Note: I promise I didn't abandon this fic. In fact, I have been writing and re-writing this chapter for months. I originally was going to add a bit more but felt the last scene was a good place to stop. Thank you again to my Beta Hybris. Who puts up with my fandom hopping ways. I don't own the song "The Nightingale" but it is a gorgeous piece.
Chapter 3: Compassion and Predation
The days were growing colder as summer drew to a close. Boromir had been gone for two months now, with only Faramir and her uncle knowing the truth; he was in a precarious situation. The palantír had revealed that Boromir had lost his horse early in the journey - and was making the rest of his way on foot - thus driving her uncle into a permanent foul mood that made his usual attitude look sweet in comparison. Poor Faramir had also had a prophetic dream that Boromir would only make it just in time for the meeting, though the fact that the contents of the meeting were enshrouded in a mist, hidden from sight, had earned him the lash of his father's tongue.
Wrapping the fur coat over her shoulders, Lothíriel made a mental note to write to Faramir. Her uncle had been especially cruel lately, sending letters filled only with criticism as things grew more unstable in East Osgiliath. Fear of losing the East half of the city and breaking the last remaining bridge to the Western side ran rampant among the Lords and, as always, Faramir was a convenient target for her uncle to vent his frustrations on.
'Knowing Uncle Denethor, he will lose patience with Faramir's lack of progress and then a Council Meeting will commence on how to improve the situation.' Whatever decision was made, Lothíriel was sure that her cousin would be punished in some way or form. Packing her notebook and quill in a leather satchel, Lothíriel adjusted her riding skirt before glancing out the window. The sky was just starting to turn red, announcing the dawn of a new day, 'And,' she thought grimly, 'foul weather to come'.
The bloody dawn was a fitting reflection of how her uncle didn't take perceived failures gracefully. She could feel a decision would be made today, and whatever that decision was it was certain her uncle would always use words that would hurt the most. 'And Faramir has always been so vulnerable to Uncle's ire.'
A knock on the door snapped her out of her musings, as a young maid tried to hide her stutter as she cleared her throat. Speaking slowly, she announced that Lothíriel's uncle had requested she has a report of her findings from her work to be prepared by dinner. "T-The other High Lords of Gondor have been invited as well, Lady Lothíriel, with a few minor ones who have key ties in the prosperity of the c-city."
Staring at her nervous face, Lothíriel felt herself soften a bit. This one had been transferred to her household along with her brother a year ago, as a favour to her cousin Faramir. Her story was both a heartbreaking and common story; a pretty young girl, working as a maid and being an unwilling recipient of another Lord's attention, but unlike most versions of this story, this girl had managed to escape mostly unscathed.
'Faramir always did have a knack for figuring out a person's character very quickly, that Lord had lost quite a bit of standing in Court after that little scandal. He has so many skills that are valuable to Gondor, why can't Uncle-' Breathing out of her nose softly, she turned her attention back to the increasingly nervous girl. Small stature, pale and porcelain-like skin, with dark hair and light brown eyes. 'Her name suits her. She looks like a pretty doll.'
"Thank you Vaniel. Please let my Uncle know that I shall have everything prepared for him by then. Also, did my Uncle name the hostess for tonight?" Lothíriel would have almost no time to prepare if he had named her, but it would not be the first time he had challenged her with such a task.
"Y-your Lady Aunt was named to oversee the dinner t-tonight." She curtsied, trying to hide her flushed face as Lothíriel gave her a small smile.
"Excellent. I will be in the lower levels today, should anyone need me before dinner." It was unlikely that they would, but it was better to remind people just in case.
"Um, my lady! S-Shall I ask my brother to escort you? O-or would you prefer another knight?"
"... Sir Vanendil is fine. Let him know that I wish to leave in fifteen minutes. Notify the Stable Master to have Tuilinn ready and by the front of the building by that time." It only took a moment of thought to agree, as he was a trustworthy man for all that he had only been around for a short period of time. He would do nicely for her guard today.
"Yes, my lady."
Giving the young woman a small nod, Lothíriel made her way to the kitchens to pilfer something small to eat. No need to have the staff make her a full meal, her day would be long enough as it is.
Ten minutes later, Lothíriel stood before her horse, double-checking that the girth was on tight enough and that the saddle was positioned properly. Once she confirmed Tuilinn hadn't tricked the stablehands again by puffing out his belly, she gave the black horse a small treat.
The sound of hooves against stone caught her attention as a young knight rode up towards her, giving her a half bow as he stopped a good foot in front of her. "My lady."
Inclining her head in greeting, Lothíriel observed her current accompanying knight for leaving her residence. The young man had the same colouring as his sister, though his face had a few freckles and fading bruises.
'He looks to be the same age as Amrothos…' Burying the rising pain at the thought of her brother, she cleared her throat as she told him her plans for the day.
"Sir Vanendil, we ride to the First Level. The Captains are expecting us." Mounting Tuilinn, they began the journey downwards, a considerable distance considering Lothíriel lived in the sixth level of the city. Fortunately, Sir Vanendil wasn't very talkative, making the whole experience more pleasurable and swifter than it could have been otherwise. Lothíriel instead tried to focus on the changes she could spot along with the city the further they went down, distracting herself from her thoughts. The upcoming work would require her full mental fortitude, so she couldn't afford to be bogged down within her mind beforehand.
