The serious Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, faces Corsairs, Nazgûl, and a half-mad uncle through the War of the Ring, aided by a barely-remembered friend, strange dreams, her fun-loving brother, and a little bit of luck, and finds that a little bit of laughter can help to dispel the growing darkness.

Nostos

-2-

As the day waned the storm began to cloud the sky, and by evening rain pounded the White City in icy driving sheets, soaking the riders who had made the trek from Dol Amroth. Lothíriel herself felt half-frozen and in no mood for her brother's jokes, and when he turned to her, already forming some snide comment, she snapped, "If you say anything, Amrothos, I will cut off your tongue and give it to the fishermen as bait."

He chuckled.

She did not.

"There are no fishermen here."

She was too cold to think of a suitable response.

The guards opened the gates for them and one hailed their captain, called out his name, but Lothíriel could not hear. Her fingers were numb on the rains. She didn't particularly like to ride, and only rote memory and years of Erchirion's determined tutelage kept her upright in the saddle. She would have been happy with sidesaddle, for that was most seemly, but her brother would have none of it.

"No sister of mine," he had said, "will ride sidesaddle without first learning to ride astride."

That was all very well for him, but she had only once-briefly!-been a rebellious child, and riding astride was unseemly. But- she quashed the thought that rose to mind.

And she did not like the city, for all that is was grand and sweeping and coldly beautiful. She preferred the sea.

The great gates of the Rammas Echor slammed shut behind them and then they were across the sweeping flat lands beyond it, the fields of the Pelennor that ran to the Anduin. By the light of day she supposed these were beautiful lands, lush and gold in the summer, with the mountains rising sharply to the right, and looming above the entire plain was the Tower of Ecthelion, but by night they were dark and empty. It was later and colder still when they reached the Great Gate and the guards pushed open the doors for them. Almost there, she thought, following the guards through the levels of the city, growing more and more miserable with each tunnel and gate, until finally they reached the seventh level, the Citadel of Minas Tirith, the seat of the stewards. The courtyard was empty and cold except for the shriveled trunk that stood in the center, a sad reminder of its state. There was no king of Gondor and sometimes she thought there would never be.

"The White Tree," Amrothos told her, as though she had never been to the city before.

"I know," she snapped, though she could barely move her lips for numbness. "I want to get inside."

"The Steward will see you," said the guard and she moaned a little, but they could hardly refuse their uncle Denethor.

"We could pretend not to hear," suggested Amrothos. "Go hide in our rooms."

She shot him a quelling glare. "Ignore the Steward? You may, if you wish."

"No, no, I wish to live through the night."

"I would not mind if you did not."

He laughed and she tried very hard not to respond in kind. Sometimes it was very hard to maintain her composure with Amrothos, but she was the Princess of Dol Amroth and as such she did not laugh, smiled only very politely.

She had heard tales of Findulias of Dol Amroth, who would have been her aunt, and sometimes she saw the sorrow in the set of her father's face, but often she wondered who that lady had been to leave such a broken man in her wake. Her uncle sat upon his throne and she saw his pain mostly clearly in his eyes, but where Imrahil's grief manifested itself as a gentled sadness, Denethor's became anger. But for all the lines in his face, the greying of his hair, he was the Steward, and even amidst his sadness he retained an air of power.

"The Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth," said the Herald.

Her curtsey was somewhat clumsy but he did not appear to notice.

"Amrothos. Lothíriel. How it pleases me to see your faces," said the Steward. "Please, dine with me."

There was nothing she wanted less, for she was tired and cold and sore, but propriety demanded obedience. Amrothos, subdued, agreed.

Denethor dined alone but for them; night had fallen early and the candles cast long, flickering shadows upon the walls. Watching his quick fingers, snatching bits of bread and meat like eels darting out of rocks, she found she was no longer hungry and, dropping her gaze to her plate, feigned interest in the food. Every so often her uncle's eyes darted to her face as though expecting to find some remnant of Findulias, but Lothíriel knew she bore only a faint resemblance to her aunt. It was Elphir, the eldest, who had his aunt's wide set silver eyes- Imrahil said it often.

A true swan of Dol Amroth, he had said when she asked him of his sister.

Was she beautiful?

Very.

Silence settled over the table except for the scrape of silver on pewter, Amrothos contented sigh as he finished his goblet of wine. Lothíriel's was untouched; a princess should not be even tipsy. She noticed Denethor had barely drank any, either.

