Author's Note: Surprise, bitch! Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me!

(No for reals I am SO sorry this took so long, God bless you if you're still here reading this behemoth.)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Lothiriel

Day One

The ride to Aldburg is easy and uneventful. Lothiriel is grateful for it, for it allows her time to press Niprehdil closer to Erchirion's side. Darwyn is chattering cheerfully from where she sits in front of him, clearly at ease with her new 'Papa'. It is a charming sight, for all that the girl referring to Erchirion as such had startled them all at the wedding feast.

"-and then w'can go fishing in the lake, but you gotta wear a flower crown from the festival, ok, Papa?"

"Whatever you say, guren vell."

My sweet heart, Lothiriel thinks, and smiles-it is certainly sweet to see her often-serious brother utter putty in Darwyn's hands.

Darwyn looks up at the sound of her approach with a sunny smile. "'Lo, Lothiriel faþu!"

"Hello, Darwyn," she answers, touched at being named aunt. "Are you excited to go to your new home?"

"Mmhmm. Are y'coming too?"

"Not to stay," she says, reaching over to skim a gentle knuckle against Darwyn's rounded cheek. "But I will write your Papa often-shall I write to you too?"

Darwyn's face splits into a wide grin. "Yes!"

Lisswyn chuckles from Erchirion's other side. "I wonder if you know what you have agreed to, Lothiriel. Darwyn is very curious about you and Erchirion's city."

"Then I suppose it is a good thing I know quite a bit about Dol Amroth-and that we are never short on paper."

They pass the morning and afternoon in pleasant conversation. It is a welcome distraction from the fact that every mile they cover is one more further from Edoras and the people they love there. Mercifully, Uncle Andrethon does not try to hurry them more than he needs to. There is hardly a rush, after all, and Darwyn is still young, despite having the natural knack with horses that all Rohirric children seem to possess. She nods off against Erchirion's chest sometime after the midday meal and the sight of him tucking her more closely against him is no less sweet than their earlier conversation.

But Erchirion goes quiet when the walls of Aldburg rise into view. Lothiriel can guess what he must be feeling. Aldburg is not familiar in the way Edoras has become, and she suspects the poisonous interaction with Bledgifu is still forefront in his mind when he thinks about the city. It is in hers and they have always been fairly like-minded.

"Have you decided where you will live?" She asks gently.

It is Lisswyn who answers her, her expression reflecting Lothiriel's own concern for Erchirion. "In the main keep for the time being. Rosefled has arranged it with Sorrun for us. I'll work with her and her staff until the babe comes. Erchirion will join the eored as soon as we are settled in."

The expression on Erchirion's face is painful. "Grateful as I am to Eomer for the appointment and the new Third Marshall for accepting it, I...I wish I could give you more, Lisswyn. Provide more for Darwyn, for our babe…"

Lothiriel turns her face away as Lisswyn reaches out to cup his cheek. This is a conversation between husband and wife. Much as she loves Erchirion and as close as she and Lisswyn have become, it is a discussion for their ears and theirs alone. Likely reading her clearly uncomfortable expression, Uncle Andrethon catches her eye and waves her over.

"I have heard we may not receive the warmest welcome here," he says by way of greeting. "Eothain mentioned something about the housekeeper?"

"Bledgifu. She took issue with Erchirion and I during our visit here a few months ago."

Andrethon's mouth flattens into a thin line. "In what way?"

"We were simply too...foreign for her. Not in the usual way," she corrects, quickly, recognizing the stormy look on his face, "not in the way we are in Minas Tirith, but times have been difficult in Rohan for many years-"

"As if they have not been in Gondor?"

"Trials need not be equal for both to be painful. I do not think she understands our people-nor has she had the opportunity to-and thought that we would seek to change the eorlingas around us to better fit Gondorian sensibilities. Which I think caused her to mistrust my closeness with Eowyn and Eomer. They are as dear to her as her own children and she will tolerate no slight to them, real or imagined."

Andrethon snorts. "Perhaps she and I will have something in common after all, then. Mayhaps this dragon of the North will meet her match in a tiger of the Far South, hm?"

"Uncle," Lothiriel admonishes, "I have had it from Eowyn herself that Bledgifu will behave. I trust in her word."

