1 May 3019 T.A., The Houses of Healing

Éomer's hasty steps took him through each corridor of the Healing Houses, twice. His eager eyes glanced around for Lothíriel, undeterred by his initial failing to find her. If this was where she was supposed to be, it was where she was—he did not doubt it. He was not particularly concerned that she had not responded to his note; after all, he knew she would be busy giving her time and efforts where she was needed.

When he did at last see her, he almost did not recognize her—for she did not see him, carrying a load of folded linens in her arms, her hair tied back and her eyes almost expressionless. He was taken back by this change, but hailed her at once.

Lothíriel started, blinking around until she saw him, and he strode towards her, nearly knocking over a healer in his rush as he crossed the corridor.

"Éomer," she said, and her voice was faint.

"Lothíriel!" He gave her a wry smile. "Are you so surprised to see me? A better greeting might do!"

At this teasing her lips formed a lovely, though vacant smile, though she made no move, towards him or otherwise.

"Will you not sit with me?" Éomer coerced gently.

"I will," Lothíriel said, and looking around for a blank moment, set the linens down on an empty bench. She took his arm when he offered it, though said nothing as he drew her to the gardens where they might have privacy. They sat together somewhere in the middle, almost out of sight behind a budding magnolia tree. Éomer picked up her chilled hands in his own, drinking in the sight of her face—Béma, he had missed her! Though the last weeks could not compare with four years apart, it still seemed a lifetime since she had bidden him farewell in the streets of Minas Tirith.

"How is your work?" he asked abruptly to her silence.

She shifted uncomfortably. "It is difficult," Lothíriel said quietly, as if it were a secret. "I—I am sorry I did not reply to your message—"

"Think nothing of it, my sweet! You are forgiven." Éomer beamed down at her; really, he could not be upset. But the lack of answering smile did bother him a mite, and he lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes.

For the first time, he felt that he could not quite understand her. He frowned, studying her expression for a reason. Her eyes were rimmed with purple as if from lack of sleep, and without a smile her laugh lines made her appear stern. Her eyes were soft, thankfully, but he still wondered.

"Difficult indeed," Éomer murmured. "I do hope you are not overexerting yourself."

"Oh! Not at all," she assured him at once, though he could not quite believe her.

"Lothíriel," he said sternly. "You mustn't let the Warden bully you into working beyond your strength. Nor must you allow your good heart to overcome your sense. If you are tired, you must rest. Every sol—every person knows that!" He had nearly said 'soldier', but recalled to whom he was speaking. Lothíriel was no soldier.

"How kindly you care for me," Lothíriel said, and at last a real smile formed on her face. "I am merely preoccupied, Éomer; I beg of you not to be troubled for me."

He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, her sweet smell wafting towards him. Béma…he wanted her. All of her. His heart began to drum in his chest.

"May I call upon you tomorrow?" Éomer asked in a rush.

"I am afraid not—tomorrow the last rites for my uncle and cousin will take place."

Blast! "The day after, then," he said.

"I will be home." Lothíriel's voice was quiet, and her eyes unfocused once more. "I will not be returning to the Healing Houses after tonight. You see—that is why you must not concern yourself that I am overworked."

Éomer chuckled at this restoration of her humor, and her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink. Impulsively he lowered his head and kissed each cheek, and then her nose—and then after a breathless, startled moment—her lips. His fingers tangled in her hair, surely mussing it but he could not care, liking too much the soft moan from her throat—

"Lothíriel…" he murmured, pulling away to rest his forehead against hers. "Lothíriel. The day after tomorrow. I promise."

She nodded her head, staring at him in bafflement as she drew in ragged breaths. "I must go," she said, startling him as she stood. "I am sorry, Éomer, truly…" Lothíriel gave him a final, wan smile, and rushed away, leaving him alone in the gardens. But he was too joyful to care her abrupt departure. Soon they need never be apart again…


2 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith

Lothíriel was cold. She wore a white cloak over her white frock, mourning clothing which she had owned many a year but never worn—and still she was cold. She shivered beside Erchirion, and the sky above them drizzled with weeping rain.

Citadel soldiers clanked down the walkway, their footsteps eerie and loud in the still silence. Between six was borne the standard of Denethor, and between six others was Boromir's. It had been many months since she had last seen her cousin's standard in the wind; announcing his arrival from Osgiliath or whatever other outpost his father had sent him too, and she recalled the days when he had teased her and laughed with her. Erchirion's hand was tight upon her arm in support. Amrothos should have been there to honor his family, and yet he, too, had been struck down by this war—

Lothíriel did not bother to stop the silent tears streaming down her face. She did not merely feel cold; she was cold. She felt as though she was made of ice, detached from the mourners around her as the standards were carried to the Houses of the Dead. Boromir's body would not rest with his ancestors the stewards; nor would Denethor's. But still they were honored.

So much death! How could there be any room in her heart for happiness when the world was clouded with such grief, such destruction? Everything was broken; the city, the soldiers she saw in the Houses of Healing; their families…all torn apart by such evil.

There was a sniffling near her as the shrouds passed before them. Curious, for it was the only noise besides the soldiers' boots stamping on the ground, Lothíriel blinked back her tears to gaze around. To her left, nearer the Houses of the Dead and close to her father, who stood beside the new king, the four perian were watching the procession. Their expressions were varied; regretful and sad, wary, curious, and lastly—mournful, with fat tears rolling down his red cheeks. She was surprised, for a moment, that they were there—last rites usually only involved families and very dear friends. Lothíriel had heard that one of the perian had served Denethor in the steward's last days; perhaps she should have given more credit to the gossip.

