Lothíriel, the princess of Dol Amroth, struggles to find courage in the dark days of the War of the Ring, aided by her brother, her old friend Éomer of Rohan, and her strange dreams. Though she is a mere footnote in history, her struggle will shift the course of the War.
A/N: I own nothing. I have changed the rating due to language in the next few chapters. Also, the views of my characters do no reflect my own.
Enjoy, and thanks to all of you who reviewed! I would love it if you were to take thirty seconds to tell me what you liked and/or disliked about this chapter, the writing style, and the characters.
Best!
Nostos
-4-
January 3019
"You ask me of the Corsairs. They were once men of Númenór like I, but then Númenór fell and the Black Númenóreans rose to power, those who would not trust the Elves, and after the Kin-Strife in Gondor, they turned to darkness. They dwell in Umbar, south of Dol Amroth, and for as long as my family can remember they have preyed just beyond our shores on the merchant ships.
I often dream of their black ships, for when I was young they raided our lands and burned the villages. From the palace I could see the rising black smoke and knew what it was to fear. I went to my room but I could still hear the screaming and I could still smell the smoke.
A princess of Dol Amroth should not fear, yet I am afraid of the Corsairs. If the time comes when they swarm our lands, I would run. I hope you do not judge me, for I would run and not look back. I would not stand by my home."
-Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark
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"For though all lore was in these latter days fallen from the fullness of old, the leechcraft of Gondor was still wise, and skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and al such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to, save old age only." (The Return of the King, The Houses of Healing)
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"Denethor is of another sort, proud and subtle, a man of far greater lineage and power, though he is not called king." (The Two Towers, Minas Tirith)
In the morning the sun was bright and she wondered if she had only dreamt her brothers' whispered conversation, for their faces were clear and unworried as they ate breakfast and Erchirion readied himself to leave, along with the ten Swan Knights he had brought with him. She watched her brother silently but saw no shadow of fear in his movements, no hesitation, no uncertainty.
The horses brought, Erchirion turned to her and said, "Lothíriel, I would like you to meet Dánaron. He is to be your guard in Minas Tirith, and he is to go with you everywhere. Do you understand?"
"A guard?" she said. "Why do I need a guard?"
"This city is not safe anymore," he said, though one man could hardly protect her if that was so.
She looked at her new guard with some distaste. Of course they had guards at home, but only when she so chose, and never had one followed her everywhere. He was tall, perhaps forty years of age, dark-haired and dark-eyed with the weathered skin of a soldier, and his face was very serious, betraying absolutely no emotion.
"Everywhere?" she repeated. His face did not move though she spoke of him.
"Everywhere," confirmed Erchirion. "You would do well to obey us in that." He took the reins in hand and mounted easily; he was an excellent rider and the big gelding moved at the slightest touch of his hands.
"Is that a threat?" she asked.
"It could be. Give me a kiss, sister, and wish me well."
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "The Valar go with you, Erchirion. Be safe." Even if you are at times ridiculously overprotective, she thought.
"And you," he said, "watch yourself. I do not trust this city. Dánaron will keep you safe."
He and Amrothos clasped each other's forearms, and then Erchirion raised his hand and they were gone, picking their way through the streets. She watched them as they made their way to the Rammas Enchor until the waving silver swan had vanished to a speck on the plains and nothing was left of Erchirion and his men except a few faint black dots moving steadily across the fields.
"Well," said Amrothos, and abruptly he turned and left her, but not before she saw the shadow that swept across his face.
"Amrothos-," she called after him, but he did not answer.
Then she looked at Dánaron. "Well," she said.
He did not reply, either.
It was rather like addressing a stone wall. "I am going to the Houses of Healing. I would like you to stay here."
As though he were a statue, only his mouth moved. "I will go with you, Your Highness."
"No," she said firmly, "you will only be in the way. I will go alone. It is quite safe."
Again his mouth moved, though his eyes did not. "It is not seemly for a princess to walk unescorted."
Damn the man! She would have kicked him in frustration were it not so unseemly, and she wondered if she saw a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Surely not. Erchirion must have told him exactly what phrases to use as persuasion, for that was the only argument that could possibly have swayed her.
"Well," she said, "you will have to help me."
His face did not waver.
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"Well, then," she said. The city was slowly coming to life; in the early grey hours of the morning the bakers and butchers were beginning to hawk their wares, their voices carrying to the sixth level to form a kind of music. She found that she did not love Minas Tirith, but there was a strange sort of rhythm to it, as though it was a melody to be sung.
She wore plain grey, a gown befitting a merchant's daughter rather than a princess, and her hair was severely scraped away from her face. As they made their way to the sixth level, Dánaron at her side, they received only a few curious looks, but that for the sword that hung at his side and not for her status.
