18 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
The air was chill and grey that morning; it was as though the sky felt the shadow of despair upon the inhabitants of Minas Tirith and wept with them. Lothíriel gave no thought to the drizzling rain clinging to her hair and frock as she farewelled her father and brothers outside their home; she kept her tears at bay, full aware of the value of smiling to the men as they prepared to set out on a journey which hardly bore consideration. She gave each of them a spray of nettle for protection, for she could do little else.
Imrahil kissed her head before turning away, Elphir and Erchirion did the same, and Amrothos embraced her tightly, his armor cold in the dawn and leaving her shivering when he left to mount his horse. Several dozen Swan Knights were already in formation in the street, ready to depart at their lord's command.
Lothíriel retreated to the doorway in the courtyard to avoid being trampled, taking a place beside the few servants who had not fled the city. She balled her cold hands into fists in her apron pocket, sure that her nose was red. Imrahil glanced around himself a final time, then spurred his horse forward, and the air filled with the sound of hoofbeats on stone. It grated horribly on her ears. As soon as they were gone, she could leave for the Healing Houses and assist where she could—
Instead of the hoofbeats fading, it grew loud again, and another company of mounted soldiers approached, trailing the Swan Knights. Lothíriel felt her heart begin to race; she saw Éomer at the front; bold and tall and handsome, though his eyes were weary even from a distance. But then he caught sight of her, and he smiled, spurring his horse forward.
Lothíriel met him in the street, and gave to him the last bundle of flowers from her pocket. She had added lavender and rosemary on impulse, and Éomer leaned over slightly to accept her small offering.
"I thank you, princess," he said solemnly. "Dare I hope that I carry your love with me, also?"
"Of course," Lothíriel said, managing a smile though her heart was aching. "May it bring you comfort and protection!"
"I am sure it will." There was a blazing look in his eyes as he stared down at her, and then he leaned further out of the saddle to press a kiss to her lips. Lothíriel felt her cheeks grow warm, and there was a glow in her breast to smell his familiar scent. Éomer straightened then, glancing around to his approaching men behind him. "Farewell!" he said, and briskly he was off.
There was nothing else to do or see, and Lothíriel turned away, tears nearly overwhelming for the merest moment before she suppressed them. Grieving would do more harm than good before the soldiers had even left the city…and beyond that, she had work to do.
A request from her father had aligned closely to her already formed desires, and returning to his house, she gathered together several items which she thought might be of use, and set out at once for the Healing Houses.
It was not a pleasant place; there were moans all around, cots lining the rooms wall-to-wall, and even the corridors. Soldiers; dark-haired Gondorians and fair-haired men of Rohan, filled every bed. Lothíriel could not look closer, for such grief she could not bear so close to her heart—
She arrived at the last chamber, facing west and utterly silent beyond the door. Hesitating only a moment, she rapped smartly on the door, A weak, female voice bade her enter.
The chamber which had been given to the White Lady of Rohan was airy and fresh, though the sky offered no sunlight to brighten it. There was a fire in the hearth, and fresh flowers shielded the room from the smell of blood and stink which threatened to enter from the Healing Houses. The Lady herself was sitting up in the small bed, a hunched figure, dressed in a too-large shift with her golden hair hanging loose. Lothíriel offered a smile, and stepped forward, closing the door gently behind her.
"Good morning!" she said. "I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. I have come to see that you are well."
The Lady blinked, interest flashing in her red-rimmed eyes. "Princess Lothíriel," Éowyn said cordially, her head tilting curiously. "I have heard of you."
Lothíriel tried not to appear embarrassed, but at Éowyn's obvious willingness to speak she drew a hard-backed chair next to the bed and sat, her bundle balancing awkwardly on her legs. "My father has been exceptionally worried about you," she said. "And—and your brother, too. I have seen him in passing," Lothíriel added quickly.
"Yes, Éomer did say as much when he bid me farewell at dawn." There was a keen light in Éowyn's eyes, and Lothíriel wondered how much the Lady knew of Éomer's and her correspondence. But no—this was no time for such selfish wonderings.
"I have brought you some things," she said, unwrapping the bundle. "The clothing which the healers give to the wounded are...rough. Serviceable, but uncomfortable—I have brought you a shift and a dressing gown which ought to fit you better."
Éowyn hesitated only a moment before accepting the fine clothing. "I thank you," she said, then looked up with a smile. "My skin has been itching something terrible—I am sure this will ease it."
Lothíriel beamed back. "I do hope so! And I have also brought—since I have been ill often enough in my life to know its great boredom—several books, should you care to read. If you do not care to read, I can send for other supplies; parchment and ink, sewing necessities—"
"Books will suffice!" The Lady assured her. "And your company is worth far more. It seems that all the healers speak in whispers; I hardly know what is happening." And despite her obvious attempt at joviality, Lothíriel saw a shadow of anxiety and deep unhappiness in Éowyn's clear green eyes—the shade so like her brother's that Lothíriel blinked stupidly for a moment before shaking herself.
"There is no news," she confessed. "I am afraid we shall know little until—until the end, one way or the other." These words recalled Lothíriel's own fears; for her father, for her brothers, for Éomer… Tears stung her eyes, and she glanced down, twisting her hands together awkwardly. To her surprise, a pale hand reached out, covering her own with a chilly touch.
"That is the way of it," Éowyn said simply. "I apologize for causing you distress. What books have you brought?"
Lothíriel fumbled with the books resting on her legs, offering them to the Lady at once. "I did not know what you prefer," she said, "So I brought everything—novels, political commentaries, geography, battle strategies—and a book of maps, though now I realize that was quite a silly choice."
