Chapter length: ~2,100 words
Some keywords: arranged marriage, proposal, getting to know each other, post-war of the ring
A/N: My starting point for this fic was a couple of questions: How in a world where there are legendary, great romantic love stories do those fare who marry for more prosaic reasons? How do they negotiate their marriages and accept them as what they are?
I chose the Romance genre but this is not properly romantic. Pre-romantic, perhaps.
The first chapter is from Lothíriel's POV, the second from Éomer's. Second chapter will be posted in a few days.
Stars above the Golden Hall: Chapter I
'Lady Lothíriel, a moment?'
Lothíriel turns, startled, from her conversation with some ladies of the court of Rohan to see lord Duinhir looking at her expectantly.
Duinhir is a lord of western Gondor like her father, holding the fiefdom of Morthond Vale along the river Morthond, west of Land of the Prince. Lothíriel knows him well as kind, prudent man.
'Of course, my lord'. She allows him to draw her aside to her quieter hallway, away from Faramir and Éowyn's marriage celebrations that are becoming ever more boisterous as the hour has grown late and the newlyweds have departed already. Her guard stays close to her, as instructed by her father.
Duinhir appears more than a little flushed, like most men by now at this merry celebration in the way of the Rohirrim. He keeps a polite distance, though, and speaks decorously as is his wont.
'You look lovely tonight, Lothíriel, as lovely a southern flower as your mother. I hope that you shall forgive me my frankness: I wish to speak directly to you of a private matter.'
Alarmed, Lothíriel adjusts her expression to passivity as she listens on. She does not like where she believes Duinhir to be heading. He is a good man, a valued ally and neighbouring lord of her father's, but he is well over fifty years old. He had two grown sons that he lost in the war, the elder of whom Lothíriel might have married if he'd survived the fighting.
Lord Duinhir must have been young when he married and had his sons, and he is still a strong man unbent by age though grief has carved many new lines on his face during the last few years. But he is too old, too much like a distant uncle that she has known all her life, for her to imagine him as her husband.
Lord Duinhir begins, 'As you know I lost both my sons on Pelennor fields.' She sees the shadow of grief for Derufin and Duilin on him still. 'I have no other heir that I would care to have succeed me as lord of Morthond Vale, and thus I am forced to look for a wife again.' He sighs. 'My dear Glaerdil passed away soon after Duilin's birth, and with two strong sons I didn't think I needed to marry again. Yet here I am, an old man soon, looking for a wife young enough to give me an heir. You are from a learned and noble-hearted line, Lothíriel, and deemed so yourself. Is there enough compassion in your heart to speak on my behalf to your father?
'Our blood in Morthond Vale does not run as pure as in Dol Amroth', Duinhir continues before Lothíriel could give him any answer, 'but my people are many and my land is fairer now than ever as it is at last free of the shadow of the dead men in the mountain above our valley. And I promise that I would treat you with more care and esteem than some young buck might.'
It is certainly a most unconventional proposal, and not a welcome one, and yet one that Lothíriel finds it difficult to turn down.
In Duinhir's eyes is a rather heart-aching combination of hope and sorrow, all mixed with kindness. She does not doubt that he means his words.
'You are a most noble lord, Duinhir of Morthond Vale, though you disparage the heritage of your line.' She fights to find the right gentle words. 'I have known you to be so since I was a child, and I know that any lady who becomes your wife will be a fortunate woman. I do not think, however, that that honour is for me.'
There is only a very small flash of disappointment on Duinhir's face: he appears not to have had much hope. He seems tired all of a sudden, though, his features more shadowed and lined.
He says, 'Thank you for your graciousness in my rejection, my lady. I need not speak to your father, then.' Quite unnecessarily, he bows his head to her. 'It is probably for the best, anyway, for me to seek as bride someone whom I haven't known since she was the height of my knee.'
Lothíriel nods, still shaken. 'Perhaps a lady of Rohan? With this country's grievous losses, there are many who sadly lost their husband or betrothed, and more who will have a difficult time finding a man to marry because their noblemen's ranks were so depleted as the price of their heroic deeds in the war.'
Duinhir nods at her in turn, and appears to sink in thought. 'I have thought of it myself. Indeed, perhaps some young enough widow who still has a wanting or need for a husband – preferably someone who has had a babe or two already, it would be the safest option, you know, knowing that she can –' But here he appears to remember who she is talking to and quickly apologises. 'Forgive me, lady Lothíriel. The hour is late, and I am both maudlin and inebriated, forgetting how to talk to the Prince's daughter! I beg your pardon, and bid you good night.'
Before she can wish him a good rest as well, he returns to the feasting hall.
Lothíriel takes a deep breath and tells her guard, who appears to be having difficulty keeping a straight face, that she will go outside to get some fresh air. He makes way for her in the throng of people, most of them flushed and merry and loud, and Lothíriel is grateful for her father's insistence on a guard for her even in the house of an ally and friend.
