A/N: The story begins to pick up here! Thanks to all who reviewed- you guys make my day! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, if you liked it or disliked it and why, what I could do to improve it.
I don't own anything; I am merely playing around in Tolkien's world.
Nostos
-6-
February 3019
"Your land must be a realm of peace and content, and there must gardeners be in high honor." (The Two Towers, The Window of the West)
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"Great harm is this death to Minas Tirith, and to us all. That was a worthy man! All spoke his praise. He came seldom to the Mark, for he was ever in the wars on the East-borders; but I have seen him. More like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor he seemed to me, and likely to prove a great captain of his people when his time came." (The Two Towers, The Riders of Rohan)
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"Courage is found in unlikely places." (The Fellowship of the Ring, Three is Company).
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"You tell me that you are weak. I would say that you are stronger than you could ever imagine..."
-Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth
When she went to leave that morning for the Houses of Healing, another guard made to follow her and she stopped. "Where is Dánaron?"
"He is ill, my lady. Recovering. But I am to escort you-,"
Brusquely she said, "No. Bring me to him."
"My lady," he began.
"I said, I wish to see my guard."
He bowed.
The guards were housed in the back, and she followed the guard up the stairs and down a narrow hallway. The man knocked and then allowed her to pass. She felt vaguely discomfited, for the room was close and stuffy.
"Princess," said Dánaron. He did not rise from where he laid, propped against the bed. Across the room was another empty bed. If he was surprised to see her, he said nothing, nor did his face betray any emotion.
"I did not mean to intrude," she said. The room was sparsely furnished, but she drew up a stool and settled on it as though it were a throne, clasping her hands in her lap. "Are you ailed?"
"I taxed myself," he said.
"Oh?"
"My back," he said. "I did not intend to distress you, Highness." A quick flash of a smile, gone just as swiftly. "That- drunk- was stronger than I believed. I am sorry I could not accompany you today."
She felt rather foolish, but said, "I thought I might have offended you."
"Nothing of the sort," he said, "I will be better by tomorrow." She perceived a bit of warmth in his eyes, though.
"Forgive me if I am rude, but why did my brother send you to guard me if you are not well? That is, I am sure you are a very good guard, but surely injured…"
"It was a fall from a horse," he said. "Your brother is a good man, my lady princess. I am sure he did not realize the danger you would be in."
"What are you, then? A nursemaid?"
"I think not." Looking closer, she saw that his face was drawn in pain, that it was a map of faint lines that sketched out a life of pain and sadness.
"Then what are you?"
"Very sad," he said. "And very tired. I am no longer young, Princess."
"Are you feeling quite all right?" she blurted out. "I didn't mean- what I meant was, you needn't explain if you don't wish."
"Thank you, Princess," he said, "but I do wish. Do you know, I taught the prince Erchirion to wield a sword?"
She shook her head silently.
"Once a fall could not have knocked me off my feet," he said, "but this one did, and I will never ride off to fight Orcs again. But your brother would not have me dismissed."
Lothíriel was not a kind person, but she understood dignity, clinging to propriety when it was all she had left, and she recognized a kindred spirit. "Now you are being ridiculous. If you think Erchirion sent you here as a pretense, you clearly do not know me."
"No," he said somewhat ruefully, "the prince told me you should be little trouble. Obviously he is not well acquainted with you."
"I am no trouble at all! I could have dealt with that drunkard myself," she said.
"Of course," he said. He looked very tired.
"Lay down," she ordered, "and I will tell you a story."
"You do not know any stories."
"I know one," she said, "the story of Helm Hammerhand."
"Helm Hammerhand?"
She smirked and folded her hands in her lap. "A very good friend told it to me once."
"Very well, then." He very gently eased himself back into bed and she cast about for words.
"In the Third Age, the year two -,"
"No, no, Princess," said Dánaron, "this is no history. It is a story."
"Then I cannot begin," she said.
"Once upon a time," he suggested.
"Once upon a time," she said, "there was a king named Helm Hammerhand. He was the king of all the Mark…"
Haltingly she told him of Freca, the lord who wished his power to rival that of the king himself, of the marriage he attempted to force the king to agree to between Freca's son and Helm's daughter, but the king smote his enemy with a single blow of his fist. Éomer had written her of the story and his words gave it color she had never found in the histories she had read; she could almost hear him telling it, his voice instead of hers, arching with the tale, dropping as Helm declared Wulf, son of Freca, an enemy of Rohan. "When they found the king's body at last," she said, "his eyes were open, readied for battle, and the Rohirrim say that his ghost still wanders the land, waiting to vanquish its foes."