Reaching the barracks, she left Tuilinn at the stables as a couple of squires and pages began taking the horses away. Giving her friend a loving pat, she strode toward the offices and the current meeting room for the Captains to strategize and work in. Sir Vanendil remained a silent shadow as he kept pace behind her.
Her face shadowed by her hood, Lothíriel inclined her head at the bows and greetings from the soldiers who recognized her.
"Good morrow, Lady Nonneril."
"Lady Nonneril."
"Best of luck with your work, Lady Nonneril."
Her guard glanced about in confusion as not just the soldiers, but the workers as well, referred to her by that name as they grew closer to the building.
"My lady, if I may be so bold as to ask, why do they call you Nonneril?"
"You are from one of the fiefdoms, aren't you Sir Vanendil?" Slowing down her pace, she pressed her lips a bit tighter to keep from smiling as he gave her a lost look at her response.
"Yes, my sister and I are from Lossarnach. We have been in Minas Tirith for about two years now."
'That makes more sense if they were transferred over recently.' Humming in thought, Lothíriel looked around at the bustling buildings before replying.
"I have been given the name "Lady Nonneril" from the smallfolk and soldiers, for my work with my Uncle; both here and at the council trials hosted for difficult local disputes."
Shock crossed his features as Sir Vanendil tried to absorb that information, and his tone became more admiring as he actually pushed to continue the conversation."Do you participate in those, my lady? Is it because of your powers?"
'A person's curiosity is a powerful thing.' Lothíriel mused as she nodded in agreement. "I make the proceedings faster when the court finds it particularly difficult to identify who is the culprit. Though my presence alone there is a warning for all to be truthful, or else the punishment grows more severe." Denethor was most unamused by the time being wasted or spent unwisely, especially when she could always be of use elsewhere.
"Silly thing really, I am hardly a truth-teller." If anything she was more of a 'perspective' teller. It was just another sign of her uncle trying to control the flow of information. Another lie or misleading tale, like smoke and mirrors, to hide her true gift.
'The wrong idea gets spread with such a tale. 'The wrong idea with the right result' as my Uncle would say.' Ignoring the too-loud whispers of her deeds among the soldiers, Lothíriel carried on as she tried to pull her mind back to more important matters.
Mindful of keeping her walk steady and purposeful, she tilted her chin a little higher as she knocked on the door.
"Princess Lothíriel, welcome. I trust your ride over was uneventful. We have a new batch of weapons sent from Osgiliath and Captain Faramir's men. Looks like some Haradrim blades were added to the mix." Tired, murky grey eyes peered from a smudged face, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks by sweat and grime. His entire armour was just as dirty as his face, and a squire boy could be seen cleaning a sword- most likely the Captain's- just to the side of the door.
"Captain Angamor, I thank you for your assistance today. I promise not to take too much of your space during my work." She inclined her head as he bowed, his movements jerky and out of practice.
"Right. Well… This way, milady."
A sense of sadness filled her as she watched him almost limp further into the room. The longer the soldiers stayed on the front, the more difficult it was for them to adjust to others outside of the military.
Following the man deeper into the room, Lothíriel ignored the stares and head bows of the other lieutenants and soldiers stationed around the room. Stopping a wince as the whispers and mutterings grew with her presence, Lothíriel vaguely wondered if she would always cause such a stir. Usually, this space was less occupied, but with the situation growing more and more dire… Sir Vanendil grew colder and more alert as more and more men poured in. By all accounts, it was seemingly to do their duties, but their eyes betrayed them; they were here to spectate and gawk.
Ignoring the men, her eyes were focused on the centrepiece of the room, where a table lay nearly overflowing with recovered items. On that table lay a series of weapons, mostly swords and daggers of all shapes and sizes, with the odd mace and lance adding a touch of variety.
Lothíriel could already feel her stomach turn as she braced herself at the number of experiences she would have to go through. Hiding her trembling hands, she took a small, shallow breath as she turned around to speak. Trying to keep her voice level, she raised an eyebrow at his startled look.
"If it's not too much trouble, could I use one of your smaller rooms? I would hate to interrupt and disturb the rest of these fine men during my work." She smiled faintly as he flushed in embarrassment before he called for his squire to stop his work and move the weapons to a small connected room that served as a study. The other men seemed to take a hint as they averted their gazes and went back to whatever they had been doing.
"Sir Vanendil, I don't believe there is enough space in here for the both of us." Keeping her features neutral, Lothíriel curled her fingers into her palms under the gloves, as she mentally counted in her head, trying to keep her temper calm and in place. Unless these men attended the court proceedings, they would have only heard rumours of her 'gift'.
'Curiosity is a normal response to hearing tales of what I can do.' All of them were purposely vague on the exact way she 'read' objects and to the extent she could do so. 'Uncle Denethor's always prepared for everything.'
"No trouble, my Lady. I shall stand guard outside."