He sighs. "As do I. Faramir's lady is nothing if not true. But you sure I cannot convince you to allow me to show my claws just a little?"

"Keep them sheathed. I am not so fragile as to fear a woman who loves some of those whom I love best as well."

Andrethon studies her a minute-both for her sincerity and with a look of something more searching-before he offers her a small, private smile. "You truly have grown, little flower. I am proud of the woman you are. And the Queen you shall become."

"Uncle," Lothiriel whines, knowing from the way that Eothred is grinning at her over his shoulder that her sudden blush is apparent from at least 3 horse-lengths away, "do not tease-"

"Would you prefer Eothred's teasing?"

"Elbereth, no!"

"Then mine will have to suit."

She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself. What danger can Bledgifu hold for her with such a champion? And Eowyn and Eomer besides, she thinks.

Aldburg's gates, when they pass through them, are not so daunting as she thought they would be.

Day Three

Getting Erchirion, Lisswyn, and Darwyn settled into their new lodgings has been a miraculously smooth process. Lothiriel sees Rosefled and her family's hand in that, as well as Eothred's cheerfully menacing presence whenever one of the few naysayers begins to comment on how far along Lisswyn is, or makes a jest about Erchirion's skills on horseback.

"I may not be the Eastfolde's Marshal, but I still am one. They'll respect that if nothing else," Eothred had explained with a wink over dinner the night before.

It does make her worry, though, of what life will look like for the new little family when the Gondorian party and Eothred depart Aldburg on the morrow. But for now, she is alone, in front of a warmly crackling hearth, and can finally satisfy her curiosity regarding the packet Eomer had tucked into her hand on the steps of the Meduseld.

She's put off opening it to when she could be well and truly alone. Between watching Blodwyn-who while young, already has a habit of being far too observant for her own good-and helping Lisswyn organize their new rooms, privacy has been scarce. Though the fire is in the middle of the hall, there are no eyes on her, no one who needs her attention or help.

The bag opens to reveal a tightly folded scrap of parchment, with "open me" written on it in careful handwriting. Smiling to herself, she does.

Lothiriel,

You once gave me a necklace as a wish for protection. I cannot claim that this necklace has the same properties as your seashell, but perhaps my wishing for your safe journey will make it so.

It was my mother's, gifted to her by my father. Both they-and your parents-are known for their happy marriages...and so I could think of no better parting gift to give you than this, cwealmbealu.

Lothiriel gasps a watery laugh, drawing the necklace from the pouch. It is a beautiful thing, gold and thin and dotted with pink, freshwater pearls. Rohirric to the core, but not flashy enough to stand out from the things she would normally wear, in her father's palace by the sea. Eomer had chosen well-and wisely. She loves him all the better for it. Both to have given her something of him to have with her at all times, and doubly so for ensuring it will not throw their somewhat-secret out into the open before her parents read his letter.

Oh, but she has not even finished this letter of his!

It is odd to now think of what my days will look like without you. I find myself less than pleased at the thought. Though I suppose I should not be surprised that you pain me in some way even in your absence, brynhitu cwen.

Forgive me for not putting it more prettily-I have spent all my charm and good phrases in the letter to your parents. I suspect you do not mind me putting it plainly. You know me well enough to know that is my way. Or at least it has been, before you.

My thoughts are with you on your journey home to your city beside the sea. Travel safely, mðdleófu.

Eomer

She hugs the letter to her chest, wishing it was its writer instead of a thin piece of parchment. Valar, how lucky she is, to be loved so thoroughly and so well, and by such a man! If Eomer's letter to her parents was even half as sweet as this one, they would not deny them. They could not!

Would they?

Pushing that unhelpful thought away, she slips the necklace over her head, smiling to herself at the cool press of the pearls against her neck.

I will have to ask him why he chose this, Lothiriel thinks, idly running a hand along its length, I will have to ask him why his father did as well, and if it is something he remembers Theodwyn wearing-

"How dare you."

The sudden hiss makes Lothiriel jump nearly a foot.

If she thought she had seen Bledgifu angry before, it was a pale shadow of her anger now. Her face is tight-nearly white with rage-and the look she gives Lothiriel is so full of contempt that she resists the urge to step back, if only just.