There was silence.
"You tell it well, Princess."
"Do I?" she asked, pleased. "I did not do half bad, then!"
He smiled very briefly. "You must go, Princess, or else Mistress Ioreth will have your head."
"I know." She rose, brushing off her skirts. "I will expect you to recover soon."
Ioreth was indeed livid and Lothíriel had to endure a complete lecture as she had never received before, for the mistress of the healers was sharp-tongued and verbose, liable to talk for hours if she were not stopped. Lothíriel folded her hands meekly in her apron and listened.
"Short-handed as it is!" added the old lady, glaring. "Princess you might be, but we need every hand! If you say you will come, you will come."
"Yes, Mistress Ioreth," she said.
"Good. Come with me. I need your help."
"Mine?"
"Yes. There is no one else, though I would rather more experienced hands than yours. I hope you will not vomit, for that would be a sore trial for our patient. Your friend the lady Kallista at least is a good healer, for all that she is young. She has never missed a day. You can sew tolerably well, can you not?"
"Very well," she said peevishly.
"Cloth, perhaps."
"You want me to stitch a wound?"
"It is quite simple. Even you could manage it. Don't fret, dear, it isn't very difficult, as long as you keep your wits about you."
The room was well-lit and warm; the man who laid on the bed looked at them warily, his face pained.
"I have given him some drink to quiet him," said Ioreth, and Lothíriel saw the large gash that ran up his hand. "A simple cut, no tendons or muscles. I will be by to check on you soon." And just like that, she was gone, leaving Lothíriel standing speechless.
Of course she had had some practice; one of the older healers had taken a day teaching her to stitch wounds, even the most complicated ones, to disinfect cuts, how to apply bandages, and taken her through another amputation, though Lothíriel had promptly been sick into a spare bed linen out in the garden where no one could see her. But now she stood over the bed alone, needle threaded.
She cleared her throat. His eyes were hazy, when she first slid the needle through skin he jerked from her.
"Stay where you are," she said firmly and rested her weight across his body. He closed his eyes, nodded, and murmured something incomprehensible. It was a long, torturous process for them both; he shuddered in pain with each jab of the needle, and her fingers became sweaty and she struggled to keep her grip. She flinched with every stroke, feeling his arm quiver underneath her needle, for this was not cloth but living flesh that she was sewing, and she had never been more relieved to tie a knot in her thread. When she stepped away from him, he let out a long, ragged breath and said, "'S it over yet?"
"Yes," she said, and then, steadying her voice, "yes, it's over."
He did not thank her, but she did not expect thanks.
She had come to hate working in the Houses of Healing. She hated washing the dirtied linens; soiled with human waste and blood and pus; she hated emptying and cleaning the reeking bedpans. Sponging the filth off the patients made her want to be sick, and every quiver of the flesh as she stitched a wound made her stomach roll. Her days grew long and miserable, and she was jealous of Kallista's effortless cheer and patience. The other girl loved bandaging wounds, holding out knives for the healers, changing dirtied sheets, helping to wash a particularly filth-encrusted street urchin.
Lothíriel did not, and so when she saw the sky turning dark she gratefully hung up her apron to leave.
"Lothíriel." It was one of the healers, Mistress Ivorel, a tall, patient woman who spoke little and never to Lothíriel. "Come with me."
The man who lay on the bed looked strangely familiar, but it was not until she looked more closely that she recognized him.
The drunk who had dared to touch her at the market. She tasted bile and said, "What do you want of me? I am to return home."
Mistress Ivorel was very gently cleaning his foot and when Lothíriel glanced at it, she wanted to be sick. It was crushed: bloody and mangled. No healer could make it right. It would have to be amputated, else infection would set it. His face was drawn in pain and he cried out something unintelligible even at Mistress Ivorwel's slight touch. She was one of the gentlest healers in the Houses, and whenever Lothíriel saw her, the woman's face was always set in quiet compassion for her patients.
"There are few healers remaining," said Mistress Ivorel. She nodded to the flask she had brought with her and Lothíriel recognized it as part wine, part poppy extract. She uncorked the flask and held it to the man's lips. He drank greedily. "You will need to help me."
"Help? I can't-,"
"You will, Princess," said Ivorel very quietly but very sternly. She held the thick blade to the candle flame to cleanse it and Lothíriel felt her stomach roll in anticipation. "Hold him."
