30th October 3017 T.A., Minas Tirith
Lothíriel tucked Éomer's latest letter into her stack with a sigh, retying the ribbon carefully before shutting them away in her writing desk. She had re-read it several times, despite having written and sent a response the day before—
—I made the folly of telling your name to my cousin and sister some weeks ago. The only end to their teasing was Théodred's departure for Helm's Deep and my own for Aldburg, but I should not wonder if I can hear their laughter even with the miles between us. I can only hope you are subject to just as much jibing, for it would not be fair for me to bear it all myself—
It set her nerves aflutter, and she was wringing her hands together as she left her chamber, deciding that she really must find something to do to keep her mind occupied elsewhere than on a certain Marshal of Rohan…
Daydreams and happy thoughts of Éomer invaded all too easy with the otherwise lonely life she led. But that day she was surprised, before stepping into her father's gardens for a short traipse to be hailed by a doorward.
"Your brother's standard has been sighted from the road, my lady."
Oh! Oh! She barely contained her excitement to appear composed, but was completely useless for the next hour as she awaited her brother to travel through the city. Company! She need no longer anticipate another lonely day—
And better tidings were to come, for as soon as Amrothos dismounted with a grin despite his weary eyes, he told her at once that he was to take her back to Dol Amroth with him in seven days' time.
"To Dol Amroth?" Lothíriel asked in surprise as his horse was led away, and his guard began to disperse towards the stables. An odd feeling was filling her breast, but she did not understand why. Had she not dreamed of returning home for the last two and a half years, ever since setting foot in Minas Tirith that awful first day?
"Yes, to Dol Amroth," Amrothos said, looping his arm through hers and half-dragging her into the house. The reality of a fortnight of travel hit her nose then, and delicately she wafted a hand around while indelicately scrunching her face, but her brother only laughed. "You are pleased to see me, I am sure of it."
"Of course I am!" she assured him with a smile. "But why may I now return to Dol Amroth? What has happened?"
"Very little, and that is why—the Corsairs were beaten quite well three weeks ago, and they have returned to their caves to nurse their wounds. Father does not expect further coordinated attacks for a year, at least. Perhaps two."
Lothíriel considered this information in silence as Amrothos steered her towards the kitchens. It was fortunate indeed that Dol Amroth was safe again, safe enough that she could return. There was no need for the ache in her chest! But its root was quickly discovered; would any messages be carried from Rohan to Dol Amroth? She had never known of any messengers to ride that route. Oh, dear—to gain her home but to lose Éomer!
"Ah, luncheon." Amrothos had a way with women, and it so happened that all the cooks and sculleries were women. Within two minutes of his entrance into the kitchens, he was forcibly sat at a low table and plied with many fresh goods from many blushing maids. Lothíriel sat beside him, her thoughts elsewhere, and absently refusing any victuals for herself.
"It has been a long road," he told her through a mouthful of fresh bread. "I hope you have been riding, else you will be very sore, I am afraid."
"I ride when I can," Lothíriel said. "I can go within the city walls by myself, but I cannot leave Minas Tirith for wilder paths without a companion. If anything, Wilwarin will suffer more than I."
"I will take you out while I am here," Amrothos said, clearly impressed by his own graciousness. "Have you seen Boromir of late? Or Faramir? Father entrusted me with a message for them."
"Nay, they are not in the city. Boromir was in residence not a month past, but Denethor sent him back to Osgiliath."
"Hm."
Unable to keep herself from asking, Lothíriel blurted a moment later, "Does Dol Amroth often—ever—receive messages from Rohan?"
Amrothos was taken aback by this inquiry, even pausing in his eating to glance curiously at her. "Every so often," he said at last. "Father has had correspondence with the King of Rohan in the past; I do not believe it continues, or if it does, I know not about it."
Lothíriel frowned.
"But," her brother added. "I am sure you can send a letter here, and the messengers here with carry it on to Rohan."
Of course! She had not thought of that. A deep welling of relief made her sigh, and bemused Amrothos more.