"Bledgifu," she manages, hating that her voice quavers, as if she has been caught doing something wrong, instead of reading a letter addressed and given to her, "I do not-"

"I accepted Eowyn's censure for my past words. She was right; insulting the family of her betrothed was out of line, even for me. I even resigned myself to the fact that you had won her friendship-and Eomer's too-no matter how little I thought you deserved it. But now, to be proven right, to see that they have been duped twice over by a charlatan and a thief-"

"Thief?" Lothiriel interrupts with a hiss of her own. "I am no thief."

"Then explain that!" The older woman cries, gesturing violently at the necklace around her neck. "That is Theodwyn's necklace! A gift from Eomund for their third wedding anniversary. He spent weeks collecting the pearls, swimming in rivers still cold with the mountain's frost to find them! He was so nervous when he presented it to her, twisting his foot on the rug like a little boy-him, the Third Marshal of the Mark! I helped clasp it 'round her neck, ensured it was polished before Theoden King's visits, watched her pry it out of her bairns' wee hands when they were too small for speech! You are bold indeed to think that you can fool me, lygesearu. Where did you steal it from?"

Lothiriel clenches her jaw to keep from losing her temper entirely. She has done nothing to this woman to deserve such accusations. Nothing to warrant such treatment, such unmitigated disrespect! During her last visit to Aldburg it had thrown her, made her feel small and alone and sad, but now-now! Now, she is angry.

"As I said," she says, thinking of Naneth's serene composure in the face of similar trials, "I am no thief. This necklace was given to me-"

"Given to you," Bledgifu spits. "Hah! Is that what Gondorians call 'giving' now-finding something of value, claiming it for their own, and damn the consequences?"

Lothiriel furrows her brow at the odd phrasing before responding. "It was given to me by one whom you love. One whom I love. One whose word you would not doubt, even if you cannot find it in you to believe mine."

She does not want to share Eomer's letter with this woman, but it is likely the only form of proof she will accept. Lothiriel offers the parchment up, scowling as fiercely as Bledgifu herself when the boldeward snatches it from her to read.

Any remaining color drains from Bledgifu's face as she reads it. Despite her anger, her personal dislike, Lothiriel cannot help but reach a hand out to steady her when the older woman gasps and wavers a little on her feet.

"He-you-"

"Yes. And I am taking a risk, showing this to you," Lothiriel admits, "for my parents do not know of our...attachment, and their approval is needed before we can even consider being wed. But there is your proof, Bledgifu. I am no thief."

Bledgifu jerks her arm away from her and Lothiriel's confusion is now equal to her anger.

"I do not-why would he would give you máþþumgifu-"

"I cannot understand what I have done to make you think so poorly of me-"

"I will not see him used! And I will not see Eowyn used ill by your cousin-not as I was!" Bledgifu cries.

Realization dawns swiftly. "Someone hurt you, once. A Gondorian?"

Bledgifu groans, running a hand over her face, looking for once like the old, sad woman she is, instead of the fearsome dragon Lothiriel has so heard-and seen-her to be. "I owe you no explanation-"

"I am asking for one, nonetheless," Lothiriel interrupts, injecting enough steel into her tone that Duilin himself would be proud. "Eowyn and Eomer would not love you half as well as they do if you were always thus. And they do love you. If you have been wronged in some way and I have reminded you of that pain, I would know it."

Blegifu eyes her for a moment before shrugging. "Fine, then. Once when I was young and foolish, I made the mistake of believing a man when he told me he loved me. A Gondorian, at that. Barahion was his name. A soldier and messenger from Cair Andros. Kin to someone in Morwen Queen's household. Led me on for 3 summers with sweet words, tokens, promises…but it was not to be."

"What happened?"

"He wed another. Some grand lady-one of your lot. And laughed when someone mentioned his 'lovely Rohirric lass'. He said, 'Aye, lovely enough for a kiss and a tumble, but loveliness cannot make a lady out of common stock.' Not one of his Gondorian brethren-men I'd known for years!-said anything to dissuade him."

"That is terrible," Lothiriel blurts. For it is, even for one such as Bledgifu. But it does not sound as if the man in question said it for her ears… "How did you come to know of this?"

"Eomund," the older woman admits, with no small amount of wistful fondness in her tone, "and he nearly knocked Barahion's head off, for saying such a thing. Scarcely twenty years old and already well come into that temper of his. He did not wish to tell me what that weargh said, but Eomund was truthful above all else. I was-and am-grateful to him. I do not think I would have seen Barahion for what he was without his protection."