"Oh, Béma!" Éowyn said, giving a hollow laugh as the books fell into her lap. "Good heavens! I cannot read all of these, no matter how long I am unwell. You are certainly thorough! It is no wonder—"
But what was no wonder was to remain a mystery; with a pink flush the Lady clamped her lips together, and examined a book with suspiciously intent interest. Lothíriel suspected that Éomer's name was very nearly said aloud, and she adjusted herself uncomfortably in the chair, searching for something to say.
"I can read to you, if you like," she offered at last. "I have few other duties at present."
Éowyn looked up with a smile. "I should like that very much. My head aches too easily at present, I am afraid…" With Lothíriel's suggestions, she choose from the bounteous stack a fiction novel about a lord who was cursed as a child to only speak in rhymes. It was a favorite of Lothíriel's, and she took a good deal of pleasure in reading aloud. Soon the lurking shadows behind Éowyn's eyes were expelled in fits of laughter, and when Lothíriel's voice grew ragged and the sun grew a deep golden through the streaming windows, she was satisfied with her efforts. For a time, their worries had been forgotten.
"I will come again when I am next free," she promised hoarsely, smiling up at the Lady as she marked her place.
"Oh, do!" Éowyn said. "I declare I have not had such enjoyment for many weeks; I thank you from my heart, princess."
Lothíriel hesitated, then added, "I may be busy, as I have given a commitment of my time to the Warden. I must begin tomorrow."
The Lady frowned, but her tone was no less gracious as she said, "If it so be. I can read myself."
"But my cousin is available, I believe, and also a patient here. He is mostly healed, and his voice not damaged at all. I can inquire of him if he might read to you; it will ease his impatience as well."
Éowyn inclined her head. "I would be grateful to meet a relation of yours." And they parted on friendly terms; Lothíriel quite liked Éomer's sister already, if being his sister was not reason enough. Despite the Lady's clear unhappiness, her heart was true and might bloom under better circumstances. She promised herself she would seek Éowyn's wellbeing as oft as she might.
Upon departing the chamber, Lothíriel wandered through the corridors, pausing as she passed a low archway into the gardens. Her cousin was pacing there, and with a smile she sought his company, thinking he might need her, too.
"Faramir," she said gently, and he was drawn from a reverie. Despite the sling holding his wounded arm to his chest, he looked as composed as ever, and he was quick to offer her a smile as he always did.
"Hail, Lothíriel!" he replied. "I did not expect such a fair intrusion. What brings you to the Houses of Healing?"
"Lady Éowyn of Rohan. Have you yet made her acquaintance?"
"Nay, I have not, though I know of her deeds upon the battlefield, and that her brother rode away this morn with the Armies of the West. How does she fare? Lord Aragorn was concerned of her health, as was your father."
Lothíriel took a place by Faramir at a large arched window, overlooking the fields far below. Still it smoked, and a dark trail where the soldiers had so recently trod snaked away from the city and to the east. But no armies were in sight.
"She…is not yet healed," she said cautiously. "A good deal of cheer and hope would restore her to herself, I think. Might you attend to her? I have given her books and read to her this afternoon, which was welcomed. I believe she may need company most of all."
"I see," Faramir said. "If it be her wish, I can certainly provide company. The Warden does not allow me to attend my duties, though the city needs me." His tone had grown bitter as he looked away with brows creased, and Lothíriel laid a hand upon his good arm.
"You must take the time you have been given to rest," she said. "Then you may be whole all the faster, and be a better steward for it."
This speech earned her a smile, despite the flicker of grief in Faramir's eyes; for his father, she surmised. "Now that we have discussed my emotional state, cousin, I wonder at yours. How do you fare?"
Lothíriel was quiet for a moment. It was a struggle to put such aching fear into words, but still she tried: "I fear the oncoming death," she said at last. "I cannot but hope for survival, yet I wonder at the cost."
"Whatever the cost, much may heal with time," Faramir said. She smiled at this, hoping so with all her heart. Suddenly he paused, and his keen eyes turned searching, curious. "Lothíriel, you are full-grown!" he said, as if in surprise. "I had not noticed—forgive me, cousin!"
"You need not ask forgiveness!" she laughed. "I daresay I have hardly noticed."
"Nay, 'tis a breach of familial conduct," he insisted. Faramir then hesitated for a moment before lowering his voice. "I confess I had forgotten until this moment, but I must tell you now. The day you were born, cousin, I dreamt of you."
Lothíriel blinked in surprise to see a fey light in his grey eyes.
"I dreamt of you as your own woman, looking exactly as you do now, yet you wore a crown of stars. That is all I remember," he added sheepishly. "I was young at the time; had I the wisdom, I might have written a full account."
After a stunned moment, she could answer, "I am sure no harm will come of your forgetting. It seems an odd dream, Faramir, and I wager it means little! But I thank you for telling me."
He was quiet, still studying her face as if seeing something that was not there. Then he sighed, and his familiar smile was once more beaming. "I would wager it means more than you believe," he said. "Whatever death you fear, it will not be your own."
"A relief, to be sure," Lothíriel teased, and he laughed. The awkward solemnity between them gone, she took her leave of Faramir, deeply weary as her feet at last took her home.
Her father's house was lonely and empty, but that made it all-too familiar. Her thoughts were elsewhere as she ate a plain supper provided by the single cook, and readied herself for bed soon after. She wondered at what Faramir had said as she tucked herself into bed. A crown of stars. Lothíriel's imagination, nurtured by long years with little company, immediately seized upon that notion and paired it with Éomer. He was king now, and reflecting upon their first meeting, she was amazed that such a thing could have happened, but she knew of no better man to rule. Or was that merely her heart speaking?
She twisted his mother's ring around her finger, yawning deeply. If Faramir's dream meant that she was to be a queen, she would certainly wish it to be for Éomer…did he wish the same? A blossom of warm hope built in her breast, and kept the darkness at bay.