Nodding in agreement they both followed the squire to the other room, where she gave him a small smile as he stuttered out his name and that he would be sending food and drink for them a bit later. Closing the door on the two men, Lothíriel gave herself a moment to lean her forehead against the wood as she ignored the aura of maliciousness wafting from behind her.
Removing her gloves, she took another moment to center herself, strengthening her mind with the conviction of her resolution. 'I may not be a great Female-Warrior Elf from the old tales, nor like a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, but I can at least do this much. For the sake of my people.'
Reaching out, she touched the metal and swallowed her screams as she was lost to the horrors of the battlefield.
"... while the Orc infantry knows very little, much has been gained from the Captain's. Memories of some of the Ringwraiths hunting "a weapon" was experienced in all of the Orc Captain's blades, though how many Ringwraiths were sent out is up for debate. They hunt the one who is hiding Isildur's Bane and take the path through the western border of Rohan to some lands further North-East. Other forces are to take over the routes they are using at a later date." The scratch of her quill filled the room as Lothíriel muttered to herself. Pausing to watch as the candle nearby flickered dangerously for a moment, she shook away her feelings of dread and continued to write down what she had managed to get from the weapons. Learning about the Ringwaiths had left her weak and nauseous, forcing her to take a breather so that she could throw up the little bit of food she had managed to eat before coming.
'Boromir was originally supposed to ride through Rohan. But having lost his horse, he'd be forced to walk along those roads instead.' She knew her cousin to be a capable man, full of skill and stamina, outlasting many a man during long treks and giving a run for Faramir's rangers' money when it came to travelling on foot... 'Yet by my calculations, he still has another month to go, at least, before arriving at Rivendell.' Gripping her quill tightly, Lothíriel shook her head to snap out of it and continued to write.
"The destination is unclear, as only general directions were imparted. Regardless, the Orcs have been tasked to put pressure on our resources and make it harder for us to reach out to Rohan for aid. All roads leading to Rohan are being overtaken, and the infantry forces are being constantly switched out - due to regular cannibalism rituals practiced by the Orcs, since they are not provided with sufficient food stock, and shifting of troop locations - which allows for them to be better rested and prepared for our men. More of them are scheduled to arrive by the new year."
Which, in part, was probably one of the reasons why Faramir had been struggling a bit. Not that she thought that this piece of news would garner any forgiveness from her uncle, but it might spare Faramir a word or two of cruelty.
"Whispers of a new breed of Orc have been mentioned in the few goblin swords brought to the battlefield. The Orc Captain was not pleased with any talk about them, so very few memories were accessible to me on learning more about their weaknesses…"
Putting her quill down, Lothíriel rubbed the bridge of her nose as she tried to stop herself from dry heaving again; she had nothing left in her stomach as it was. The hour had grown late, and her entire body ached in pain as she finished her notes on the experiences she had been forced to endure for the last few hours.
A soft knock on the door had her wiping all fatigue from her face, as the nervous squire from earlier brought her a basket with the small meal she had requested.
"My apologies for the simplicity of the food, our usual cook is from the lower levels and they don't know much about food a Lady of your stature would enjoy, so-"
Taking the lid off the basket, Lothíriel felt something inside of her warm as she took in the small bowl of pottage, with a few cuts of meat added to it, along with a freshly baked loaf of bread and bottle of wine. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she noted he immediately stopped speaking and nervously waited for her judgement.
"This is perfect, thank you. You may return to your captain, and please give my thanks to your cook." The fact that they had added a better quality bottle of wine than she had seen before, would cause some concerns among the infantry and kitchen staff. Lothíriel made a small mental note to have another meeting with the remaining Ladies of Gondor to have more funds donated to the staff for food supplies.
'Uncle has been focusing too much on weapons. Yes, a good sword can save many in the right hands, but lack of food can be just as deadly as an enemy ambush.' Suppressing a laugh as the squire flushed in pleasure at her words, he stuttered out his reply and bowed out of the room. Sir Vanendil peeked in as the squire left, giving her a small nod after checking that she was still fine before she closed the door after him.
Taking a moment to scan the table for any more weapons she might have missed, Lothíriel spotted just a few daggers unaccounted for.
'Finally. Almost done.'
As much as she wanted to begin eating, it'd be a waste of food if she was going to start heaving again… Especially if the food was a bit tight among their forces.
Stretching out her fingers, she gently cracked each knuckle, sighing in pleasure as the built-up tension was released from her aching hands. Checking that the door to the room was locked, Lothíriel carefully unpinned her hair from the severe bun and rearranged it to a more relaxed, partially braided, partially loose style. A low groan escaped her lips as the pressure from her hair being tied back too tight eased up. It was times like these that she wished that she was brave enough to defy her uncle and flaunt some more Dol Amrothian hairstyles; they were far more comfortable and suited her far better than the pulled-back look.
Grabbing a small hand towel and dipping it in a bowl of water brought earlier, she gently began to clean and massage her hands. 'I wish I had my lotions and oils with me... I'll treat myself tonight after dealing with the Council. The Valar know I'll need it after handling them.'
