Imrahil was a clever diplomat. Since his brother-in-law (Denethor, Steward of Gondor) was not interested in maintaining ties with their closest ally, Rohan, Imrahil decided he had to take action. His plan: unite the House of Dol Amroth with the House of Éorl, thereby securing a strong blood relationship between the two countries. A year after the birth of his daughter, Lothíriel, he sent a messenger to Théoden-King and initiated the process. Two years later, they agreed that Éomer, Théoden's nephew, would eventually marry Lothíriel since Théodred was much too old for the girl.
By that time, Éomer and Éowyn had been orphaned for a year. Hoping that a change of scenery might help the siblings find peace in their sadness, Imrahil invited them to his home to stay for at least three months. It also provided a chance for Éomer to meet Lothíriel, who was then only four.
For as long as he could remember, his mother brushed his hair every night while he or she chattered about the little details of the day. Even when he learned to brush his hair, he still liked his mother to do it. There was something about it that made him feel at peace. Maybe it was the even rhythm of the brushstrokes, his mother's touch, or just the fact that it was their thing. She did the same with Éowyn when Éowyn started growing hair.
He still remembered the day he heard his father died. He was practicing his swings in the courtyard when a lone rider arrived. He recognized Éothain.
Carefully sheathing his sword like he had been taught, he hurried over to Éothain. "Westu hal! What brings you here?" he asked.
"Where is your mother?" responded Éothain. "I must speak with her."
Thinking Éothain just had a very important message for his mother, he led Éothain to his mother's solar.
Théodwyn rose from her seat where she had been teaching Éowyn to mend holes. Noticing Éothain's solemn expression, she questioned, "What is the matter?"
"You may wish to hear the news on your own first," he replied.
At that, Éomer went to his seven-year-old sister, took her by the hand, and left the room. Not long after, he heard his mother scream. It sounded worse than when she was birthing Éowyn. Higher-pitched, like a dog yelping in pain. Then curses strangled by loud sobs.
She stopped brushing his and Éowyn's hair not long after the funeral. In fact, they barely saw her. Some days, he felt like it was only yesterday he practiced swordplay with father or have his mother scolding him for tracking mud in the house. Most days, it was like a distant dream. He talked with Éowyn a lot about their lives before it all changed. He even started brushing her hair since she was most comforted by it. She once offered to brush his hair, but he shook his head.
Then he heard his mother died. A few tears slid down his and Éowyn's cheeks during the burial ceremony. Everyone gazed at them with pity, he could tell, but he could care less. Perhaps he was numb to grief, but in all honesty, he lost his mother the day they heard their papa died.
The days following his mother's funeral was a blur. He and Éowyn moved to Edoras to live with his uncle. A few weeks later, they set off for a place called Dol Amroth since (as his uncle put it) they needed "a change of scene, a change of pace, something new."
And so they went with Théodred and other necessary members of their house (like their nurse and his tutor). There was nothing he could compare to Dol Amroth to. The big expanse of water, the sea or ocean (as locals, his textbooks, and seniors called it), was salty, strange, and entirely unpredictable. The people were nice enough, but very formal compared to those of the Riddermark. The house he stayed in was not even a house. It was like a fortress, great hall, and living space for both master and servant all rolled into one majestic, tall building of grey stone. He was not even counting the guest rooms and all the other rooms.
The family he lived with was quite friendly. The father was named Imrahil, and the mother was called Ellothel. They had three sons: Elphir, Erchirion, and Amrothos. They also had one daughter, Lothíriel. Erchirion was closest to him in age, and he found him quite a steadfast person. Amrothos was very lively, and Elphir was practically a man.
For the first week, he did very little work. Afterwards, he started taking lessons with the sons. His tutor continued his lessons with him. He even taught his new friends his language and the traditions he knew about. As for his sister, he did not know what she did when she was not with him.
Éomer did not know how long he and Éowyn stayed with the family. There was a lot he did not know or remember. Maybe it was his hidden grief that blocked that period of time. But one thing, well, person he did not forget was the daughter. In manners, she was like his sister before it happened. There was something about her too. Maybe it was the depth in her eyes, a striking silver-blue. Perhaps it was just her childish innocence. Whatever it was, he just felt like he had to watch out for her, make sure she was alright.
-~o0o~-
She was just a girl of four. Then one day, a golden-hair boy and his sister came. They were different, but she found it fascinating. Whenever she could, she would listen to them talk in that strange language of theirs. A language that sounded as wild as the sea compared to the smooth, melodious Sindarin or the chirrupy Westron she spoke.