He was filthy and she could still feel his hands roaming about her waist and chest. "No. I can't."
"Now."
Very gingerly she put her hands on his chest to steady him.
"Harder," said Ivorel.
She leaned against him, her arms on the filthy fabric of his shirt, hating his ragged breaths even in semi-unconsciousness. The poppy was taking hold of him, slowly but steadily, but he jerked slightly when Ivorel began to cut. She could hear the knife as it sliced through skin and then grinding as it hit bone; Ivorel did not flinch and continued to cut, slowly and methodically. The poppy was numbing the man; she turned her head away from Ivorel and the red-gleaming blade and saw his face. It was at peace, only a hint of pain about the mouth, and she saw that it was an old face, reddened and coarse by drink. His hands twitched. She kept her eyes fastened on his face and wondered what he had seen in her, why he had seized her arm and dragged her away. Did he find her pretty? Or did he think her a common prostitute? Perhaps he had not thought at all. Perhaps he had merely been drunk.
The tang of blood lay heavy in the air, assaulting her senses. She could smell coppery blood and sweat and ale, smoke from the candle and faint stench of human waste. On her own skin she could smell the tiniest hint of lavender, the soap she liked to use.
"Bandages," said Ivorel, "quickly, now."
She groped for them, lying on the table, and then she saw the stump of his leg.
"I fainted," she said, pushing away her water goblet, and raised her hand to the maid. "Wine."
Amrothos raised his eyebrows. The distance between them was stilted and so thick as to be almost tangible, but he still asked, "What happened?"
"Another amputation. A horse stepped on his foot and it was infected."
Her brother grimaced and indicated the platter of stewed meat. "Beef?"
"No." She felt a little sick at the thought. "Mistress Ioreth was furious."
She had woken to the old lady's temper; the healer had accused her of being nothing but a spoiled princess, good for nothing but sewing and dancing. Something had taken hold of her tongue and she had answered that she liked to dance and sew, thank you very much. Mistress Ivorel had appeared then, her face more sympathetic, and she had laid a cool hand against Lothíriel's cheek and told her to go home.
"Being a healer requires a certain stomach."
"I'm better in the kitchens. But I don't like it at all." She took a sip of her wine and thought she should drink more often. It was a nice feeling. "I don't think I want to go back."
He nodded. "All right. You needn't." His face was clearer now, but he still turned away from her.
"How is Lord Taregon?" she asked tentatively.
"He is well." A pause. His jaw twitched. "Perhaps you and Kallista would care to come riding with us sometime. Or to dine."
She thought of that, sitting across the table from her brother's lover, looking him in the eye. "Perhaps. I am not sure that I could. Yet."
"I know it is strange," said Amrothos very quietly, "but surely, in the face of what rises in the East, we must find love were we can, even in the strangest of places." His eyes pled with her when he asked, "Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said, just as softly. "I think I do."
Kallista came to call on her the next morning, her face wreathed in hesitancy. Lothíriel received her in the sitting room as though they were two young ladies who liked to gossip and sew and go to balls together, yet Kallista wore the same drab colors she wore every day to the Houses of Healing.
"I heard what happened," said Kallista quietly. "I am sorry."
"Yes. So am I." She focused on her stitches, the intricate white lines feathering through the waves. Here they hovered for just a moment before they broke. "I sent a message to say I would not return."
"We are grateful for your help."
"I learned much."
"Well," Kallista said awkwardly, "I suppose I shall go, then. I just came to apologize. And say I shall miss you."
Lothíriel suddenly felt very lonely, watching Kallista rise and turn away from her, but then the other woman glanced back. "They wished to test your mettle."
"What?"
"It is what they do to all the new healers," she explained. "They did it to me. To see if you are strong enough."
"Well, I guess I am not."
"You are a Princess. They expected very little of you. You did not mind washing the linens or stitching wounds or caring for the children."
"But I did," she said, "I hated every moment of it."
"Why did you do it, then?"
"Because," she searched very slowly for the words, "I thought I might find purpose there. I see the world around me- my father, my brothers- they ride to defend our country, yet I can do nothing. I would not live a life of uselessness."
"There are other-,"
"I won't go back."
"Very well." Then Kallista came and very gently folded Lothíriel into her arms, awkwardly, pulling her head to her shoulder, for Lothiriel was still seated, and after a moment she let herself be embraced. "I hope we will still be friends." Then she was gone, silent in her plain wool skirts, disappearing as if a mere spirit.