Looking over the daggers once more, she spotted a small ornamental looking one, mostly hidden underneath a larger rusted curved dagger. It was heavily stained by dried blood and mud, but Lothíriel's trained Amrothian eyes could spot the mother of pearl decorations on the sheath.
'Now that's odd. Orcs don't decorate their blades at all, let alone with sea gems.' Drawing closer she spotted engraved words on the sheath in a very familiar script. How many times had nobles whispered that her mother must have known the harsh, bestial language of the Southrons? That she, Lothíriel, must be one of their people due to her skin colour and thicker body shape?
Amrothos had liked to joke that the people of Minas Tirith had clearly never seen a woman with curves before and were too used to the willowy, lean stature of their people. Still, that hadn't stopped the flinches, and sense of unease, as they whispered behind their hands and delicate handheld fans as they looked at them with suspicion.
Using the towel to grab the candle, Lothíriel dripped some warm water over the words, clearing up its shape and confirming her suspicions. 'This belonged to a Haradrim.'
The silence seemed to echo as she stared at the small thing, the shape and size hinting that it could not be thrown properly nor primarily used to keep an enemy at bay.
'This is a weapon of last resort.'
There had been a surprisingly small amount of Haradrim weapons brought to her from the battlefield, as the orcs were the main forces.
'Any information from them would be invaluable to our people.'
Phantom pains wracked her hands as she tried to reach out to the weapon. Wincing back, Lothíriel glanced at the door before checking once more that it was still locked.
'Stupid girl, of course, it's still locked. What were you expecting? Sir Vanendil to just burst in?' Chuckling dryly, Lothíriel wondered if this was a sign to stop for the day. Pressing her forehead against the wood of the wall, Lothíriel gave herself a moment to just breathe.
'My mother wasn't Haradrim, of that, I am certain but… it's not like I'm blind. To everyone on the other side of this door, she looked like one... And so do I.'
Stepping back from the dagger, Lothíriel accidentally bumped into her chair, jarring the bowl on the table and causing the water to splash out of it. Catching a glimpse of her reflection, she found herself tracing her fingers over her face. Her nose was a little wide and a little too long for Minas Tirith, whose women and men had sharper-looking faces, with small and straight noses. Her eyes were too wide, though at least she had the same eye colour as her Aunt Finduilas, a hazel-grey kind of colour that Lothíriel privately thought looked like the dirty walls of Osgiliath; tarnished, and not a pure colour at all. They sunk into her face, casting shadows on her eyelids that could pass as makeup. Her lips were too plump, not a thin, bow shape like the other women, and a naturally darker colour; there was no hint of pink on her lips.
'The only thing I like about myself is my hair.' Framed around her face, her wavy hair gave her too round face a softer look; more appealing, if only in certain angles. They reminded her of the tides from Dol Amroth, crimping all the way down and difficult to tame unless braided.
Taking a moment to pull back from herself, Lothíriel gave a little bitter laugh at her moment of vanity.
'As Uncle says, the substance is more important than the shallow looks of a primping peacock. I might not fit Minas Tirith's… No… Gondor's standards of beauty, but that doesn't mean that I am lacking worth or value.' Glancing back at the dagger, Lothíriel cursed herself a fool and coward for shrinking at her duty. Inspecting it carefully, she noted that unlike some of the other weapons, it did not ooze darkness and evil. Instead, it seemed to be contained by the sheath, hiding whatever emotions were imprinted on it. It looked old in make if previously well cared for in a way that suggested it might have been an heirloom once. But it was clear that it had passed many hands, and would continue to pass many more.
'Remember, this is for the good and glory of Gondor. After all...what's one more horror?'
Steeling herself she reached out to gently grasp the hilt of the dagger, while her other hand wrapped around the sheath and gently pulled it from the blade.
Gasping aloud, Lothíriel bowed over the table as strong emotions violently washed over her again and again and again, like the sea battering down rocks into a sandy beach. Flashes of women, so many women, of her skin-tone or darker, though some were perhaps lighter. All of them praying over the knife before giving it to many different men. (Their husbands? Sons?)
Battles, skirmishes, and war followed next, the blade never being used unless the enemy was too close or already dying slowly. Mercy kills, compassion for an enemy who is like-them-but-not overflowed from this blade. The blade had been sealed in several different sheaths, each lovingly crafted or made by someone in their families. Love flared high, bright, and fierce as they gave it, a wish for the bearers to return to them. Dignity and grace were shown by those who carried it, honour for death without suffering.
Gripping both hilt and sheath tightly in her hands, Lothíriel felt her eyes prick with tears as the last wielder came to her mind.
A young man, no older than Erchirion, kissing a young dark-skinned woman, with beautifully soft brown eyes. An older, feeble looking man stood by, sobbing in anger and grief as he observed them. Tears streaked down both of the young couple's faces as other men came to pull him away from her, shouts of what could only be love as they cried out to each other, as the old man hugged the woman gently as they sobbed. The dagger in his hands and tied to his waist as he was taken somewhere else. Many close calls as he fought with orcs and other Haradrim against Gondor. Mercy kills being done to any Gondorian or Haradrim soldier left dying in the battlefield, a kinder death than being tortured and eaten alive by orcs and goblins.
