7 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Lothíriel was shivering in the night air; she tugged her shawl more tightly 'round her shoulders, but it was barely enough covering over her nightdress. She leaned out the window of her father's study, for it afforded the best view of Mount Mindolluin above, where she could barely see the flickering orange light of fire against the blackness of the sky.

She could not say she was entirely surprised that the beacons had been lit; everyone in the city knew that war was coming, sooner than expected, and that it would be terrible. Many were packing their belongings to obey the Steward's orders of evacuation, but her bags lay untouched, and she intended to leave them empty.

Lothíriel and Nessiel had agreed together, some days back, that they would stay in Minas Tirith despite Denethor's orders. Dol Amroth certainly was no safer, and neither wished to flee into the unfriendly mountains. Lothíriel, for her part, was tired of avoiding danger altogether—it had hovered above her head since the day she had been sent away from her home. She would rather face it straight on, in defense of Minas Tirith rather than as a coward hiding in the hills.

Nessiel's reasons differed slightly—her worry for Elphir was increasing daily, and the hope of his coming to Minas Tirith with the Swan Knights to fight in its defense kept her within its walls. Even if he were to fall defending the city, she wished to see him before that dreadful day.

Midnight was creeping on fast, and Lothíriel reached out to close the glass-paned windows with a click, shutting out the cold breeze. She swept 'round and returned to her chamber, picking up her skirt to keep it from trailing on the ground.

There was another reason she wished to stay, though she had not voiced it.

Rumors of Rohan, of their allies of the north coming to fight for them, to save their city, were abounding. The sensations she felt conflicted themselves within her at this—her heart racing for Éomer, her stomach twisting with nerves for the upcoming bloodshed.

Lothíriel lay in bed, pulling the covers close, twisting his ring around her finger as she stared at the hangings of the bed. Whatever the gossip was, regarding whether Rohan would come to bolster their defenses, Lothíriel could not quite decide her own opinion upon the matter. She had received no word from Éomer in several weeks, and for the rumors of Rohan's own tenacious position, she wondered if such help was even possible to give. But if it could be given, for what it was worth, she did not doubt Éomer one whit.

And if he did come, and soon…she could see him again, to speak to him, to touch him and see his smiles and hear him laugh. If there was laughter to be had in such dark times, they would find it, she was sure…

But for all the hope that night gave her, during the following days there were little more.

Not two days letter there came shouts from lower in the city: The Prince! The Prince of Dol Amroth has come! This news was immediately taken to Imrahil's house, and the two women, upon hearing this, immediately rushed to the wall of the Sixth Circle, peering down below—

Indeed, an army of silver-armored knights were making their way into the city, led by a large blue banner with the prince's crest. Nessiel was clutching Lothíriel's arm; they could not see if their brothers were included, though the prominent figure was so obviously Imrahil. They did not know how Dol Amroth fared; they did not know if it could be left defenseless for the sake of Minas Tirith.

"Come!" Lothíriel said, frustrating at the slow progress of the Knights, and determined to busy herself, and to distract Nessiel as well. "Let us have the chambers prepared, and supper, too! They will be hungry."

As most of the servants had left the city, they were obliged to air out the chambers themselves, building fires in the hearths, and informing the surly cook, an old man left behind, that they were expecting more for supper, though they did not know how many.

Some hours later, more than they expected, the commotion of horses and soldiers reached the house at last. They rushed to the courtyard—at least, Lothíriel rushed and Nessiel tried to hurry Alphros along—just in time to see all three of the prince's sons dismount, looking weary.

There was a tick in Elphir's cheek as he drank in the sight of his wife and son, and he was heard to say as she cried out his name, "Nessiel! Why have you not left?", before he caught them both in a tight embrace.

Lothíriel discreetly looked away, giving her attention instead to Erchirion and Amrothos. "We were hoping you would come," she told them breathlessly. "What of Dol Amroth?"

"Minas Tirith is of greater concern now," Erchirion said after an awkward moment, wherein he and his younger brother exchanged an unhappy glance. "We rode in all haste—the journey took only nine days."

Nine days! Fourteen days of travel in nine! Lothíriel blinked, wondering why they were not more tired, and then ushered them into the kitchens for repast, which was gratefully accepted.

"But now you must tell us, Lothíriel," Amrothos said, taking one of her arms. "Why are you still in the city? Did Denethor not give orders to evacuate?"