"He sounds like the very best of men."

"He was. So you must pardon my mistrust of you and your family, my lady. I will not see Eomund's children treated as I was."

Lothiriel lays a tentative hand on the boldeward's arm. "Are all eorlingas the same, Bledgifu? For in my months here, I would say that is not so."

Bledgifu gives her a considering look. It is still not warm, but all earlier venom has vanished. "I suppose not."

"Then trust that I-and my cousin-are not Gondorians in the same way that Barahion was. Men may be driven to cruelty or kindness; I would argue that it is not always their country of birth that makes them so."

Much to her surprise, Bledgifu's mouth twitches into an almost smile. "I can see why you've caught Eomer's attention. He's never had much interest in mild-as-milk sorts."

"I do not think any of the important women in his life could be called such," she says, and then, because this is one of those women, she continues on, "and I think it would please him if we were to part cordially this time. I do not ask you for friendship, for I do not know if I could honestly give mine in return, but perhaps...better understanding?"

Bledgifu gives her another searching look-again, not warm, but not precisely hateful either. "Better understanding," she says after a moment. "Yes, I suppose I could agree to that. It would not do to be at odds with the woman who might one day be my queen."

"I expect nothing," Lothiriel says, aware that she is blushing even as she says it, "but were I lucky enough to fill that role, I would want only peace between us."

"Let us start with understanding. After Eowyn is happily wed, we can discuss peace."

It is, in truth, more than Lothiriel could have hoped for before today. So she nods, and watches Bledgifu sweep gracefully across the hall. The pearls around her neck are a grounding, cool weight in her hands.

If this is how all of my battles are to go from here on out, she thinks, twisting the necklace through her fingers, perhaps I do not have so much to fear.

Day Six

The second day after their departure from Aldburg is marked by relative calm. It grows steadily warmer the closer they come to Gondor's border and Eothred has already set to complaining good-naturedly about shedding the many layers of clothing he has worn since winter's arrival in Edoras.

Lothiriel smiles at his antics, muffling a laugh behind her hand when Andrethon tells him he should visit Pelargir if he wishes to experience true heat.

"And melt away entirely?" Eothred asks. "No thank you, my lord. I leave any Gondorian moves to Eowyn and will happily remain in cooler climes until I am old and grey.."

"So next year you will come for a visit?" She says, blinking innocently at Eothred's look of outrage.

"Fie now, glommung cwen! To think I have journeyed with you all this way only to be insulted!"

The assembled men, Gondorian and eorlingas alike, laugh. She is grateful for their good humor, the warmth of the sunshine, for it helps sweeten the memory of parting with Erchirion and Lisswyn. She will miss them-even now, she half expects to look over her shoulder and find Erchirion arching an elegant eyebrow at her teasing-and she can still feel her brother's arms around her shoulders, hugging her in farewell tight enough to bruise. But they have begun their new life now. All help she could have rendered them she has done.

A small, unkind part of Lothiriel is glad that this particular chapter is ended. Gladder still that they are wed, that they are happy, that their babe will be born into a loving, settled family-but there is no denying the mess they made, nor the repercussions it could have had were Eomer any less understanding, or Eothain and his family any less focused on Lisswyn's happiness.

"Lothiriel," Uncle Andrethon's voice draws her from her musings, and he offers her a knowing smile. "Are you well?"

"Yes, Uncle," she promises. "Merely thinking."

"Of?"

"Home," she says, for it is a half truth. With everything that has happened in recent months-the end of the War, Faramir and Eowyn's betrothal, Erchirion's uncharacteristic lack of caution, Eomer-she feels so vastly different from the girl who left Dol Amroth with Naneth. "I begin to fear I will not recognize it. Or it will not recognize me."

"I think there is very little you could do to make your parents not know you. Or proud of you, if that is truly what you fear."

"I did not say my parents, Andrethon-"

"Your parents, the city of Dol Amroth...in some ways, they are very much one and the same. And I think you worry needlessly, on either account."

Lothiriel resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him, if only just. Andrethon merely smiles back at her, with a smug look not unlike an expression of Duilin's on his face. It has been good to get this time with him. And Eothred, who is entertaining the rest of their travelling party with one story or another.