Lothíriel sobbed as she felt his kindness, his disgust at working with orcs, and his love for the woman and old man he had left behind. This was no evil soldier out to destroy Gondor due to jealousy or greed. This was a simple man, conscripted and taken from his family, thrust into a war where he had to kill to survive, just to make it back home.
Death came to him as an arrow pierced his face. A quick if brutal death, her name cut-off and incomplete, on his lips as he fell. Gently letting go of the sheath and dagger, Lothíriel muffled her cries and tried to hold herself together.
She had felt his despair at knowing he would never see her again. He would never hold her, nor ever see her grow round with their child. His father, sick and weak, would never see him again. Lothíriel had been prepared to see many horrible things. She had been prepared for pain and darkness, malicious thoughts and perverse pleasure at the suffering of others. She had only ever felt pain from weapons, from deaths so brutal and slow, or vicious and quick. Hate and anger, fear and despair as lives were taken.
She had not been prepared for love, for dignity, for humanity.
'Yet, this small thing…' Lothíriel felt herself shake as she sat down. Tears continued to stream down her face as she struggled to keep her breathing steady, and the candle blew itself out as she quietly cried.
Staring vacantly into an ageing mirror as a variety of gowns were pulled from her aunt's trunks, Lothíriel stood numbly in her white chemise, as she watched as the maids scurried about the room while her aunt stood at the centre of it all. She had arrived a few minutes after Lothíriel had left that morning in search of her, making her aunt's mood worse than a disturbed hornets' nest.
"What was he thinking? Does the man know nothing of the level of work that goes into preparing a dinner?!" Her aunt had been ranting since Lothíriel had exhaustedly returned to her residence, repeating over and over how she suffered from "that impossible sour bunch of grapes!" telling her at the last minute to prepare a dinner for the High Council of Minas Tirith.
"Just because he can't plan a dinner menu to save his life doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer!" Her aunt barked as she snapped her fingers, Vaniel and one of her aunt's maids began to brush Lothíriel's hair, before pulling back all of it into a seed pearl hairnet.
"Not that hairnet! Honestly, do you lot know nothing about Dol Amrothian fashion!? Only Matrons wear a full hairnet; does this girl look old to you?! Fetch the small one, pull the hair into a semi-updo bun, use the hairpins with the sapphires for Valar's sake and you!"
The poor girl flinched back in fear as her aunt pointed at her, nearly jabbing her in the chest. "Get her curls right. The remaining loose hair should curl just so around her shoulders and down her back. She was cursed with unruly hair, it might as well be good for something."
Lothíriel stared at her aunt as she faced Lothíriel again, all signs of previous anger removed from her face. Seeing she had a captive audience, Aunt Ivriniel picked up where she had left off about Lothíriel's uncle.
"At least this time he cannot interfere too much with your wardrobe. While a little plain for the current fashions, the elegance and richness of the fabric cannot be denied!"
Lothíriel had gathered that she had missed quite the argument surrounding her wardrobe, and surprisingly enough it seemed like her aunt had scored a win in the verbal war. While she still wasn't as 'up to date' as her aunt would like, she at least looked more fashionable than before.
"Rich silks will do nicely! And with your colouring, we can show off the royal dark blues and mulled wine colours!" Her aunt continued to dramatically address the room, clapping her hands in glee as the maids helped her try on the different gowns she had called out. Tiredly, Lothíriel wondered if she should get something stronger for her aunt than tea; assuming her aunt hadn't already helped herself to spirits before Lothíriel had returned.
"Less trimming than I would prefer on you, but perhaps also having fewer gem fragments sewn on the grown will spark a new fashion. And I can't deny you look better like this. Such a shame about your excessive curves though. Your hips make your rear too big, and your breasts will simply bounce-free without proper support!"
As Ivriniel flicked her wrist at her niece, Lothíriel found herself yanked back and forth as the gown was ripped off her and another replaced it just as quickly.
"No, no, no you stupid girl! Not that one! The cut is all wrong, she looks like a pregnant sow. We need something that flows with the curves!" Aunt Ivriniel sneered at her maids before storming to her trunks in a huff. Her voice carried through the room like a battle horn as she began to search through the piles of fabric, and she purposefully exaggerated her florid tone as she said. "You will never be a great beauty by Gondor's standards, my dear, but you can be an exotic beauty. Those stuffy men up there think of you as nothing more than a tool, but it is time they see you for the woman you are."
Holding a beautiful, deep sapphire brocade gown up, Lady Ivriniel finally seemed to be satisfied as she had the maids dress Lothíriel up. "Your mother always spoke about wanting you to be married and experiencing the joys she knew with my brother and her sons. I promised I would have you wed, and I will not allow your uncle to make a liar out of me. By the Valar, it's far past the time for you to have suitors!"
Staring into the mirror as a pearl necklace was placed around her neck, Lothíriel prayed that this night would end soon. After the upheaval of her work and straining her mind to write a report her uncle wouldn't find fault with, she just wanted to be alone for a while and try to recover her strength.