"Of course he did," she said stoutly. "We ignored them."

"But—"

"And if we had not, you would not have a hot meal," she pointed out to him. "So hush!"

Amrothos laughed at this, but Erchirion remained silent.

"When will Father come?" Lothíriel asked next.

"Soon, I am sure," was the terse answer, and it was all she had.

Soon was nightfall, and at last Imrahil entered his own house, mirroring his son's exhaustion, though he smiled to see his daughter when Lothíriel brought him a meal to his rooms. It was growing late, and whatever her father's business, she was sure he needed rest and repast.

"Come sit with me," Imrahil said, and she did, drawing up a chair next to him at a small table. He poured himself a glass of wine, and asked in a mild voice, "I suppose there is a reason you are here when you ought to be safe in Lossonarch."

"Because I am of use here, and I wish to support my family as they defend our country," Lothíriel said. "I am tired of hiding, Father."

He hummed in agreement. "I cannot disagree, but you must understand that the odds are in favor of the enemy."

"It matters not."

Imrahil cast her a glance, and then his eyes narrowed as they lingered on her face. She flushed to be so scrutinized. "You are not the girl I remember, daughter."

Lothíriel gave a laugh. "I am the same as always, Father, I assure you. Though I am less likely to scribble upon your decrees now."

"Hmm. There is a new light in your eyes."

There was? She blinked at her father, and a smile grew on his face as he returned to his meager supper. "That is a fine ring you wear," he said mildly.

Oh! Consciously she fingered the garnet, unsure of what to reveal. She swallowed, and said, "Thank you, Father. It is very dear to me."

"I have not seen such a style in Dol Amroth. Perhaps it is a new one. Where did you procure it?"

"Ah—a friend."

"A very good friend you have."

Lothíriel forced a weak smile.

"Anyway—I thank you and Nessiel for welcoming us so well," Imrahil said, waving his fork at his plate. "Truly I was anticipating dried meat and hard tack for the next while. I wish I could assure you that your brothers and I will return regularly, but I cannot anticipate Denethor's strategies. We will send word when we can."

"That is all we can hope for, Father," Lothíriel told him, and impulsively reached for his empty hand, holding it tightly in hers. "I am happy to see you."

He smiled. "And I you. Now run along to bed—who knows how much sleep we may have in the coming days. We will all need our rest while we can have it."

She bounded away obediently, and though she could see distant fires to the east, her heart was cushioned by the presence of her father.

And Éomer would come. Lothíriel was sure of it.


9 March 3019 T.A., Dunharrow

Éomer could scarce wait until his uncle dismissed him; his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, half-listening to the discussion. At last, they were discharged, and the company left the King's tent, all going their own ways. Éomer was the last to depart, and hurried to catch up to Hirgon in the dark, calling the messenger's name in a hiss so as not to draw attention.

"My lord," Hirgon said, his voice betraying nothing.

"I must ask," Éomer said in a rush. "What of the citizens of Minas Tirith? You did not tell my uncle how—how they fare, or what is to be done with them. Must they remain in a city under siege?"

"Nay, lord—the Steward gave orders to have the city evacuated several days ago. I departed myself before it was carried out."

"Evacuated? And everyone is to be included in those orders?"

"Yea; all but those who can fight. The women, children, and old men have been sent to the mountains where they may be safe."

Relief caused Éomer to sigh aloud, confusing the messenger even more, but he managed a smile for the man all the same. "I am glad for it."

"As are we all, lord." Hirgon's eyes were shrewd, and Éomer decided it was prudent to cease his questioning there. It was likely the messenger knew of Lothíriel, as she was daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, but that line of interrogation would be indelicate. He did not wish word to get 'round of his vested and rather personal interest in the safety of the people of Minas Tirith…

Éomer let out a breath, and dismissed the messenger politely, turning on his heel to seek his own tent, and what little rest he might find.