"Father tells us that Boromir has gone to Imladris," said Amrothos finally. "Sir." He was surprisingly diplomatic.

"Yes, yes. He had a dream."

"What did he dream of?"

Denethor said very coolly, "It is surely of little import to you, Nephew."

"Of course, Uncle. Forgive me."

Silently she watched the Steward's face, saw the anger, the suspicion, and underneath it all, the love, for Denethor had always loved his eldest son. But then, everyone could not help but love Boromir, for he was all that was good in the world.

Faramir, though, he was different, a different sort of love. Boromir demanded your love: he was larger than life, and she could almost see him now, tall and broad and laughing, his face bright and hair unkempt. He seized your love. Faramir was not so abrupt, and though most could not help but love him equally, if not more, it was quieter, almost respectful, love for his gentleness and kindness and nobility. She liked them both, but in Faramir she had found a kindred spirit, someone who appreciated her solemnity and understood it.

She raised her head to ask if he was in the city but then she caught her uncle's eyes. Something sinister burned in them, some darkness she could not understand. Then under the table she felt Amrothos's hand and absurdly she remembered one of his jokes about a fishwife.

She choked on a giggle and suddenly the darkness felt bearable.

"Imrahil fears the Corsairs," said Denethor.

"Yes," she found herself saying, "he sends us to you for safety, my lord uncle."

He made a sound of acknowledgement. "So he should."

Ambiguous, to say the least.

"Darkness comes upon us," said Denethor and suddenly it was as though he spoke to himself. "Death, darkness, take us all!" He jumped to his feet and pushed the table away from him violently. The plates and wineglasses crashed to the floor and she watched in silent horror as dark red wine spread across the floor. She did not scream.

He was not looking at them, but instead to the ghosts that seemed to lurk there in that room with them. Lothíriel was suddenly aware of how small it was, how close and stuffy the air seemed.

Her brother held out a harm—stay back, it said- and then said, very gently, "Uncle?"

The Steward turned on him very suddenly and Lothíriel was sure she no longer knew this strange animal with such fire in his eyes, this man who seemed only half-human. "Leave me!" he thundered.

And where Lothíriel would have turned and fled immediately, abandoning her precious dignity to the wind, her silly, feckless brother bowed deeply and slowly. "Uncle."

Outside he took her hand. "We must be very careful." His eyes were serious.

"Yes, I see that." She shivered a little. "Why did Father not warn us?"

"Perhaps he did not know."

She thought of the morning they had rode along the beach, watching the cresting waves, the horses plunging into the breakers. There Imrahil had told her very gravely that she would be going to Minas Tirith and she would stay there until it was safe to leave, and she'd asked him why.

A strange darkness stirs, he'd said and then reached for her hand. She let him take it. Elphir and Erchirion are too old for me to guard now. But you you and Amrothos, let me hold you safe for just a little while longer. Go to the White City. For me.

It was still raining and Amrothos wrapped a careless arm around her shoulder. "Well," he said lightly, "that didn't go as planned."

"Must you poke fun at everything?"

"Lothíriel," he said, "that is the only way to survive. We must find the joy in every moment, even if we must make it ourselves."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

"I hope you learn," he said, and for once he was serious, "because you will need it if you wish to survive these dark days."

For all his madness (dare she say it? The Steward's madness?) Denethor had given to her comfortably furnished rooms, though she supposed that task had fallen to the housekeeper. It was a role Lothíriel herself often assumed at home in Dol Amroth and one she carried out well, if she would allow herself to be immodest. She liked it, adding up the sums in the household books, taking pride in the physical well-being of their lands and people, and the result was distinctly tangible. There was nothing so beautiful to her as a well-balanced year, profits greatly surpassing expenses, followed by her father's warm but unsurprised praise. It had been a comfortable existence at Dol Amroth and she had been content with her library full of books, her brothers' occasional teasing, her role as the keeper of her father's household, her letters to Aldburg, and of course her frequent meanders along the beach. Now it seemed that world was gone, even the precious sanctuary of her beaches threatened by the Corsairs of Umbar.

She let her hair fall free of its plait and the maid brushed it out until it lay soft and smooth down her back. In the low yellow light of the room her face seemed very childish and at the same time very grave, hovering at the brink of discovering adulthood.

"Are there any letters for me?" she asked.

"None, Highness," said the girl. She was a timid little thing and Lothíriel sighed a little impatiently. She could not stand people who did not at least look her in the eyes when they spoke.

"Thank you," she said, voice clipped, "you may go."