"Enough of that young lady!" Her aunt growled, before taking on a reciting tone. " 'A princess should look nothing less than perfect at all times. No ugly or bored looks should ever be seen on her face.' " With her quote delivered, her voice rose an octave in outrage, "I did not work this hard to make you look beautiful, just to have you ruin it with that expression on your face!"
Holding back a wince as her aunt wagged a bony, bejewelled finger in her face, Lothíriel leaned back slightly. "Yes, Aunt Ivriniel."
"Better. Now, have you been practicing your harp? Your spoiled, captious carp of an Uncle wants you to entertain them after dinner. Apparently, he wants to show those other stuffed up peacocks the 'glory and pride of the family line'."
"Yes, Aunt. I practice when I can." It was one way, in the quiet moments - when her thoughts became too much, and sleep gave her no reprieve - Lothíriel played for hours in the dead of night just to exhaust herself to a dreamless sleep.
"Prepare at least two songs. Hopefully, his compulsive need for rubbing it into the other nobles' faces of your gifts and skills will pass through him as quickly as all his joys do, and they can get on to more important matters."
Lothíriel held back a sigh at the sudden command, as it very well wouldn't be only two songs, and now she would need to have her personal harp hauled in so she might play without worrying about triggering a vision. It wasn't very frequent, as her uncle took pride in how austere and pragmatic he was, but every now and then he was hit with the urge to show off the family line. 'Usually, it's Boromir who gets paraded around…'
"Is cousin Faramir joining us as well?" She missed him. She ached to talk to him.
'He would understand,' She thought. Faramir was ever the more gentle and empathetic of her cousins. 'Maybe he can help me… understand what to do with all of this.' Yes, that was what she wanted. Some form of understanding.
"No, your Uncle sent him a scathing letter of how," Lothíriel was treated to another one of her attempts to mimic her uncle's voice, " 'Failures should work harder, rather than come back and shame me so publicly.'" Unable to suppress a wince at her aunt's words, Lothíriel looked back into the mirror. Her face was a bit paler than usual as the maids touched up her outfit before deeming her perfect.
"He did however send you something to wear for tonight as if he could ever call himself a connoisseur of fashion to know what would match and what would clash!" Her aunt's voice seemed to softly fade from Lothíriel's ears as her attention was focused on a plain little box, carried in by Vaniel.
"If it's too garish, don't you dare wear it! Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, do you hear me? I forbid it!"
Vaniel trembled as Lothíriel thanked her poor maid; her aunt isn't an easy woman to be close quarters with for those who are faint of heart. Opening the box, Lothíriel took out the new pair of gloves sent by her uncle with a small note attached to them.
'White deerskin gloves, fitted and embroidered with my favourite design.' She noted, stroking the soft material. Glancing at the piece of parchment, Lothíriel huffed in amusement at her Uncle's short yet elegant looking scrawl.
'Straight to the point as always; "I noticed your old ones were getting a little worn. The weather is cooling, make sure to take care of yourself. - Lord Denethor." You're such a complicated man, Uncle.' Finishing reading it, Lothíriel gave the note back to her maid as her aunt peered at the gloves and deemed it passable to wear tonight. Putting on her new gloves, she marvelled at the soft texture and the lack of visions.
'He must have had these specially made so that no one touched it too much.' Lothíriel couldn't understand how one person could be so cold to his son and then turn around and send her this. It wasn't fair, why couldn't he show this level of kindness to her cousin?
"He goes too far sometimes." She whispered. Her aunt just huffed loudly as she sat elegantly in a nearby chair, gesturing towards the fresh pot of tea being served and placed on the small table next to it.
"Only sometimes? I can't remember the time he last restrained himself when it came to Faramir! He has forgotten how to be a father to that one. Boromir would do well to return as swiftly as possible, so his father would stop acting like a rooster fresh from a cockfight." Lothíriel took a fortifying sip of the tea, as she made herself comfortable seated across from her aunt. A gleaming look in her aunt's eyes got her feeling a tad nervous as she leaned over to inquire.
"Now, what two songs do you have prepared to play?" Stirring her tea, Lothíriel looked at her reflection as she thought of what would be appropriate to play in her uncle's court.
"My Uncle isn't one for overly romantic love songs, so I won't be playing The Lay of Beren and Lúthien." She couldn't play it and do it justice, anyway. It was too melodramatic and amorous for her tastes. Beren's lines of falling in love, at first sight, felt wrong to sing; it didn't feel like real love to Lothíriel, because how could you fall for someone just by seeing them dancing in the distance?
'It gets better later on in the song of course when Lúthien's solo begins and they then do duets but… I don't think I have it in me to sing about their love and its trials.' Not tonight anyway. She was in an odd mood, and no happy song would sound right on her harp.
"Thank the Valar for small mercies. The fewer times that I have to hear that one yet again, the better."
Holding the cup in her hands Lothíriel held back a sigh, and she began to feel a bit more grounded as the warmth of the tea relieved her numb palms..
"Perhaps I can sing of the Valar? I haven't heard anyone play "The Ballad of the Vána and Oromë" in a long while."