Outside Meduseld the night is cool though the day that has passed was Midyears' day. Lothíriel enjoys the crisp freshness of the air that greets her as she walks away from the many torches and braziers in front of the Hall, down the stairs, and to the edge of the green terrace where Meduseld is situated. There is no one there but some guards unfortunate enough to be on duty on a day of celebration. She finds a spot some way away from them, and raises her gaze to the skies.
Despite the light and smoke from Edoras, she can see all the stars on the wide sky on this clear, cloudless night. The stars are as lovely above the valley where Rohan's royal city lies as is in daylight the greenness of the valley and the snow-capped, lonely peak that the Rohirrim call Starkhorn rising at the end of it, behind Edoras.
Lothíriel has enjoyed the wedding festivities of Faramir and Éowyn and she could not be happier for her cousin and for Rohan's white lady who suffered much grief before finding a new happiness. But she has been surrounded by people and noise all day, and in a lesser degree for the whole week that her family has been here in Edoras.
It is good to breathe deep and look at the stars, and think. Duinhir's proposal and turning it down has left her sentimental. She feels sorry for the lord of Morthond Vale, and for all like him who have to seek a new spouse though they would rather grieve with ample time the ones they lost in the war. She doesn't like it that Duinhir debased himself so many times during his proposal, for he is a noble man who has found himself in an unenviable position of having to find a wife half his age.
She had to turn him down, though. To have agreed to speak to her father on his behalf would have, if Imrahil had given her leave to marry Duinhir, not likely have resulted in anyone's contentment. And more likely her father would have turned Duinhir down on Lothíriel's behalf, injuring their good relations.
Imrahil has promised her that he will not make her wed a man twice her age or otherwise unsuitable, and Lothíriel trusts in his promise and his judgement.
There is a prospective match that she does find agreeable, based on all that she knows this far, one which Imrahil has been quietly making for her ever since the end of the War – or quite possibly before it, if she knows his forethought right. That match is only eight years older than her and a strong handsome man, though different from the strong handsome men she is accustomed to being around.
Lothíriel drops her gaze from the stars to Meduseld and the city around it. A city of wooden houses, surrounded by a wooden wall, with a hall of gilt and wood and golden thatches. There is no marble citadel here, no tall towers rising high above the sea: Edoras could not be more different from her home.
Yet she likes it, how the Hall rises proud and golden at the head of the valley, and the wooden city withstands the wind from the plains and the snow from the mountains, and before the city on the mounds of kings always blooms fair simbelmynë, evermind. Like a carpet of white lace on green grass, it blossoms heedless of cold seasons, she has been told.
The endurance of the city seems to her a perfect metaphor for the people of this country.
It is her second time here. Her father called Lothíriel and her mother to Minas Tirith when the shadow in the east had been vanquished. Despite Idhrenes' dislike of swift travel they made it to the Anduin and up the river in time for King Elessar's coronation and after it came with King Théoden's funeral escort to Edoras together with many lords and knights of Rohan and Gondor.
Imrahil and his family stayed in Edoras for a time. Lothíriel had during that first stay come to know Éowyn, Faramir's bride-to-be, and the women of the court. But though her father and brothers deepened the friendship which they had forged with Éomer during the war, Lothíriel talked little with him then and got her impression of the kind of man he is from the way other people talk about him. Her father speaks of the young king highly and, Lothíriel has thought since the beginning, to her in particular.
She got to know Éomer a little better when he visited Dol Amroth the next spring. He was a gracious guest, speaking fairly of the city and its sights and appreciating the preparations that Lothíriel's mother had made for his visit. He hadn't seemed to mind that several times her parents contrived or outright encouraged him to be her escort to this place or that, or had them sit next to each other for a meal.
At the end of the visit Lothíriel's parents came to her and asked whether she would be amenable to their beginning negotiations for a marriage with the king of Rohan, and she told them that she was.
Nothing was settled yet, then, though Éomer had indicated his willingness too and it appeared to everyone who knew of it a good match and a happy further strengthening of the union between Gondor and Rohan.
Lothíriel wishes her mother were here in Rohan for when the matter will be discussed again, but Idhrenes had taken ill shortly before the departure and stayed home.
Lothíriel sinks deep enough into thought of possible futures that she doesn't notice the cool air becoming uncomfortably so as minutes pass or, when many have passed, the arrival of another person close to her.
Her guard's clearing of his throat startles her to awareness of a tall figure next to her, one whom she has no difficulty recognising but is more than surprised to see.
'Your majesty!' She curtsies hurriedly. 'Forgive me, I was lost in thought.'
King Éomer waves a dismissive hand. 'I did not announce myself. Besides, the children of Imrahil in their silver clothes are easy to recognise. In my dark cloak I must be more difficult to.'
A dark green cloak he wears, yes, but it is gold-trimmed and under it he wears bright mail, and a crown on his head whose gold gleams in the low light. He could not be mistaken for any other.
His light hair is a little mussed, no longer neatly braided down his back but some of it framing his face, and he too appears somewhat affected by the mead that has been flowing so freely. It is a version of him she hasn't seen before, and she thinks she likes it no less than all the other versions she has seen.
A/N: This conversation continues in the next chapter.
This happens to be my first Lord of the Rings fic for about 15 years.