He had worried, perhaps more than he ought, of his princess in her faraway land. His princess he called her, for she had assured him that she was…still Éomer could not think of that wonderful, wonderful letter he had received from her. If they survived this threat, he had every intention of wedding her, and he suspected she would not object. He smiled at the draping ceiling of his tent. No, he was certain she would be his wife…his wife. He could not even consider her as such without the warm of love and protectiveness and desire burning within his chest. It was all too easy to imagine her by his side in Aldburg, with her sweetness, her laughter, her affection—

If Minas Tirith was freed, if the people could return…he would find her. He would ride to Lossonarch himself, walk if he must, to find her. At least she would safe in the coming days, if further away from him. This was not how he expected to return to Gondor, but all the same—at least he could return at all.

A shiver took his body as Éomer recalled the last weeks, and he turned on his side on his bedroll, determined to forget it all, at least at present, for he had a harder road to travel in the morn.


14-16 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

"Oh, do stop pacing, you are making me nervous!"

Nessiel's impassioned plea stopped Lothíriel's steps, and she glanced apologetically towards Nessiel with a wan smile. "I am sorry," she said. "I simply cannot bear being cooped up—"

"I know." Nessiel gave her gentle reply, and returned to her embroidery.

"—and all I truly wish is for someone to bring us tidings! Or that Denethor had not given that wretched order to keep us from Faramir!" Lothíriel sat in an indignant huff upon the window seat, which only looked out upon Imrahil's gardens. There were no blooms; only scraggly branches and damp stone, and the faint scent of smoke.

Alphros was sitting upon a thick rug on the ground, and he banged two wooden blocks together with a gleeful laugh. Lothíriel glanced over at him, allowing herself a smile, and she moved to sit down beside him. They stacked up several blocks, and then with an enormous roar Alphros swung his little arm into the tower, and it fell with a clatter. Lothíriel laughed, and began to build another one for him.

This distraction kept her until the supper hour, when the surly cook brought them another sparse meal. Lothíriel attempted to ask him if there were any news from her father, but he only shook his head without a word, closing the door loudly behind him.

The tension was thick, and the waiting was worse. Nessiel lost patience with her sewing, throwing it into a basket with an uncharacteristic sigh of frustration, some hours after supper. Alphros took this opportunity to crawl into his mother's lap, and she held him close as he yawned. Lothíriel was pacing again, but she tried to do so unsuspiciously.

Her bed that night was cold and unwelcoming, and brought no comfort nor sleep. She tossed and turned, her ears straining for any signs of battle—but they must have been too high up in the city. Eventually she dozed near dawn, but fitfully, and woke feeling more tired than she had the night before.

That day passed similarly—the sky was still ominously grey, no tidings came, and the house was eerily silent. Lothíriel played with Alphros, tried to read a novel, and gave up mending a torn hem. Sometime in the afternoon, lying in the window seat as she stared out unseeing, there came an alarming sound—no, several! Clangs and shouts and screams, and she jolted upwards, drawn from her trance.

Nessiel had gone pale, and Alphros, asleep in her lap, stirred restlessly.

"Should we go?" Nessiel asked in a hush.

"Where?" Lothíriel countered. "The city is blocked. There is no leaving; not to the mountains, not anywhere."

"Surely your uncle—the Citadel—"

"I am sure Denethor is quite busy," she snapped, unknowing and uncaring where her temper came from. "And anyway, I am sure he feels little compassion towards the plight of those who deliberately disobeyed his orders to flee the city!"

Nessiel gave her a reproachful look, and Lothíriel turned away. Despite the waiting for anything to give an indication of what was happening outside the city, the sounds of the battle brought no further comfort.

All night long it raged. The fire in the small chamber they were in smoldered, and neither of them dared to leave each other's company. Nessiel curled on the floor in a pile of blankets with Alphros slumbering in her arms, and Lothíriel did not leave her vigil at the window seat. There were not even stars to comfort her. Leaning her head against the cold stone of the wall, she let her eyes drift shut, thinking of Éomer. He would come, she thought stubbornly. She did not doubt him; she could not—

Her dozing was no more restful that night, and she dreamed dark nightmares, clawing at her skin and bones until she was nothing but dust, and everything around her was dust, and—

"What was that noise?"

Nessiel was sitting upright, Alphros upon her lap. Lothíriel blinked away her sleep, disoriented to see the lightening of the sky—was it dawn already? She meant to ask Nessiel what in Arda she was talking about, but at that moment it came again: horns.

But not horns of Gondor; not of Dol Amroth nor Osgiliath. She had heard these horns only once before, preceding one Marshal's departure from Minas Tirith four years earlier.

The horns of Rohan.