It would be a busy day at the Houses of Healing; already Mistress Ioreth, the shriveled, quick-tongued crone who ran the Houses was giving out orders, unhesitant to give a tongue lashing where she thought it due. In the weeks that Lothíriel had come to the Houses, she herself had been on the receiving end of a few and found them very unpleasant.
"And who," demanded Ioreth, "is this?"
"This is my guard Dánaron," she answered, "and-,"
Suddenly Dánaron bowed. "I will help Princess Lothíriel."
"Hmph," said Ioreth, her raised eyebrows making her thoughts all to clear. "If you get in anyone's way, lad, you'll be out before you can bow once more, do you understand."
He bowed briefly.
"I work in the kitchens," she explained to him. He did not react, and instead watched her while she swung one of the heavy iron kettles off the stove to pour water into a basin. It never failed to amaze her how many linens the Houses used daily, but in the kitchens the women had formed a sort of camaraderie, though of course Lothíriel did not offer stories or songs of her own, but it contented her to listen.
At first the women were wary of the stranger in their midst, just as they had been with Lothíriel, and shot Dánaron uneasy glances, but then they resumed their chatter, talking of their husbands and children and lovers, the price of bread and bacon, tricks to save cloth when sewing, antics of unruly toddlers. Some of the stories were lewd and Lothíriel felt a blush creep up her face; one of the women noticed and called out to her, laughing. For a moment she was embarrassed and furious, and then she too began to laugh a little.
"Don't worry yourself," said one woman kindly, "you're still a little thing yet."
"I'm already almost twenty," she protested.
"What!" said another, an older woman, plumper with red cheeks. "And not married yet? When I was your age I already had three babes!"
"And that was because you slept with all the neighbors when your husband was off," said a third.
"Not all," she replied.
Midday was quick and small; she sat in the gardens outside, concerned more with the open air than the food. Dánaron, of course, stood some distance away, but far enough that she could be alone. The weak sunlight gilded her face and she thought of the waves, of the seagulls.
Of the Corsairs.
The cheese turned to cold, greasy lead in her mouth and heavy in her stomach. She closed her eyes, remembering the letter she had written to Éomer some years ago of them, confessing the bone-chilling fear she felt when she saw their black ships on the horizon.
She should not be afraid, but she was.
Footsteps.
She opened her eyes. It was Kallista.
Her friend settled onto the bench beside her. "Hello. Lovely day, isn't it?"
"I suppose," she agreed. The silence stretched for a moment, and she said, "In Dol Amroth, the sun would be shining on the waves, and it would seem that the sea rises to meet the sky."
"The sea must be so huge!"
She looked in some surprise at Kallista. "You have never been?"
"No," she said, "I do not swim."
Impulsively Lothíriel grasped her hands. "Come visit me sometime. Bring your brother. I know Amrothos would like that very much."
"But Taregon has already been," said Kallista, "and though he would very much like to go, Amrothos does not think it appropriate."
"Already come?" she asked. "When? Why not?"
It seemed like Kallista flushed and she very quickly changed the subject. "I have a task for you."
"I thought I would be in the kitchens?" said Lothíriel. "Why-,"
"Yes, well, I thought you could use a rest. Your poor hands! You may always return to scrubbing if you wish."
Lothíriel looked at her hands and winced. She had always taken care to keep them soft and white, but the hot water and lye had reddened and chapped them until they were sore. Whenever she saw them she wondered exactly what the princess of Dol Amroth was doing scrubbing soiled linens like a common kitchen maid, but then she thought of the white-faced little boy waiting for his arm to be amputated.
"Come. Have you eaten your fill?"
"Yes," she said.
Kallista led her to a larger room and said, "These are the children whose mothers have died in childbirth."
Lothíriel looked inside. "Are there so many?"
"Oh, yes. Even with our leech craft, there are many mothers who are not strong enough to survive." A baby began to cry and Kallista leaned over the cradle.
"We are very short today- several of our women are fevered and I must help with an operation. You do not mind?"
"Of course not," she said. She had been taught to dance, to sew, to play the harp- surely she could care for a dozen babies, couldn't she?
Kallista left.
Then one of the babies began to cry. She went to him- he was a red-faced, wrinkled child, one of the ugliest she'd ever seen- and said, "Shhh, don't cry."
He began to wail even harder and very cautiously she picked him up, cradling him to her shoulder like she'd seen the nurse do with her nephew Alphros. "Shhh," she said, but he would not stop wailing.
Very gently she patted his back and then he shuddered. She felt sudden wetness on her shoulder.
He had spit on her!
"Oh," she said in carefully controlled dismay, smothering the squeak that came to her throat. "Oh-,"
Large but gentle hands took the baby from her; Dánaron's mouth was carefully neutral but his eyes laughed. "He burped, Your Highness."