"Whom do you write in Rohan?" he asked. "Have you a secret lover?"
"Very funny," Lothíriel said coolly, willing herself not to color. "I can have friends in Rohan without there being a lover involved, Amrothos. I have met many interesting people in Minas Tirith. I wish to keep up my correspondences, that is all."
"Do not worry for it, then—your letters will be carried." And thankfully, he did not press the subject further.
Amrothos's arrival occurred with the onset of autumn in Minas Tirith. His business on behalf of their father was duly completed, as was Lothíriel's packing, and on the seventh day since he arrived, they departed with his guard and turned south.
It was two weeks of continuous travel, but the prospect of seeing her home and family after so many lonely years kept Lothíriel's spirits high, as well as the solace of having sent Éomer a brief note stating her change in residence. His next letter would find her in Dol Amroth, she was confident of that.
Dol Amroth was, of course, beautiful as ever—the approaching winter made for mild sea breezes and comfortable riding, and when the high marble pillars of her home came into view from around the mountains she felt hot tears spring to her eyes. Already she had forgotten that empty house in Minas Tirith.
The following days were filled with all the peace and pleasure in the world that she might have hoped for. Her family she found well, and she was ever loth to leave their company. Many rides were taken alongside the cliffside, to her favorite sites of her earlier years; often with her brothers, and sometimes alone. The only pang in her heart, the only darkening to her happiness—was how Lothíriel missed Éomer more than ever.
Letters were due to arrive every six weeks now, and the painful waiting for the first was almost more than she could bear. This agony did not go unnoticed by her father nor brothers. It did go unmentioned by Imrahil, but his sons did not have the delicacy to refrain.
At long last, Éomer's letter was delivered to Lothíriel one morning at the beginning of winter, and while she was not the only one at the breakfast table to receive correspondence, it was the only one mentioned.
"Is that from Rohan?" Erchirion asked in interest, leaning towards her from his chair as if to catch sight of the handwriting.
"Yes," Lothíriel said primly, angling it away from her brothers and keeping her voice level despite the hammering in her breast. "I have a friend and correspondent in Rohan, Erch—are you so surprised?"
He merely grinned, and Amrothos was swift to cut in. "I have already asked if this mysterious writer is her lover," he declared to the table at large. Lothíriel flushed at this, and even their father looked up from his own messages with surprised curiosity.
"It is not," she insisted at once, and she pressed the letter into her skirt where it could be hidden.
"But who could it be?" Elphir asked lazily with his son balanced upon his knee, and then he grunted—his wife's elbow met his ribs, and there was an awkward silence as he turned to be reprimanded with an admonishing stare.
"I am sure it is none of our concern," Nessiel said, mostly to him, but her keen gaze met Amrothos and Erchirion as well.
"I would like to know," Imrahil interrupted mildly. "I confess myself interested in recent tidings from Rohan. How do they stand?"
Her face bright red, Lothíriel broke the seal of the letter under the table, the crinkle of the parchment sounding loud in the silence of the dining chamber. She quickly read Éomer's missive, disappointed to have such an unsatisfactory reading of it, before looking up to several expectant and inquisitive eyes.
"Rohan is in little present danger," she said. "The winter snows prevent large scale attacks, and so there is a reprieve during this time of year."
"Your correspondent is clearly well-informed; can it be any but the king himself?" Amrothos said, with a laugh at his own joke. Erchirion chuckled as well, and Elphir got out a half of a laugh before his wife elbowed him once more and his laugh turned to a grunt of pain.
"If you will refuse to give me a moment's rest," Lothíriel snapped. "I will tell you of his identity: Éomer of Rohan, Second Marshal and nephew of King Théoden. Are you satisfied? His knowledge of the safety of Rohan can scarcely be surpassed, I think. You should not doubt him, nor his honesty to me."
This passionate speech was met with a variety of responses. The first to speak was Imrahil, who had quickly hidden his astonishment behind a mild frontage. "I thank you for telling us," he said, not specifying which part of her revelations he was grateful for. "Send Éomer of Rohan our greetings, if you wish." And so Lothíriel knew that her father took no issue with this correspondence, and she gave a sigh of relief.