They camp down for the evening a little bit past the border between Gondor and Rohan. There is no city to welcome them, true, but Lothiriel thinks she will prefer having this one last night of travel with their Rohirric companions under the stars, in a little bubble between one home and the next.

"Tell me, lass," Eothred says, settling in beside her as his eored and Uncle Andrethon's men bicker over what to cook for dinner, "what will you miss most from Rohan? Well. Besides the obvious, of course."

"Wilfled was right about you. Hefigtyme I name you, Eothred Marshal!"

"Aye, that's true enough. But I also have some care for your answer, my lady. Besides a certain lord-" and he pauses to wince at her swift elbow against his ribs, grinning through the pain, "of mine, I do wonder what you will miss most?"

"I suppose you will not accept 'everything' as an answer," she teases.

"I am a little hurt that 'you, Eothred Marshal', was not your response."

Lothiriel snorts before a meddling thought comes to mind, unbidden. "Well, now that you say that…"

"Oh?"

"I think I shall miss you most of all, Eothred. Or at least I will regret missing your attempt to court Lady Merthwyn."

Andrethon splutters a surprised laugh into his ale as Eothred goes nearly as red as his hair beside her. When he does not respond with a typical witty remark, Lothiriel frowns slightly as guilt tightens her throat. "Eothred, I am sorry, I should not tease you about something of such importance."

"No, lass," he says, patting her hand gently, "you are right to do so. I would do the same to any other fool who has wasted as many years as I have, making excuses and taking the coward's way out instead of going for what he truly desires."

Andrethon's eyebrows have shot steadily upward during the Second Marshal's speech, and Lothiriel imagines hers are doing much the same. Until their flirtation in the hall the other morning, she had had no notion of Eothred being interested in Merthwyn at all!

"What do you mean?"

"I believe," her uncle answers, giving Eothred an appraising look, "the Second Marshal means to say he has wanted to court Lady Merthwyn for some time."

Eothred snorts, giving his unruly hair a tug. "That is an understatement if I ever heard one, my lord, but you have the right of it. I've loved that stubborn woman since I was a beardless youth, fresh from joining my first eored."

Lothiriel can only gape at him. It is unlike Eothred to be anything other than bold-brazen, even! "Why have you waited until now to show any interest?"

"She married when we were all very young. Many found Frithbert a bit of a bore, but by all accounts she loved him truly. I was hardly going to pay court to a married woman, especially one happily wed. And then when he died in battle, defending the Westfold from Orcs...it never seemed right, to tell her how I felt. Better to offer her friendship alone than to badger her with feelings she couldn't return."

Lothiriel leans her chin on her hand, considering. "I do not think she seemed averse to your attentions, Eothred."

"Aye, now perhaps," he allows, a little more of his usual mischief back in his expression,"with the War won and so many other romances cropping up around us…"

Andrethon chuckles, no doubt watching the red Lothiriel can feel creeping into her cheeks. "This has naught to do with me!"

"I am afraid it does, my lady. You and Lisswyn, Eomer and Erchirion...if you young pups dare take risks for your happiness, what sort of man would I be not to do the same?"

"Well," Andrethon says, clapping a hand to Eothred's shoulder, "then at least three good things will have come out of this mess, should Lady Merthwyn accept your suit."

"And the other two?"

"Erchirion and Lisswyn's marriage, of course. And my dear niece's growth into the sort of woman who would not only be well-suited to being a Queen, but excel at it."

"Uncle," Lothiriel complains, covering her cheeks with her hands, "please, you are too kind!"

"If he is, then so am I," adds Eothred, tugging on her sleeve until she uncovers one side of her face, "for I must confess I agree with him, lass."

She tugs her cloak a little tighter around her, too touched to speak. That these great men think so highly of her, believe in her...Lothiriel of a year ago would not have believed it possible.

But Lothiriel of a year ago knew little of her own self. And little of Rohan, or of friends made family, or of love…

Well. She knows all those things now. And can only hope to learn more in the future-whatever it may bring. With one hand twisted around Theodwyn's necklace and the other running idly over the fur of her cloak, she offers both men a soft smile. "It will gratify Eomer to know he is not the only insufferable man in my life...but thank you both."