"You know," she said to the ever-present shadow at her shoulder, "I think she's the first friend I've ever had. Well, the first real one."
"You have had imaginary friends, then, my lady?"
She thought of Éomer, the best friend she could have asked for, but still not a friend. "In a way."
"There is more than one kind of purpose," he said.
"But I can't find mine. Or my courage."
He did not answer.
"If I were truly brave, I would go back to the Houses and grit my teeth and do it. But I won't do it. It makes me sick to see the blood."
"Then find another purpose."
"Where should I look?"
He proffered his arm and she took it. She could see the pain in his tightly drawn face and ached for him, but she understood pride and said nothing.
Outside she said, "May we sit? I feel dizzy," and patted the bench. Of course he saw through her, but it was a game they both understood and accepted. "Why are we here?"
"Your mother liked her garden very much," said Dánaron very mildly. "Often we would see her working through the day."
"She cared for the herbs," said Lothíriel, "for the healers-,"
He smiled briefly.
"But I don't know the first thing about herbs. Or plants."
"Come summer," he said, "I will teach you."
"You are a herbalist as well as as a soldier?" she asked, smiling.
"My wife," he said.
"Oh." He had yet to tell her and she had yet to ask; it was another of their unspoken understandings.
"I like the sun," she said, "and I think I am not afraid of getting dirty."
"No, Princess?"
"No!" She stood to catch the weak rays of the sun, the faint warmth and impulsively she beamed at him. "You speak little, but only a fool would not listen."
"And you, my lady Princess, speak with a honeyed tongue. Only a fool would trust you."
She laughed.
The days faded, not peacefully, but passed they did, and the shadow crept onward until even those faint hours of sun began to wither away, and despair began to close around them.
It was the fever that brought Kallista again to her door early one morning, her face tired and grey. She was oddly quiet when the maid showed her in and did not seem to care that the maid had just shaken Lothíriel awake moments earlier when the lady of Mandolin was announced. Gathering her robe about her, Lothíriel said, "Are you well?"
"Please come back," said Kallista immediately. "The fever has spread and we are too few to care for everyone who comes."
"I am no healer," she said.
"I know." Kallista hesitated, her eyes pleading. "I know. And I would not ask you were it not important. I am leaving now, for I cannot delay, but even one more pair of hands would help. The more experienced healers will be administering linens, but we need hands to wash linens, empty bedpans, and bring water."
"I will meet you there," said Lothíriel, though she wanted nothing more than to send Kallista away.
"Thank you."
Dread knotted in her stomach as she scraped her hair away from her face and dressed. She did not want to go.
She could just stay here; no one would blame her.
Her feet moved of their own volition, taking her to fling her cloak over her shoulders, and then Dánaron was, as always, following her, opening the door for her.
"I don't know what came over me," she said to him. "Am I very brave?"
"No," he said. "Unless you find washing linens particularly daunting."
"Boring, actually. Is that very terrible of me?"
"Not especially. And you would admit it."
The wind whipped at her cloak.
Inside was very warm and more crowded than she had ever seen it; white-aproned healers whirled about, carrying trays and bowls and linens. To her surprise, the healer in charge directed her to bring water to the rooms.
"Cold water," she said. "They must drink water."
She saw Kallista, though only briefly, and one of the other healers explained to her that the fever was not life-threatening as long as the patients were cared for.
She did what they wanted of her. She brought water and sat with them until they drank, held basins as they vomited, gathered sweat-soaked linens, cleaned bedpans. She hated every moment of it, and had it not been for Dánaron- bringing her fresh water, sitting with barely lucid patients- she would have left before the first hour had passed.
Afternoon, then evening.
Lothíriel watched a woman die. The fever brought sufferers to a state of half-sleep, half-unconsciousness, where they wandered in a strange dark place. Some did not emerge. She was an old woman, old and frail and very tired, and for all Lothíriel's ministrations she did not wake, would not take the water she held to her lips, and Dánaron took her arm very gently, saying, "Princess, she is gone."
It was the very young and the very old who passed, and those who had no hope.
Night fell.
She was so very tired and the House was very warm; it brought sweat to her forehead and her breath came fast. "I think I need to lay down," she said, and then she was in a strange bed, set with the pure white linens of the House.