"It's a terribly long song, hence why few have the nerve to pick it; more chances to show they've less talent than they like pretending they possess. Good background music though, it will do nicely for this evening. And the other?"
Humming thoughtfully, Lothíriel carefully stroked the painted birds on the teacup with the tips of her fingers, recalling the more innocent times when she was just her father's bluebird. Hit by a sudden wave of melancholy, she looked away from the dainty birds flying freely on the cup and heard herself speak before she thought through the idea.
"What about "The Nightingale"? I know it's not a very long piece, but after the first song the guests might prefer a shorter one."
"... Missing Dol Amroth, Lothíriel? It's not a very popular song here in Minas Tirith, though still acceptable of course." Silence fell on the table for a few moments as they both were lost in happier memories of a castle by the sea. But Aunt Ivriniel quickly shook herself free, rallying to her previous levels of energy.
"Well, it is not a typical lineup but variety is good for the soul. Especially the souls of Minas Tirith, rigid and sour enough to make salt blocks with. Finish your tea quickly and we'll be off. You can tune your harp when we get there since I expect your Uncle to host you tonight."
Pausing at the door, her aunt seemed to pause before she turned back to look at Lothíriel serenely.
"One more thing, Lady Rhaweth will be among the nobles invited tonight. Do keep your composure when you see that wretched Barnicle, Lothíriel, we can't be having any public incidents."
Baring her teeth in a parody of a smile, she simpered in quiet glee, "Now, in a private meeting after the party, however… Well, we can always dismiss the servants. No witnesses work best in these kinds of situations."
Smiling weakly at her aunt's attempts to be comforting, Lothíriel once again prayed for the night to be over swiftly and without any issue.
"Yes, Aunt Ivriniel."
Finishing the last chords of "The Ballad of the Vána and Oromë" Lothíriel gave a small bow as everyone clapped. Her uncle looked even more kingly than usual; his clothes were of the finest materials, yet the cut was of a more simple design. Combined with his sharp eyes and neutral regard, he gave off an air of wisdom and strength.
'Something that Aunt Ivinriel had been quick to claim he had lost years ago.' Accepting gratefully a goblet to refresh her voice, she took a moment to take in the room.
Candlelight gave the room a soft feel as the nobles chatted about polite nothings and occasionally things of substance. Dinner had been delicious, and her aunt had been preening at such a positive reception over the spread she had planned. Lady Rhaweth was laughing at something her uncle had said, charming the group into a more relaxed stance. Yet there was a slight tension in the corner of her eyes as she smiled a little too wide to be natural.
Gripping her goblet, Lothíriel drank more deeply of her wine as the Lady's husband walked over.
'Lord Hirgon's presence has certainly caused a stir. The man is rarely in the city, and the fact that he's been shadowing his wife since they both returned to Minas Tirith for the first time in ages…' His hand by her elbow was a light touch, yet Lothíriel spotted how Lady Rhaweth slowly started to stop flirting and instead turned the conversation to another topic. Each time she appeared to be flirtatious he would touch her elbow discreetly.
'It's been four summers now since the incident, yet it still casts its shadows over them all.'
Catching her uncle's eyes, he raised his goblet to her, as he spoke out over the noise, causing all to fall silent under his words.
"Thank you Niece, your playing gives you credit. Dol Amroth truly does teach the best harpists in all of Gondor." Hiding a wince at the dig on her singing, Lothíriel bowed in thanks at his words, ignoring one or two of the younger ladies who smothered a giggle behind their fans.
'They must be new to the court.' No seasoned courtier would dare make such an unsubtle mistake as that.
Glancing at them from the corner of her eyes, Lothíriel noted how the older women paled under her gaze before pinching the younger ladies to silence them. Once those same ladies had tried to take Lothíriel under their wing before she grew notorious in the Court for helping her uncle in the legal matters. Before true and false tales about her gift grew so big that the nobles and others alike feared for their privacy.
Accepting their head nods in apology, Lothíriel turned her gaze back to her smiling uncle, who was clearly amused by the little exchange. Spotting the paling and reddening faces of some of the men near him, Lothíriel pegged them as family members of the young ladies.
"Love truly did shape our world, didn't it? Hmm. Well, perhaps you have something a little softer to lull us off to bed?" Nodding serenely, she sat down and began to play a more melodic piece.
"Ah, The Nightingale. How sweet." Her uncle smiled, taking a sip of his wine as everyone listened to her sing the tale of a gentle bird and asking who would sing for them when they can't anymore.
"Her own sweet song is silent now. Who will sing for the Nightingale when she sleeps alone in the sun?" Lothíriel crooned, slowing down the song as she softly sang the last line, "When she sleeps alone in the sun."
A wave of applause filled the room as many younger women and men smiled fondly at the tune, while the older crowd was a bit more reserved, stealing glances at a smug-looking Denethor.
"And with the end of that lovely piece, I bid you all goodnight. My Lords, I will see you on the morrow for the meeting. And for those I don't, safe travels on your work to help keep this fair city safe. My Ladies, may your continued kindness towards Gondor's soldiers continue to keep our forces strong against the darkness of the enemy.`"
Strained smiles from the Lords and some reclusive Ladies filled the room, at his remark, while a few of the younger or more militaristic ones preened in pride at their efforts being praised so publicly.