She wiped at her shoulder. "Oh." So surprised at seeing her stone-faced guard move, she couldn't managed to say anything else.
He began to rock the baby and gradually the boy began to quiet, from wails to sobs, sobs to hiccoughs, and then into restful silence. Then the man laid him back down to sleep. He offered her a very small smile. "I've two of my own, Your Highness."
"Oh," she said again.
She fed the ones who woke warm goat's milk, spilling half of it across her apron until Dánaron again helped her steady the babies' heads. "Put a cloth on your shoulder first," he advised her.
They lapsed into silence and she thought that sleeping, their faces were smooth and innocent. Cling to this moment, she wanted to tell them, for she had an idea that the life of a motherless child would be harsh. Stillness descended on the room, blissful quiet.
"Do you like stories?" Still Dánaron's face was smooth.
"Well," she said carefully, "I suppose so."
"Your parents did not tell you stories?"
"My mother did. But she died when I was twelve."
He did not apologize, for which she was grateful. Apologies were awkward and frustrating. "Then I will tell you the story of Itarildë Celebrindal, who was the princess of Gondolin and the leader of the exiles at the Mouths of Sirion."
And he did.
The maid plaited her hair into dozen of braids and wound them into an intricate knot, then brushed powder across her face. Lothíriel's face in the mirror was unmoving and she stared into her reflection's dark grey eyes. They were not Elphir's silver or her father's blue, but a plain, cloudy grey, and she had never really liked them. The yellow light cast shadows across high cheekbones and the fine lines of her jaw; a serious face. Poised perhaps, but the hints of childhood-though she was nearly twenty- lingered about the mouth. It seemed she could never escape her childhood.
Holding her hands to the light of the tapers, she winced, for despite the lotions she had rubbed into her skin, her hands were still red, cracked, and chapped. She drew on her gloves and hoped no one would notice.
"My lady," said the maid, holding out a milky string of pearls. "Will you wear them?"
She looked at them with some consideration. They were, after all, hers; Imrahil had given them to her when she turned eighteen, for they had been her mother's. She took them, rolling the pearls between her gloved fingers, and then let them hang along the line of her collarbone. For a moment she looked like a young lady with her shoulders bared, her neckline scooping down her chest, her eyes very grave, and then she said, "No."
She looked like a young child playing dress up. She could not wear her mother's jewels. Or would not. She thought of her mother's pendant, the delicately shaped silver swan with the tiny, glittering diamond eye that had always hung around her neck, the necklace that had been her father's betrothal gift to her mother.
"Here," Imrahil had said, his face tight with grief, "she would want you to have it." He had turned away so she would not see his grief, but the pendant was heavy in her hand and her breath came fast and hard. She did not want it. Her mother had left her. She had left. Deserted them. Betrayed them.
"No," she said again, looking at the string of pearls. "Put them away."
Amrothos awaited her by the door; he wore dark blue and silver that set off his dark hair and swarthy skin. When he saw her, he smiled perfunctorily but she saw that his mind was elsewhere.
"You look lovely," he said. His voice was dead.
"Thank you," she replied, just as stiffly as he.
He held open the door.
"Ro," she said, the childish nickname she hadn't used for years, "won't you tell me what's wrong?"
He looked away. "You wouldn't understand."
"Please?"
"Take your cloak," he said, "it's cold."
They were silent but for their footsteps and their guards' behind them; the mist swirled about the pavement and shrouded the Citadel. Rising above the fog stood the Tower of Ecthelion, glowing eerily in the night.
The hall was wide and full of people, from minor nobles to the Steward himself. In the bright light Denethor's face seemed strangely drawn, as though he was folding in on himself, just as a burning scrap of paper crumpled about itself. As a prince, Amrothos was placed close to his uncle, and Lothíriel too sat merely five seats away from him, next to one of the elderly lords Amrothos liked to call "windbags," but in truth she rather liked the Lord of Dale Arnen.
"Tell me of your crop this year," she said, and he did so in minute detail and then spoke of the grain market and the trade routes. Lothíriel was a poor conversationalist and found herself at a loss when it came to young men, but the Lord of Dale Arnen seemed pleased with her opinions as to the harvest and coming rains. It was a remarkably pleasant dinner, or at least it would have been were it not for Amrothos, who seemed particularly pensive that evening. Whenever she glanced across the long tables at him, seated on Denethor's right, he seemed more engaged in tracing intricate patterns into his plate than his dinner companions.
In the years before, Lothíriel had never been parted from her family on state occasions, and when the dancing began her brothers ensured that she never had to sit out even one, and she suspected their friends were often made to do the same. But tonight Amrothos was too deeply sunk into his own thoughts to care for her, and so she danced the first set with the Lord of Dale Arnen (who wheezed through it all and stepped on her feet). She was about to make her way to speak to her brother when a young lady waylaid her, and for a moment she did not even recognize her friend.