Trees. Shade. Her bare feet crackled on dry leaves and then she stood atop a grassy hill. Shading her eyes, she made out a river and above it soared a few lazy birds, stretching their wings to the sun. She sat down, stretched out her legs, and flung a stick away from her.
She was waiting for someone, though she did not know who.
Yes, who was she waiting for?
Frowning, she stood up, for she did not know this place, not the sun shining on her face, not the rowan trees that circled the clearing. She did not know how she came to be here. Perhaps she had gotten drunk, though Éomer said waking up after getting truly drunk brought on a headache like no other. Or perhaps it was one of Amrothos's silly tricks, bringing her here when she was asleep.
Voices. She heard voices.
"Hello!" she called, gathering up her skirt in one hand and running towards the voices. She saw two figures some distance away from her, a man and a child; the man's back was to her, but he was tall and broad, a cloak falling from his shoulders.
"Hello!" she cried again.
They did not turn. She was running very fast now and then suddenly her foot caught on a stone and she was tumbling down the hill, through stones and leaves and twigs that battered her face and hair until she slowed and moaned a little, then pushed herself back to her feet. She ached and her hair was tangled with bits of leaves and twigs.
She looked up at the hill. The two still stood there, but the child was backing away. She felt a prickle of anxiety, but gathered herself as a princess of Dol Amroth to confront them, panting as she mounted the hill.
"Hello," she said, drawing closer, and then suddenly the child was gone. Vanished. Where had he gone? She spun around very quickly but he was nowhere to be seen. Foreboding began to gather somewhere in her stomach like a heavy knot.
The man turned and suddenly she recognized him and cried his name. "Boromir!"
But he did not hear her, pushing past her to peer behind the rocks and trees, his face so wild that she almost did not recognize him. "Miserable trickster!" he cried. "Let me get my hands on you! Now I see your mind. You will take the Ring to Sauron and sell us all!"
"Boromir!" she cried, but he was shouting over her, and she reached for him to steady him, for he seemed half-mad, his mouth flecked with foam.
"Curse you and all halflings to death and darkness!" he shouted and then he fell and she ran to him, grasping his hand.
"Boromir," she said, "get up. Get up, please." She was suddenly terrified and clung to him like a child might. "Boromir?" He lay on the ground very still for a moment, this great strong man who knew no fear. Then he made to stand up and she helped, grasping his hand to pull him to his feet. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to lean on her.
"What have I said!" he cried. "What have I done? Frodo, Frodo! Come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back!"
He was gone, running to the woods.
It was a dream.
She knew it was a dream and she felt very sick. Cursed am I, she thought, forced to watch and do nothing, and something stirs. Take me from this place, she thought, take me and let me see no more. Draw the veil across my eyes.
She sank to her knees and closed her eyes. She was acutely aware of the grass beneath her knees, the whisper of the wind through the trees, the crying of the birds. It did not fade. Why did it not fade? She knelt and listened to the sounds that pressed upon her, the wind stirring her hair, the faint chill that settled on her shoulders.
Then she heard it. The horn. The horn of the Gondor, the white horn.
"Boromir!" She was scraped and bruised and confused, but still she ran towards the sound, through the trees and the thickets to the sound of her cousin's horn.
Once, when she was very young, she had gone to Minas Tirith with her family and, playing tag with her brothers, she'd fallen and scraped her knees and hands raw. It had been Boromir who found her and gathered her up in his arms, for though her cousin was tall and strong and broad, he could be surprisingly gentle, almost as kind as Faramir.
"We can't have my lovely cousin so sad, now, can we?" he'd asked, and gently washed off her scrapes and bandaged them.
With Boromir she felt safe. He was too huge to ever falter; larger than life.
And yet she was terrified, though she knew he was strong and unfaltering and great. Running as fast as she could, her breath rasping at her throat, she had no breath to call his name, but she could hear in the distance the clash of metal on metal and then a new voice calling, "Elendil! Elendil!"
She did not care. She could think only of Boromir.
Bursting through the thickets she saw her cousin as he staggered backwards, a black-feathered arrow catching him in the chest, one of many. And then he fell, sinking to his feet, and it was as though a great ship was sinking.
She said his name again.
Running footsteps; a man wielding a great long sword dropped to his knees beside Boromir, pressing her cousin's hand. Boromir spoke to him, low and faltering, and Lothíriel drew nearer. It had not dawned on her to cry yet or to realize that, though this was a dream, it was truth as well.
"Farewell, Aragorn!" Boromir said, his voice faltering and unsteady. "Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed."