Aunt Ivriniel made her rounds as she thanked the guests for coming, her sweet titters at the odd remark making her sound far younger than her years. Lady Rhaweth whispered something into her husband's ear before turning to move towards the balcony.
'There's an entrance to the staff halls on that balcony.' Narrowing her eyes, Lothíriel stalked her movements as she gracefully distracted everyone who tried to stop her for a chat. Reaching the doors to the exit, Lady Rhaweth paused as her eyes caught Lothíriel's by mistake.
The woman lost her smile as she paled, eyes growing wide with fear, before curtseying politely.
"Ah, Lady Rhaweth, there you are! For a moment I thought you had left without saying goodbye to your host. Silly isn't it?" Aunt Ivriniel glided over cheerfully as she gently grasped Lady Rhaweth's arm and tucked it into her own, looking to the world as if they were the best of friends.
"I would never leave without saying goodbye, Lady Ivriniel. I merely felt flushed and wished to get a bit of air before making my way out." Lady Rhaweth gave a charming grin, as she tilted her head in amusement at Aunt Ivriniel. Her entire air seemed to imply that she was honest as can be, so much so that one who hadn't seen her panic might think it was sincere.
'Truly a seasoned courtier.' Lothíriel mused, finding no weakness in the Lady's facade. Instructing a maid to have her harp moved to her guest room, Lothíriel hid a wince as her Aunt's tone grew shriller by the minute, catching the attention of nearby courtiers who were watching the whole thing closely.
'The sharks have, of course, scented blood in the water.' Lothíriel couldn't understand how anyone would enjoy living in such an environment. Well, anyone who wasn't Aunt Ivriniel.
"Of course, of course. It was quite a crush tonight wasn't it? Why your dashing husband could barely stay away from you tonight! Everyone commented how beautiful you looked and how much your husband couldn't stand to be away from you!"
Laughing sweetly, Lady Rhaweth waved her hand dismissively as she claimed they recently had decided to have a second honeymoon, to gain back some of the time the war effort had stolen from then.
"I would hate to bore you on such matters. It is slightly difficult to explain to an unmarried woman you see. I would hate to appear boastful to you so I'll simply leave it like that."
"Yes, you would know better than most about that sort of thing wouldn't you? No worries my dear, I promised I am not in the least bit offended about not hearing your prowess. I'm sure sonnets could be sung about the love between your husband and yourself." She took great pleasure in appearing as genteel as possible as she patted Lady Rhaweth's hand and loudly invited her to tea the next day.
"After all, you are one of the most influential women in the city. Now don't be modest my dear, it doesn't suit your reputation. Let us instead speak of more important things. Like your sons, how are they? Still at the front lines with my nephew, no doubt." Her aunt gave a beautiful smile, looking much younger than her years as she fondly looked at Lady Rhaweth's face.
'Aunt looks like the cat that ate the bird, framed the dog for it, and got the cream all at once.' Her uncle paused by the door, raising his eyebrow at the two women as they walked past him without so much as a "how do you do?''
"We must support our men, of course. And I will need your expertise in knowing how to best please our soldiers during these difficult times. You do know young men so well after all." Her aunt's voice began to fade away as she directed Lady Rhaweth to the door, waving off the few courtiers that tried to interrupt her and instead strong-arming them to join her for talks of support instead.
Exchanging a look with Lothíriel, Denethor jutted his head towards the table before walking off, no doubt to speak with Lord Hirgon, who was probably waiting for his lady-wife to be released from Aunt Ivriniel's clutches.
Standing in the empty ballroom, Lothíriel looked around slowly. The staff had finished cleaning during the loud "conversation", leaving everything as spotless and pristine as ever.
Reaching down to pull off her gloves, she placed them on a nearby perch as she massaged out her fingers. Finishing her routine, she stepped closer to the now empty table, mind centred and ready for a quick peek into what the Lords and Ladies had left behind. Skimming her fingers across the top, she pulled them back whenever the array of feelings of enjoyment-discomfort-hunger-greed tried to pull her into a memory. Making her way up and down the table she found herself pausing near the end, as Lothíriel felt shame, anger, resentment, and a softer emotion from where Lord Hirgon had sat.
Pulling her fingers back, Lothíriel took a few breaths as she continued her journey. Ignoring the remorse, longing, resentment from Lady Rhaweth's seat, Lothíriel didn't find anything peculiar to report to her Uncle. Walking back to where she had left her gloves, she accidentally bumped into a chair and knocked it over with a clatter.
Wincing at the scolding the staff would get should she leave it as is, Lothíriel reached out and found herself nearly gagging at the wave of disgust, remorse, determination, and fear that seemed to grab her hands and claw up her arms.
Heaving drily, she took a step back and wobbled towards the hidden rope behind the balcony curtain. Ringing for a servant to come, Lothíriel breathed deeply as she stared in shock at the seemingly innocent chair.
'Just who was sitting on it? And why didn't I feel that when I had skimmed the table?'
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