"Kallista!" she exclaimed. "You look-,"
"Yes?" asked her friend.
"Lovely," she said with a real smile, for she rarely saw the lady of Mandolin dressed in anything but the drab greys and browns she wore to the Houses of Healing.
Kallista giggled a little bit. Her face shone, even underneath the faint dusting of powder she wore, and her curls had been arranged to drape across her bare shoulders, and her orange gown brought out her hazel eyes. "Thank you. I saw you were forced to sit through dinner with the Lord of Dale Arnen."
"Oh, truly, he isn't terrible," she protested, "I rather like him. He's very interesting."
"If you say so," said Kallista doubtfully, "though all he ever talks of is the average rainfall and iron output in Gondor."
"Yes," she said, "exactly."
Kallista raised her eyebrows, and Lothíriel turned to search for her brother.
"Where is Amrothos?" she asked. "I just saw him there!"
"Amrothos?" said Kallista. "I don't see him. Let me introduce you to-,"
The reply had come too quickly and Lothíriel reached out to grasp her friend's arm. Kallista's face was turned away and she was examining her hem as though it was suddenly the most intriguing piece of stitching she had ever seen.
So Kallista knew, this girl that Lothíriel had only just met. Who was she to Amrothos? How dare he tell Kallista a secret that he would even tell his own sister!
"I am," said Lothíriel with sudden venom, "so frustrated with this secret of his! You will tell me now what is the matter with him."
"Lothíriel," Kallista began, "it isn't my place to tell you-,"
Lothíriel might have struck the other girl and she had actually clenched a fist when she felt coldness trickle down her spine and she turned to where her uncle stood, silhouetted by the candlelight.
"Oh, dear," said Kallista, "he doesn't look well-,"
And then Denethor began to laugh, the laughter of a desperate, crazed man, and then he bellowed, "Get out!"
No one moved.
Then, louder, he screamed, "Get out! Warmongers and thieves and beggars and plotters- get out of my house!"
Well.
Then a hand took her elbow and as coolly as though asking for a dance, Dánaron appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and offered his other arm to Kallista. "My lady? I believe dinner has ended."
"I believe it has," she heard herself saying, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw her uncle sweeping out of the hall, his cloak like great black wings flaring behind him.
Outside was the closest to pandemonium a group of well-bred ladies and gentlemen could get, but Dánaron guided them to the edge of the crowd. Lothíriel stepped out of the way of a particularly round lady who seemed to be hysterical. The air was cool, damp, and cold, the mist hovering above them like an eerie canopy. The candlelight of the hall glowed hazily in the fog.
"How terrible," Kallista said, her eyes round in sympathy, "the poor man."
Footsteps: Amrothos and Taregon. Her brother's dark hair was in disarray.
"What happened?"
"The Steward threw us out," said Kallista, "poor man looked awful."
"Where were you?" asked Lothíriel. "You couldn't have missed it!"
"Outside," Amrothos said curtly. He would not meet her eyes. "Well, let's go, then. At least it's over."
"Princess." Taregon offered her a brief bow.
Amrothos led her away, his grip on her arm harder than necessary, and she shook him off. She was very rarely angry and even more rarely truly livid, but suddenly she could feel the rage boiling in her veins and she demanded heatedly, "What is the matter with you?"
"Not here," he said, "not here, Lothíriel."
She kept her voice low, deadly, and quiet. "No. You have avoided the subject for far too long."
"Lothíriel," he said, looking around at the crowd of people, lords and ladies and barons and duchesses and earls, knights and squires and maids, "wait until we get home."
"No." She did something very unseemly. She sat down on the damp ground with the grace of a newborn colt and said, "I am not moving until you tell me."
"No," he said. "Listen to me, Thiri." He knelt down beside her, taking her hands. "It has nothing to do with you. You will always be my baby sister, d'you hear me? You just- you just wouldn't understand."
"Of course I would."
"No," he said, "no, I don't think you would."
"I want you to tell me. Now. Please."
They had garnered a few curious glances, but the Steward's behavior was far more intriguing than that of the Dol Amroth siblings.
"All right," he said, "all right." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you remember," he asked her, "old Orodreth?"
"Of course I do," she said, "what about him?"
"You know he never married."
"Yes," she said, and then she understood with sudden, blinding certainty. "Oh." She was very dizzy and swayed a little when she stood up, but she would not touch him, would not let him take her hand.
"Dánaron," she called imperiously, "take me home now."
Amrothos remained crouched on the ground, hunched about himself as though in physical pain. "Thiri," he called after her, "Thiri-,"
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