Every time she looked at the boy, Éomer as he was called, she could feel something beneath his contented (for he was neither happy or sad) exterior. He was always with someone, be it her brothers or his sister or anybody he knew.
But then, she found him sitting alone beneath the weeping willow's branches in their private courtyard. She had come out with her silver brush and doll because she wanted to try to braid flowers into the doll's hair. As she stepped towards him ever so lightly, she heard quiet sniffles. Was he crying? Why?
"Are you alright?" she asked. "Did someone hurt you?"
Éomer turned towards her, saying almost roughly, "I'm fine. No one hurt me."
She knew he was not fine. Something had hurt him if no one did. She gazed down at her hands as she asked softly, "Would it helped if I brushed your hair? Mother always does that, 'specially if I have a bad day."
Éomer nodded slowly and turned his back towards her. Her touch was not the same as his mother's. Sometimes she jerked a bit, like she was still figuring out the mechanics. All the same, he appreciated her kindness. Nevertheless, it made him remember all the times he had with his mother and brought tears to his eyes.
Lothíriel liked the way his hair felt. Though it looked a bit coarse, she found it rather smooth. After a while, she noticed a tear on his cheek. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No, go on," he said. "It is good to remember."
Two years after Éomer and Éowyn's visit, Lothíriel came to understand Éomer's hidden grief, for her own mother passed on to the Halls of Mandos. She was always close to her mother, for who else taught her everything from brushing her hair to mending a seam?
As the years passed, Lothíriel grew into a quiet, observant person. She also became quite particular about her hair, refusing to allow anyone but herself to brush and style it. She noticed when her brothers started speaking in a different language when discussing strategies in their games. So, she begged to learn. It never felt right when she spoke it, but she liked how it connected her and her brothers. She learned to sing, dance, embroider tapestries, and play the harp from tutors and governesses. Her father trained her in the art of strategy and diplomacy through nightly chess games and family discussions. Besides that, their housekeeper and Elphir's wife taught her to run a household. At the age of twelve, her brothers taught her self-defense. She also became quite skilled with the long knife. Throughout her childhood, Lothíriel developed an aptitude for healing. When she was fifteen, she left Dol Amroth to train at the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith.
While not training, Lothíriel often spent time in the lower circles. Though she respected her uncle, she found him cold, withdrawn, and sort of empty. Her cousins were quite different. Although both felt the weight of protecting Gondor on their shoulders, they were not downcast like their father. Hope, determination, and life beat in their hearts.
The winter between 3018 and 3019 was unseasonable cold and long. The days and nights were darker, too. She used to love the east, for the sun rose from the east, bringing with it the hope and joys of a new day. Now, she could not even stand looking eastwards. For some reason, though, she found herself looking towards the north. She knew Rohan lay beyond Gondor's northern borders. And she knew that she once met someone from there.
In March (or was it February) everything started happening, or the world started to end. The city was gradually emptied of all civilians. Only those necessary for the defense of the city remained. What was once whispered was now openly discussed. Time muddled together. Creatures of the darkness appeared at their doorstep. News of Boromir's death brought a heaviness in her heart, for she knew her uncle held Boromir far more dearly than Faramir. Rumors circulated about Mithrandir. Whispers about Mithrandir and the small man (who was like a dwarf, but not a dwarf) circulated. Everywhere she went, she could sense the depressing weight of fear.
Then came the longest night and the longest day. She hardly knew the difference between them. Men of Rohan started coming in. It was then she realized that the language she learned as a child was the same as the Rohirrim. She was tired, but she hardly felt it. Maybe it was the elvish blood in her that pushed her. At some point, her father dragged her away from the Houses of Healing to their family house.
-~o0o~-
It was a day after the Battle of Pelenor was won. His sister was alive, thanks to Aragorn, and all the world was catching its breath in the lull before the storm. After his meeting with the self-dubbed 'Captains of the West,' he visited his sister, who commented that he smelled worse than horse dung. And so, he took advantage of the baths the Houses of Healing offered. However, there was a problem afterwards. His hair was worse than a rat's nest.
"Allow me, please," a quiet voice said from behind him as he struggled with the small comb someone lent him.
He turned to see a young woman in a drab, black dress and stained apron. In her hand she held a silver brush. Her silver-blue eyes were duller and harder than when he met her. She had seen grief, in addition to horrors from war. Yet to him, she shone like a light, brighter than any beacon. She was beautiful. And he knew her. Nodding his assent, he mumbled, "Thank you."
After a few moments, he asked, "How came you here, Lady Lothíriel?"
She paused, causing him to face her. "How do you know my name?" she questioned.
"Because only you and my mother have brushed my hair."