"No! You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith will not fall!" He pressed a kiss to Boromir's forehead as liege lord might. "Which way did they go? Was Frodo there?"
Boromir did not respond, for his eyes were falling shut.
"Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard!" The man's voice was edged with unarticulated grief and he bowed his head to Boromir's.
She drew nearer still and reached for her cousin's hand. "Boromir!"
Perhaps he hovered on the brink between life and death and for that reason he could see her, but his eyes flickered for a moment and caught hers. Then he was saying, "Come with me, Lothíriel," and though his body did not move, his hand caught hard on hers. He turned her and she saw not the trees but the ocean and upon the waters sailed the black ships: the Corsairs of Umbar.
"Will this come to pass?" she asked.
She could feel his strength behind her. "Go to Dol Amroth."
"But the Corsairs are coming!"
"You are my cousin," he said, "you will find the strength. Now go." She felt his hands on her hair as if in benediction and then she was alone, staring down at the body of her cousin.
She woke to a faint grey haze and a strange girl seated at her bedside. She was small-boned and very pale, with long black hair and when she looked up, Lothíriel saw that her eyes so deep a blue as to be black.
"You are awake," said the girl. "Good."
"Yes." Her tongue felt very thick and dry. The girl held a mug to her lips and she drank the water greedily, though much of dribbled down her chin. Her arms felt very heavy. "Was I fevered?"
"Yes," said the girl, "but it was not serious. You do not look like a Princess."
"No? What should a princess look like?"
"Beautiful," said the girl firmly. But then a smile suddenly sprang to her lips; an enigmatic expression. "Well."
"I am not beautiful?"
"You are very pretty."
She frowned. She was not sure she liked this girl.
"The Queen is very beautiful."
"There is no queen of Gondor." Perhaps the girl was mad.
"No," she agreed and then giggled shrilly. "There is no queen of Gondor."
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Oh," said the girl, "forgive me. I am sometimes very forgetful. I am Lalaith."
"Are you an elf?"
The girl laughed. "An elf! You are a very silly princess, too."
She closed her eyes and suddenly her dream roared back to her; Boromir's voice ringing in her ears. "What is the date, Lalaith?"
"Tomorrow will be the last of February," she said. "You dreamt, did you not?" She giggled again. "Oh, no, it wasn't fever. You are almost as mad as I am, silly Princess. They say it is the blood of Númenór that makes you dream so, just like Faramir."
"Where is my guard?"
"I will have him brought to you." The girl tilted her head and suddenly Lothíriel felt very uncomfortable under those eyes. "You have been a very silly Princess." Then her eyes rolled back into her head and in a strange, deep voice, she said, "Go to your home and look to the South, for they come."
"Lalaith?" she asked, reaching for the girl's arm, but it was limp.
Then abruptly she straightened. "Yes, Lothíriel?"
"You-,"
"Oh, yes. They call it the madness. I will call your guard, then, shall I?"
"Yes," she said, stunned. Lalaith's eyes were calm and unconcerned.
"Goodbye, Princess," said Lalaith with a sudden, beatific smile. She blew a kiss and all but danced out of the room, skirts flaring behind her.
She pressed herself to her feet with some difficulty. She felt a little dizzy, but that was the side effect of the fever.
"Hush, lie still." It was Mistress Ivorel; in her hands she bore a tray with a flask and bandages.
"I need to go."
"Sit, then, for the moment." The woman set down the tray and helped her to perch on the edge of the bed. "You are lucky. It was only a very mild fever."
"I am sorry," she said, "I did not mean to faint, truly!"
Ivorel smiled slightly. Lothíriel realized that her eyes were very sad, though the healer was not very old. "I am sure you did not. I am not upset with you."
"Good," she said. "That man... did he survive?"
"Yes, he is quite fine." Ivorel shook her head slightly. "A drinker, poor man."
"Surely it is his own fault that he drinks!"
"Highness, most turn to drink because of something dark within themselves. The drink is just a symptom of the true disease."
"And what was his disease?"
Ivorel paused. She had the gravity of someone much older, someone who had seen the ills of the world, and Lothíriel wondered what had happened to make her so sad. "Loss. He has lost something, or someone, very precious to him."
"I lost my mother," said Lothíriel. "I did not turn to drink!"
"No," said Ivorel. "But drink is only one symptom. Anger is another. So is loneliness, turning away from the world."
She could think of no answer.