Eothred grins as Andrethon tucks an arm around her shoulder in a gentle embrace. The ache of missing Edoras, of Eothain and Wilfled, of Eowyn and Duilin, and most of all-of course most of all-Eomer is still there, tender underneath her breastbone, but just as after the civil end of her and Bledgifu's discussion, Lothiriel cannot feel anything other than hopeful for what's to come.

Day Seven

Eothred and his eored have just disappeared over a far away hill when the sudden noise of hoofbeats-from the opposite direction-reaches Lothiriel's ears. She turns, shooting Uncle Andrethon an alarmed look, but he looks remarkably calm.

No, not calm. Exasperated?

The reason why becomes quickly apparent; a man in the livery of the Swan Knights is barrelling down the road towards them.

"Were we expecting a messenger?" She asks.

"No," he answers, frowning deeper still, "I smell another one of your father's change of plans afoot."

Uncle Andrethon is, as he has been many times before, correct.

The messenger is not one she recognizes, but he offers her a deep, formal bow while Andrethon skims over the letter.

"Nan i 'aear ar in elin," he grumbles, making Lothiriel jump. It is not like him to curse, especially within earshot of a lady.

"What is it?"

"Your father or mother or whoever came up with this hairbrained idea," is the short response, "owe me at least five favors for this."

He passes her the letter before jerking his horse around to bark commands at his bewildered men. Lothiriel blinks in surprise before her eyes are drawn to Ada's familiar hand.

Andrethon,

I must ask for your patience and obedience once more. I hope you will at least thank me for a shorter journey, instead of damning me for involving you in all of this to begin with.

Change your destination to Minas Tirith. My advisors seem to think Lothiriel arriving there early will stir up less gossip than her returning home months ahead of schedule-and short a brother. Faramir is prepared to claim it as a part of wedding preparations, as she has now become better acquainted with Rohirric tradition and can help him ensure that his bride has the ceremony she so richly deserves.

There will be rooms available to you both, though I will not stop you if you wish to return home after you've escorted my daughter safely to the White City. I know it is far from your favorite place, and in forcing you to go there I have likely exhausted all good will you feel towards me, dear brother!

Hannon achin,

Imrahil

"Oh," she says. "We venture to Minas Tirith, then?"

"So it would seem. Who knows what calamity awaits us there, eh, little flower?"

Day Eleven

Lothiriel has always considered herself an above average horsewoman, and Niphredil as fine a horse as any woman could ask for, but Elbereth help her, she is ready to not have to ride any further. Minas Tirith has been growing steadily larger as they draw closer, and though the city is far from her favorite in her homeland, she nearly wants to weep at the sight.

"We are nearly there," Andrethon promises her, correctly reading the tiredness on her face. "Faramir will have had your family's rooms prepared for us and we can both rest until dinnertime."

"Thank the Valar for that. I do not think I could stomach one more night without a proper bath."

Mercifully, the city has returned to much of its pre-Battle of Pelennor hustle-and-bustle, which means they only receive cursory glances and waves of hello as the wind their way up the various rings until they reach the apartments of the Steward. The air is the mild warmth of spring in Gondor and Lothiriel is glad that she has already packed her cloak away, much as doing so had pained her. It would not do to pass out from a heat stroke and reveal her courtship with Eomer in one fell stroke!

"Well met, cousin!"

Lothiriel's head jerks up as Faramir-dear, wonderful, reliable Faramir-strides towards her, grinning wide enough to nearly split his face in half. He all but plucks her from the saddle before tucking her under his chin in a tight embrace.

The sudden, irrational press of tears almost startles her. Oh, but how she has missed him!

"And you," she manages, pressing her face into his chest for a moment until she can compose herself. "Oh, Faramir, hello!"

"Hello," he says again, effortlessly shifting her under one arm while reaching for Andrethon's arm with the other, "and welcome to you as well, Lord Andrethon."

"Steward Faramir," answers Andrethon. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"It is freely given, now and always. I know you both must be weary. Come, we have readied Imrahil's apartments for you. I believe I even have some of the Pelargirian wine you so favor, Lord Andrethon-"

Lothiriel lets herself be led into the cool, quiet of the apartments in a daze. Can this really be the place she spent her last nights in Minas Tirith in? With the stink of Pelennor still lingering, with Amrothos laughing raucously in the chair across from her, with Erchirion's arm draped comfortably around her shoulders? It feels like another life now, as if it all happened to some other person. She is wistful for it, but strangely not...sad. That so much has changed. That she has changed.