It was too soon to hope for a reply; she had sent off her letter only a scant week ago, and the courier had miles to travel before Éomer would receive it first here, to Minas Tirith, and then on to Rohan with the rest of the mail bound for Aldurg, the seat of the Third Marshal. She supposed it was dreadfully long route for a letter, but her father frequently sent couriers to Minas Tirith and very rarely to Rohan, while the Steward had more occasions to write to Rohan. Besides, though she had not exactly kept their correspondence a secret, she did not think anyone else knew of it, and by sending it to Aldburg by way of Minas Tirith allowed it to remain unknown. Dol Amroth was actually not far from Rohan and if she was feeling particularly fanciful, which she very rarely did, she thought she could see the vast plains from the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Belfalas. It had been Éomer who kindled her interest in the Rohirrim, at first those ten years ago when they met in Edoras, and then through his letters.

We have a sea here, too, he had offered, though of grass, not of water. But at least you will not drown in ours.

You cannot swim in yours, either, she had retorted.

She missed him and wanted to ask him about laughter, if Amrothos indeed was right. Somehow she thought he would agree.

She drew the curtains to hide herself from the pounding rain and stood in front of the mirror. Hesitantly she tried a smile, but it settled strangely and awkwardly on her mouth. Perhaps if she smiled long enough she could convince herself.

And then she could not help but laugh at her own foolishness. What a strange child was she!

Amrothos was disgustingly cheerful but a welcome source of information, and it was from him that she learned Boromir had left some months ago, in July.

"July!" she exclaimed. "So long? Then surely he has reached Imladris?"

Her brother had already devoured three rolls. "That I do not know, and nor do I care at the moment."

"I do not believe that elves exist," she said.

He laughed at her. He seemed to enjoy it. "Well, Boromir is decidedly level-headed-,"

"See? That is no flaw!"

"I did not say serious," corrected Amrothos, "but rather level-headed. Meaning he will not fall for some fantasy. You, on the other hand, would not laugh if Sauron himself danced in front of you in a nightgown. Boromir would."

She snorted into her teacup. When she had regained control of herself, she said, "He would laugh, I suppose, and then skewer him. I would have ordered the guards to skewer him from the start. Then our purpose would be accomplished, would it not?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. But you missed the point."

"I did? What was it?"

"Most decidedly. But Boromir would not run off to some mythical elf-haven without some degree of certainty."

"Did Father speak to Faramir when he came?" she asked, for Imrahil had come to the White City some weeks before they left to meet with the Steward and his son while Lothíriel and Amrothos prepared to leave Dol Amroth.

Both Amrothos and Erchirion had learned to be patient, for Lothíriel was insatiably curious, and he answered, "Father left me only a brief missive, for he rides to see to our defenses in South, but he says that Faramir is at Osgiliath."

"Osgiliath!" she said. "Is that not the fort that he and Boromir defended so valiantly?"

Amrothos smiled very proudly, for they had all been pleased to hear of their cousins' bravery. "It was." Then his face darkened and he said, "I wonder at Father's sending us here, for if Osgiliath falls, then so too falls Minas Tirith."

"Surely with the Corsairs in the south, it is safer here?"

"I suppose so." Then he smiled and raised a hand for a servant. "I am starved. Are there any more rolls?"

"You will grow old and fat," she said.

"Old, yes. Fat, no."

Outside the weak December sunlight shone on the city and she wondered if last night's dark was just her imagination. "Will the Corsairs attack Dol Amroth?"

"I haven't a clue. Is that marmalade? I love marmalade."

"No," she said sharply, "It is apricot jam. Will you answer my question?"

"Damn. I suppose I don't like marmalade all that much anyway. It's far too bitter. Pass me the blueberry jam. Or is it jelly? Somehow jelly seems much more… wobbly."

"Amrothos!"

"The answer to your question is that I don't know and I don't care to discuss it. It is far too nice a day-,"

"It's in the middle of winter!"

"-yes, and still there is a bit of sunlight. It's far too nice a day to discuss such nasty matters."

She glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. Go to the library and find yourself a new book. See the city a little bit. You'll take a guard, of course."

"Of course," she snapped.

The maid appeared, the same one who had very timidly dressed her that morning, and Lothíriel bit back a scowl at the sight of her quavering face.

"Yes," she said shortly, "come in," and then she spotted the paper she clutched in her hand. It was too soon for Éomer to have replied, but perhaps- "What is that?" she asked and Amrothos looked a little startled at her brusqueness.