She pulled away from Erchirion, walking towards the Houses and pausing by the perian; she did not know them, and they did not know her, but drawing their eyes away from the banners now entering the Houses of the Dead, they were unhostile. Friendly, even.

Lothíriel tugged a handkerchief from the reticule hanging from her wrist, offering it to the perian who was weeping. He gave her a beaming smile through his tears, which she could not help but return. The smile she gave stretched her face painfully, for she felt as though she had not smiled in many days. The perian bowed low to her, accepting the handkerchief.

"I thank you, Princess Lothíriel," he said correctly. "Your father spoke of your kindness, but now I know he was not exaggerating. Fathers do that sometimes in the Shire, I must assume it can be the same here."

A weak giggle lodged in her throat. "Indeed, they are."

"Princess Lothíriel?" interrupted another perian, his fair eyes curious upon her face. "King Éomer spoke of you at Cormallen."

Lothíriel could sense her father's eyes upon this conversation, and she flushed pink despite herself. "Éomer and I have been friends for many years," she said by way of explanation, avoiding Imrahil's gaze.

"Did you know Boromir well? He told us of you as well, but very little." asked a third. His voice was gentle, and he was thinnest of the perian.

"Well as I could," she said. "He was many years older than I, but he—he was always kind to m—me." Her voice wavered on the last words. Grief burned anew in her breast, and her eyes flooded with tears. Quickly she dropped her gaze, wringing her hands awkwardly, ashamed to show such sadness to the perian. Forcing a hollow laugh, she added, "It seems you know much of me from those I love! I wonder—" And Lothíriel clamped her mouth shut, her face flushing hot as she realized her blunder in front of her father. But a hasty glance at Imrahil confirmed his expression was merely mild, looking away.

"It is a pleasure to meet the princess of Gondor at last," said the third perian, and he bowed briefly.

"Thank you for the handkerchief!" said the first, waving it at her cheerily, though now it was damp and splotchy.

"You are most welcome." Lothíriel curtseyed low. "I am pleased to have been of assistance." But before she could return to Erchirion, her father called her name, and she went to him with nerves rolling in her belly. With the passing of the shrouds, the mourners were breaking into quiet conversations around them.

"My daughter," Imrahil said, holding out a hand to her. "You have yet to be introduced to your king."

The King's grey eyes turned to her, and immediately Lothíriel dipped into a low curtsey, unable to look away.

"My daughter, Lothíriel," her father said.

"Well met, my lady," the King said, and he gave her a short bow in return. He was dressed formally, but plainly; no embellishments adorned his doublet. And his eyes, though piercing and keen, were kind. Lothíriel was relieved to see this, and it must have shown—for the King smiled down at her. "I have heard much of you, not unlike our friends." His sight flitted to the perian, and she forced a smile.

"It seems nearly everyone has, my lord," she said. "I cannot respond to such tales without feeling embarrassed."

The King gazed at her a moment. "You needn't be embarrassed if they are true, I assure you. I have heard that you are lovely, kind, well-mannered, and able to hold your own against all three of your brothers. I see nothing to contradict these things."

She blinked, feeling foolish. Had her father spoken of her? Or—oh dear, Éomer? She could hardly bear thought of Éomer discussing her with her new king! Oh! Oh no!

The King gave a short laugh. "Do not fear me, my lady," he said. "I apologize for teasing."

Lothíriel forced a smile, and with a satisfied nod from her father she was dismissed.

Later that night, she lay in bed, staring at the dim ceiling of her chamber as her fingers tapped restlessly against the quilted covers in time with the pattering rain on the tiled roof. Her stomach was twisting this way and that, with belated anxiety from the morning's grief and unexpected meetings. It was long after the fire in the hearth smoldered that she finally felt weariness weighing down her limbs, and she yawned, hoping for no dreams that night—

A flashing memory stuttered her heart then, though her heavy eyes did not open. May I call upon you tomorrow?, Éomer had asked. It was likely for the best that she had refused Erchirion's suggestion of an early-morning ride, then. Truthfully, she had thought little of Éomer all day, and instead of a thrilling excitement of seeing him again, or of the insinuation of his unusually formal request, Lothíriel felt only emptiness.

She rose late the next morning. Without the taxing duties of the Healing Houses to attend to, Lothíriel ordered a bath and lingered in the hot water, sunk down to her nose with her dark hair floating around her. She was determined to think of nothing at all, and succeeded.

Sometime around noon Lothíriel slowly made way for her solar, refusing luncheon and sitting instead with a book. It did not hold her interest, and in the hour it took Éomer to arrive, she had only turned three pages.

And there he was, tall and handsome as ever, dressed formally and looking jittery but happy as he sat beside her, and the maid left the room with a click of the door. Lothíriel did not feel like smiling, but forced one for his sake as he took her hands. Her hearing was weirdly muted, and she stared at his mouth as he spoke. The words seemed to come from far away, barely piercing her awareness.

Be my wife, he said. I cannot be happy but with you by my side…

How can anyone be happy?, was her hollow thought. With such destruction everywhere? How can anyone consider peace and contentment when so many families have been torn apart?

And she gave the answer of her grief, of her pain, her misery and confusion, forgetting the long years of affection which had been built between them. Without truly thinking, she tore it down with her refusal, and lost him forever.

But she hardly knew yet the consequences of it.