"Yes, give him our greetings," Erchirion said at once. "We are most interested, and would like to know more of this Marshal." He exchanged a glance with Amrothos then, and they both withheld laughter.
"I can tell you anything of Éomer that you wish," Lothíriel said tartly. "I have no secrets regarding our conduct. I am not ashamed to know him."
"To know him, or to know him—?"
But that teasing was beyond what was reasonable, and Imrahil's sharp reprimand silenced Amrothos's teasing on the spot. And much to Lothíriel's gratitude, the remainder of breakfast passed quickly and with little more effect upon herself, except for the yearning to read Éomer's letter more thoroughly with no witnesses.
By midmorning she was able to escape for a ride, and alone on the bluffs of the cliffside and cloaked against the chill wind as Wilwarin grazed nearby, Lothíriel eagerly read the letter once more.
To Lothíriel, now again Princess of Dol Amroth—
I received your most recent letter later than normal; heavy snowfall in the mountains prevented the messenger from reaching Aldburg. I was uncommonly anxious, as in the winter I have little else to engage my thoughts. We are unable to ride out for the snow, but thankfully there is little danger from enemies who likewise cannot or will not leave their hearths. Still, when I did receive it, I was exceedingly grateful to know of your long wished-for return to your home. I have worried on your behalf of your lonely life in Minas Tirith, but it seems it has not repressed your spirits entirely. That is my greatest relief of all.
I will admit to being disappointed in the increased wait between letters now. But your happiness is worth the inconvenience.
Winters in Dol Amroth, by your description, I can only judge as being pitiable! How do farmers grow their crops without snow to moisten the ground? How does one fill their time when it is cold but there is no snow to go a-sleighing in, nor to build forts and make-believe sieges and defenses? (That was a particular favorite of mine and Éowyn's when we were young.)
Despite the invariable discomforts, I do enjoy winter. It is a wonderful respite from skirmishes, though now that my attentions are free from outward danger I must give them to the issues of lording. Already I have held a day of judgement for the citizens of Aldburg. I cannot quite like it, for I am away too often to truly understand their issues here. But I accept the trial of audits and paperwork with relative serenity, and with greater concern for your past loneliness. For in these days without my cousin and sister and as Lord by myself, I understand the same, or very similar isolation keenly.
How do you fill your time, now that you are restored to your birthplace? I cannot help but imagine the life of a Gondorian princess—sitting prettily upon a high throne, dispelling judgement to her people. In your case, it must be without your father knowing, and that amuses me more. I have learned not to underestimate your sense of mischief. I still laugh whenever I recall your story of the instance when you drew a picture of your family on the backside of an official decree. Were you here, I would beg you to do the same on my paperwork, and the work itself might be less dreary.
I would also like to know more of your family. Whom are you most alike? With whom do you differ most? Which brother is your favorite? What of your mother—if it is not too sensitive a topic, I should like to know of her.
Yours as always, and keenly hoping that you are as happy as you ever wished—
Éomer
Lothíriel clutched the letter to her breast, smiling a broad, silly grin up to the sky as she closed her eyes in delight, just to feel the wonderful feelings of Éomer's care and concern for her. It had been long since she doubted that she loved him with all her heart, and the hope of that love swelled within her and filled her every limb.
Her youthful infatuation for the handsome marshal from Rohan had deepened into a real understanding of his character, admiration for his kindness and goodness, his selflessness, and his strange but gratifying willingness to keep a years-long correspondence with a woman he hardly knew, despite the trials he faced in his own nation. He never once betrayed any annoyance in her letters, and the affection in them she was sure she was not imagining—and her hope that her affection might be returned bloomed into a bright happiness and optimism. Lothíriel could not be unhappy. Not today, not ever. Not with the glorious secret of her love of Éomer and his kindness for her tucked so close to her heart.
There would be time to respond to Éomer later, and so she lingered there on the cliffs with no company but her hope, sure in that moment that her affections were not in vain. And that was enough.