"From the Steward," said the girl and though Lothíriel had not really expected anything more, her stomach still plummeted into her neatly embroidered slippers. She should have known; it was much too thin to be a proper letter from Éomer. She bent her head to survey her half-eaten roll with great interest, but Amrothos had already caught sight of her face.

"Why, were you waiting for something?" he asked, and then looked more closely. "Lothíriel? Are you all right?"

"Of course I am." It was silly to be so upset over a letter from a man she had not seen in ten years and she pushed back her chair. "Good day," she said crisply, "I will go now-,"

"Lothíriel," said her brother, holding up the note, "he wishes to see you."

She stopped, already almost out of the small, sunlight room. She turned to look back at her brother. "Me?" she managed to ask. "What does he want from me?"

He shrugged and she felt icy fingers trail up her spine. She was afraid. She swallowed hard and squared her chin but found she could not control her voice.

"Amrothos-,"

Immediately her brother was on his feet to take her arm and then he said, "Don't worry, sister darling. Just imagine him in his nightgown."

She tried, she honestly did, but standing there in the cold stony hall of the Citadel she felt very cold. The length of the hall yawned between her feet and her uncle's dais, where he sat in the massive stone chair beneath the throne, and between them stood the lines of fabled kings, their faces stern and unyielding. They did not approve of her.

"My lord uncle," she said, and though she was so frightened as to tremble, somehow her voice was clear and strong, carrying across the distance between them, and at last he raised his head.

There was power in his gaze, though he might be old and saddened and half-mad. She would do well to remember that.

Amrothos had walked her to the Citadel, his voice light in her ear, and she had clung to him very surreptitiously when they arrived, for she would not have the guards see her fear.

"You'll be fine," he said with a smile. "Go and curtsey and smile and then you can go read."

Easy thoughts outside in the cold December sun, but in this drafty hall she found it hard to swallow. The kings of old gazed down on her slow, faltering progress to the dais, and she flinched a little under their hard stares. By the Valar! They were dead! What could these long dead stone memories do to intimidate her? So she raised her chin very proudly, for though this man might be the Steward of all Gondor, she was the Princess of Dol Amroth and the daughter of the Elves and the Númenór.

She wondered what sort of nightgown her uncle would wear. If she were Amrothos, he would suggest something bright pink and very lacy.

"Uncle," she said again, "you wished for me to come?"

He raised his head to meet her gaze. "Lothíriel. You have come." He raised his hand and the servants came with stool for her to sit on. She arranged her skirts as best she could and sat, tilting her chin to look at him, for he sat high on the dais.

"Of course," she said, "you summoned me."

"So I did," he said and he seemed very lucid. Surprisingly so. "You have come to Minas Tirith for shelter."

"Yes, Uncle."

"Your father tells me he fears the Corsairs. What do you know of them?"

"Very little," she said, "save that they hail from the south."

"Aye," he said, "they were once of Númenór, like you and I, but how the mighty have fallen! Your father was right to send you here. Do not worry yourself, Niece. You will find safety here."

"Thank you."

Then abruptly his eyes darkened. "War comes to us!" His gaze was feverish, resting not on her but on something only he could see, and Lothíriel could only draw her arms around herself. "Death take us all! Death and madness!"

"Uncle?" she said.

He turned on her, but abruptly his voice gentled. "You do not look like your aunt."

"No," she said, "no, that is Elphir."

"She loved the sea very much," he said, "she could not bear to be parted from the sea. She loved me very much, you know- my dearest, was she. But the sea, it called to her!"

She could not move, could only watch his face, the spittle that flecked his lips, the madness that seemed to take his eyes, and she was frightened. Was it her death that had moved him to such madness? Suddenly she could not conceive of ever loving anyone, for this was what it brought: grief and pain and destruction.

She gathered her voice, though it trembled. "Uncle, I would go." She should wait for him to dismiss her, but she could not remain here.

He turned back. "No! Stay just a moment longer. Niece."

Lothíriel was trembling, but she clasped her hands together in her lap.

"You have her voice," he said, "she used to sing when they were very young. Lullabies. Do you sing?"

"Rarely," she said, "my brothers wish to hear only bawdy songs, and those I will not sing."

He laughed, throwing back his head and she smiled, too. "And would they teach them to you?"

"Amrothos would!" she exclaimed. "He would make me a laughingstock!"

"Your brother has always been a mischief-maker," said Denethor, "as were you once."

"I?" she said. "I am not anymore, though."