Of course you've changed, girl, comes Duilin's voice, unbidden but oh so welcome, you've won the love of a King! And no small number of his people.

Not for the first time, she wonders how Eomer is doing. What he's doing, if his council has driven him mad yet, or if he has been roped into what now must surely be Eowyn's frantic wedding planning. The thought makes her smile.

"-you have your usual room Lothiriel, and my castellan has cleared out Amrothos's for your use, Andrethon."

Lothiriel blinks, forcefully pulling herself out of her reverie. "Uncle Andrethon is to stay in Amrothos's room? Why not Ada and Naneth's? It has the best view of the city and is likely the least cluttered."

Faramir offers her an oddly cryptic smile. "I am afraid those are already occupied."

"Already-"

The sudden slam of a door has her looking upwards, but not fast enough before a small blur of blue and silver knocks into her hip. "Aunt Thiri, Aunt Thiri!"

Oh, she is well and truly wet-eyed now, dropping to her knees to wrap Alphros up in her arms. "Who is this grown lad? Where is my pinig, my Alphros?"

"It's me, Aunt Thiri, don't be silly!"

She laughs wetly, pulling back to take his dear, sweet, long-missed face in her hands. "So you are! And so handsome! Did you ride all the way to Minas Tirith on your own? Or stow away on one of Uncle Amrothos's ships?"

"As if his mother would let him do such a thing," comes another familiar voice, and Lothiriel looks up to find Elphir smiling down at him, "or his father either, come to think of it."

She thinks she manages to wheeze out a passable version of his name, but he's pulling her to her feet and into a hug before she can dwell on it for too long. Elphir! Stoic, serious, responsible Elphir, come all this way ahead of schedule...for her?

"Oh, what are you doing here?" She asks. "Where is Alycia? And Nemeriel-oh, Elphir, I must meet my niece!"

"It is wonderful to see you too, Lothiriel," he says dryly, chuckling a little when she pinches him. "But you will have to wait to meet my daughter until she and Alycia arrive the week before Faramir and Eowyn's wedding."

Lothiriel frowns a little. "Surely you and Alphros did not come alone?"

"Of course not. Naneth is here too."

He nods over her shoulder and Lothiriel turns. Naneth is there, as beautiful and warm as ever, and it suddenly chokes her, how much she's missed her mother. How much she has longed for her advice, her support, her easy way of seeing to the heart of her worries, these past months.

"Naneth-"

And then she all but falls into her mothers arms, weeping as if she is a little girl again. She would be embarrassed, mortified at Alphros's worried murmurs behind her, Faramir saying something about taking the air in the garden of the Stewards', but all she can spare a care for is the familiar smell of her mother's perfume in the air, the soothing sensation of her hands stroking through the thick waves of her hair.

Oh, she had forgotten to bind it!

"Naneth, I am sorry," Lothiriel finally manages to stutter, "I did not-my hair-"

Naneth laughs, wiping her tears away with her thumbs. "I think we have far more important things to discuss than the state of your hair, little flower. Sit with your old mother a while, and tell me of Rohan?"

"It is a very long story," she admits, allowing herself to be drawn to a chair near the window overlooking the city."

"Then it is a good thing that I have an abundance of both patience and wine. Tell me what I have missed in your life these past few months, seldë."

Taking a sip of wine and steeling her spine, Lothiriel begins.

Author's Note: WE'RE BACK IN BUSINESS BABY!

Ok so like many of us, this year has been an absolute SHITSHOW and then surprisingly good all at once. A good portion of this year has had me without any creative impulse whatsoever, hence the incredibly long delay between the last chapter and this one. So I hope this makes up for my stupid-long absence!

Also, as you can see, this chapter is entirely from Lothiriel's POV which means, you guessed it: the next chapter will be all Eomer! I had this planned anyways, but it's been a really great way to get back in the swing of writing their voices and headspaces.

Also also: brace yourselves. This fic has 4/5 chapters left MAX. But I promise this is far from my last Eothiriel story...just the longest ;P