"I hope I have not offended," said Ivorel. "Good day." She bowed, took up her tray, and left Lothíriel in silence.
She did not wait long, for she heard footsteps outside her door.
"Princess Lothíriel?" It was Dánaron, pushing open the door to her room. He bowed. "I am glad to see you well."
"How long have I slept?"
"Three days. You came in and out, though."
"I do not remember."
"No. You told the lady Kallista that her nose was purple."
"What?" She took his arm and leaned on it a little heavily. "Does that strain your back?"
"I am well."
"Good," she said. "Take me to the Citadel."
For once he looked startled.
"I need to speak to my uncle. My cousin is dead."
"Princess-,"
"Now!" She was stunned by the rising fury in her voice, but he did not flinch.
"As you wish."
Were it not for her faintly spinning head, she would have run all the way to the Citadel, but as it was, she would have stumbled several times were it not from her guard's steadying arm. The guards of the Citadels must have recognized her, but still they moved to bar her path.
"Let me in!" she said. "I must speak with my uncle."
"He does not wish to be disturbed," said one.
"I bring news of his son, the lord Boromir. I need to see the Steward!"
"The lord Boromir?" he asked, wavering.
"Stay here," she said to Dánaron, and, pressing past the hesitating guards, alone she went in through the hall and up the long, winding stairway to the Tower of Ecthelion. Her hurried footsteps echoed loudly in the ringing silence of the stairwell and she suddenly felt very small and alone, her breath coming fast and harsh in her throat as she grasped the rail heavily.
Boromir.
At the top was a door and she flung it open without hesitating.
Her uncle sat with his back to her, hunched over something he cradled in his hands, illuminated by an eerie orange glow. She felt the press of the darkness about her, so close that she staggered backwards, gasping, swaying, groping for some support. Her eyes clouded.
Denethor whirled around, growing very tall and dark until he was almost unrecognizable. "You!" he cried, at first very loudly and terribly, and then said, more quietly and much more dangerously, "You dare disturb me!" And then his hands were on her throat and she suddenly could not breathe, scrabbling away on the polished floor away from the demon that was her uncle.
And then the hands were gone and her uncle stared at her with huge, wide eyes. "Finduilas? Is it-,"
"Uncle!" she cried, her voice a pained rasp. "I dreamt of Boromir. Boromir."
He did not see her, his fingers lifting to her cheek in a softer gesture, his face so full of love that she cringed.
"No," she said, "no, it's me. Your niece. Imrahil's daughter. Lothíriel."
His fingers dug into her wrists so hard that they broke the skin. "The end is near," he said, his eyes somewhere far away. "Death comes for us all. From the East, black ships of the south-,"
"The Corsairs? Uncle?"
"They are coming," he said, "they will burn and pillage, they come from the river and they will destroy us all!" His mouth was flecked with saliva. "They come now, but what can we do, little pawns that we are? Minas Tirith with burn!"
They stared at each other and then he said, "Finduilas. My love."
She screamed and pushed him away, but his hold on her tightened.
"Uncle! Let me go!" She flung herself away from him and down the long, winding stairs, away from the strange orange glow of the Tower and her uncle who knelt on the floor, gasping out a name that was not hers. She was crying, her sobs tearing at her chest, stumbling and nearly falling, steadying herself on the railing, collapsing onto the cold polished floor of the long hall to gather herself.
Mad he might be, but so was she.
The Corsairs were coming.
She knelt there on the floor, her skirt pooled around her knees as she gasped for breath. She could not move but she could not stay there lest her uncle come and find her.
The Corsairs were coming.
She would not go back.
She could not go back. They would come and kill and burn; they had come before, killing and raping and tearing apart the land. She smelled smoke and blood and raw terror, billowing smoke that rushed to envelop the sky. She wished to curl around herself and close her eyes, pretend that she was a child and that nothing could harm her. She was small; her mother would come to her and sing her to sleep, tuck the quilts around her. She would be warm and safe and sheltered.
She was no warrior. She was no great captain, nor did she want to be. She was a girl who liked to garden and embroider and read. She liked quiet.
Éomer.
He would tell her that anyone could be brave. He loved his country above all else and no service was too great for the sake of his people. Surely she could do no less.
She was a princess of Dol Amroth. She stood up and pushed open the doors of the Citadel, stepping out into the courtyard where the guards waited.
A/N: Well? Interesting? Hopefully the story is beginning to pick up. Please review!