"No," he said, "no, you are quite the young lady, are you not?"

She wasn't sure if it was a compliment, for there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, so she remained silent. Such an audience! But there was a light in his eyes and she fancied this was the man he had once been, a man of wit and intelligence, the man her aunt had fallen in love with so many years ago.

He was not always as he is now, Imrahil had told her, for Findulias loved a very different Denethor. But that was many years ago and I do not believe much of that man remains now.

"And tell me, my young lady, how fares the Third Marshal of the Mark?"

She froze. Her breath tore at her throat and she stared up at him in shock, like a stunned rabbit. A stupid, pathetic rabbit, slow enough to be caught, but why did she feel as though she had been snared? There was nothing of which to be ashamed!

"There is no need to lie to me, Niece. I see much. Much that you do not understand, from the corners of this land to the plains of Rohan to the East."

But she could sit there no longer, letting him scrutinize her as though she were on display, as if she were another of his pawns to push around on a chessboard. It must be the air in this city, she thought, that makes me act so, because I am accustomed to my role as a pawn, but for the world she could not sit there under his probing grey eyes and feign indifference. "You dare," she hissed at him, suddenly and coldly furious, and then she turned her back on her Steward.

He could send his guards after her, but she would not acknowledge him, would not let herself become a pawn in her hands.

Amrothos would laugh at her, she thought.

"Drinks," he said, "you look half-dead."

She did not reply, and mutely leaned into him.

How did he know?

He must have seen the letters and read them, that was the only answer, but she knew it was more than that. Denethor was a cunning man, but a powerful one, one who did not stoop to reading a young girl's mail or even a Third Marshal's, for it was wholly innocent.

To the East, he had said. He saw beyond her letters, far beyond such trivialities. This was the voice of a man who desired to hold the world in his hands, to read its future.

It must have been some sort of tavern that he took her to, though Lothíriel had never been inside a tavern before, and he left her sitting at a table and then he was pushing a steaming mug into her hands.

"Drink," he said. "It's spiced cider."

Something possessed her to say, "I might need some ale."

"Well," he said, "I never thought the day would come when you would say so, but I suppose I must be the responsible older brother and say no. Lothíriel, this is my friend Taregon of Mandolin."

She realized that there was another man sitting across the table, one near her brother's age. He offered her a smile.

"Princess," he said.

She must have acknowledged him, for he nodded to her, and she fell into silence, tracing the rim of her mug and listening to their conversation. They were good friends, for their words rose easily and lightly, and they laughed often. He seemed a good man, if a little quieter than her brother, but Amrothos seemed to relax in his company. He was handsome, she supposed, with finely cut features and strong hands that he flexed on the tabletop.

Amrothos was telling the story of her falling asleep on the journey to Minas Tirith and the men both laughed, though Taregon's eyes crinkled at the corners. She thought his eyes were very kind.

"My brother will have you think that I am a poor horsewoman," she protested, "and that is not so!"

"I suppose not," he agreed, "although you were terrified of your first pony!"

"I was not!"

"She wouldn't go near the poor beast for a while month," Amrothos told Taregon.

"Horrors," she said crossly. "But I am an excellent rider now."

"Yes," he said, "I will give you that, though you do not enjoy it."

"Because my horse is old and stupid!"

They both laughed again and then she did, ruefully. "Or I used to enjoy it," she amended, "I did, 'member?"

"When we spent the summer in Rohan," he said, "yes, I remember." To Taregon he explained, "When she was but nine years old we went to Edoras for the summer."

"So you have told me," said the other man. "Is the ale as good as they say?"

"Better!" laughed Amrothos, "though I was scarcely fourteen then!"

"He has been drunk since the day he was born," said Lothíriel, straight-faced, surprised at her own levity.

"Of course he has," said Taregon, "I never doubted it."

"You two are good friends?" she asked.

"Yes," said Amrothos, "we met some years ago, on one of those terrible marches. He has somewhat of a good head for the drink."

"And that recommends him to you," she said, but smiled at Taregon.

"Of course, Princess," he said.

She flexed her fingers. "Amrothos, I think I will go to the library now," for though he did not seem to mind his younger sister's company, she thought he would prefer to be with his friend.

"Lothíriel," he said, and she turned. "Are you well?"

She paused, considering, but she did not know the answer herself. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, I am well."

The cold air was like a blow to her face as she stepped outside.

If you are one of those rare souls who happens to be reading this story, please review! I will love you forever. I would love your feedback, especially on the characterization!

Best!

-claire