She did not reply. Yet he was fine with that. One day, they could have a real conversation, if that day would come. Her gentle, even strokes (a big improvement from since she was a child) soothed the restlessness of his mind. For the first time in a long while, he felt the whisperings of hope in heart. It was as if the heavy load on his mind lessened a bit. The war would end, and he would live. He would see his homeland restored to peace and prosperity. And finally, he would have the raven-hair lady of the sea as his strength and life.
He was drawn out of his reverie when she stopped brushing his hair. Still saying nothing, she braided his hair and tied it with a bit of leather. Then he felt the warmth of her presence move away from him.
"Wait," he called.
She stopped in the doorway with her back towards him and her posture hesitant and weary.
"If I return, will you still be here?"
She turned towards him, smiling softly, "Always." And he noticed a spark light in her tired eyes.
The war ended. Éomer found himself busy with learning what to expect about ruling from Imrahil and his sons while in Cormallen. They were also helping him set up a recovery plan. He wrote to his sister, but she refused to join him. He half understood her reasons, but he still greatly missed her.
One night, Imrahil came to him asking for a few moments of his time, which he gladly granted. He respected the man greatly.
"Éomer," Imrahil began. "Do you remember coming to Dol Amroth?"
Éomer nodded, "It was not long after my parents' deaths."
"Well, I did not invite you and your sister just to give you a different scene so that you both could heal," Imrahil continued. "Théoden and I may have also arranged a marriage between yourself and my daughter."
Éomer stared at his friend. After a minute of shocked silence, he slowly asked, "Does your daughter know?"
"Not yet, but I did put a loophole in the agreement if you have another lady or would rather find your own queen."
"What would your daughter think of this arrangement?"
"When Lothíriel came of age, we agreed that her suitors must be younger than Erchirion, of equal political rank or above, and favored by all her male relatives. I also have reason to believe that she remembers you more than she lets on."
Éomer sat in silence. At last, he said, "I suppose I'm the only eligible suitor, unless you search Harad. If I may ask, would you allow me to court her without her needing to know of the arrangement? And if she rejects me, the arrangement is void."
Imrahil replied thoughtfully, "I agree to your terms, and perhaps I did not need to make the arrangement in the first place."
In the first year of the Fourth, which was the same as the last year of the Third Age, Éomer wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. For such a momentous union, there was little fanfare surrounding it. Rohan welcomed their new queen rather hesitantly since some still remembered Morwen Steelsheen. However, Lothíriel proved her doubters wrong when she endeavored to assimilate into Rohan's culture and customs while unobtrusively preserving her own heritage.
-~o0o~-
A year and a half after their marriage, a tragedy struck the royal family of Rohan. Lothíriel and Éomer's first child, a beautiful little girl, was born as a stillborn. Furthermore, the country had nearly lost their queen.
Lothíriel was numbed with grief and weariness, for the birthing process had taken much of her energy. Nothing could describe the emptiness that consumed her. Still, she refused to miss the chance to send her little girl into the afterworld with all the motherly love she could summon. Throughout the ceremony, she leaned heavily on her husband as she was still physically recovering. When they buried her daughter, she could only stare with empty eyes and slumped shoulders. Every word of comfort (or veiled insult) fell on deaf ears.
At last, the day ended. As soon as she entered the royal bedchambers, she collapsed onto the bed in tears.
As soon as he finished dismissing well-wishers, Éomer hurried to their room. He found her weeping on their bed. Wordlessly, he seated himself by her and took her into his arms. She had stood so strong today on her own, and now she needed his strength. She trembled as she wept against her neck. The tears felt hot against his skin. When her tears subsided, he helped her change into a nightgown and led her to a chair.
Carefully, he undid her hair from its braided bun and began brushing. Eventually, he felt her relax. After a while, she whispered, "Will everything be alright?"
He replied simply, "One day."
Time turned his golden locks to silver. She thought it suited him, for autumn must become winter. And then came the time. All else was done. But there was one last thing she had to do. She picked up her brush. After eight decades of use, the handle was worn, but the engraving on the back still gleamed. The bristles were new since they replaced them every so often. She ran it through his hair. Memories flashed through her mind. With each stroke, a tear fell. Often, she paused to wipe her tears from his cold face.
Eventually, her work was done. Touching his cheek, she murmured between tears, "One day will become always. But until then, it is good to remember."
Author's note:
Hey, everyone! It's been awhile since I wrote, but I've been revisiting old ideas. This one has been out for a while, but I've expanded this one! Hopefully, the additions only make the story deeper and more meaningful. Of course, I left room for this idea to continue grow.