyes.
Lothiriel, married to that spineless toad?
"You disapprove of such a connection," Legolas says, surety in his tone.
Imrahil gapes at the Elf for a moment. "Merciful Valar, yes! Lothiriel could never love such a man, and I would not be content to see her wed any man she does not love."
Privately, Eomer agrees with him. In Rohan, most matches are ones of love. To wed someone you scarcely know, let alone have feelings for...the prospect makes him shudder.
Gimli's sudden awakening startles all of them-even Legolas-and that seems to be the end of the evening.
And hopefully the end of that conversation, Eomer thinks darkly, as he returns to his rooms. He cannot comprehend these Gondorians; for all they claim to be civilized and superior to their Northern allies, some of their ways seem so...backwards, so illogical.
Perhaps Aragorn and his queen will change things, he muses.
One can only hope.
Author's Note: Bless Eomer's little heart, he really does care! (Not that he'll admit it, even to himself).
Also, you'll notice in this chapter a certain nickname for Lothiriel that has big meaning in later chapters: Lady Twilight. (The reason for this will become clearer in time, I promise.)
Was Gwordir Collins-like enough for y'all? I admit that the masterpiece that is the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice had a big influence on not only his characterization, but a lot of our leads' interactions.
Our next chapter takes us back to Rohan, in a much more somber mood.