3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith
Éomer tore at the tie which held the velvet cape to his throat, barging through the oaken door into the receiving chamber which he shared with his sister. She was curled up in a plush chair near the fire, wrapped in a shawl and absorbed in a book. He slammed the door behind him, and Éowyn looked up in surprise.
This sort of temper, which had occurred often enough during their youth, had not plagued Éomer for many years. Immediately Éowyn knew that something had happened. There was a tick in his cheek, and he leaned one arm against the stone wall as he stared out the window, his face half-hidden. His fingers were clenched in a white-knuckled fist.
Éowyn marked her page in the book, swinging her legs down to sit primly, correctly guessing that he had no intention of explaining, nor even of speaking unless inquired of.
"Éomer—" she began.
"What?" he snapped back at her, interrupting.
"There is no need for rudeness," Éowyn said coolly. "Tell me what has happened."
His mouth was set in an unyielding line, and without looking at her he growled, "She refused me."
Éowyn blinked in surprise. Lothíriel had refused Éomer? That was truly astonishing, considering what she knew of her brother's affections, and princess's. In fact, Éowyn had not been the least bit surprised when Éomer had made known his intention to marry Lothíriel with all due haste following his return from the Black Gate.
And Éowyn had been ecstatic for him, and for Lothíriel. She admired the princess herself; Lothíriel was compassionate, lively, and had a good deal of sense. The book which Éowyn had been reading was one which Lothíriel had brought to the Healing House for her. And Faramir had confided in Éowyn how much his cousin cared for her brother. They had all expected a happy match, and a quick one.
"Did she tell you why?" Éowyn asked, her fingers tapping restlessly against the cover of her book.
"No." His voice was short, full of suppressed anger. She frowned; it all seemed unlike Lothíriel. But, without an explanation, she could hardly judge the princess nor offer her brother any comfort.
"I am confident she has a sensible reason," Éowyn ventured. "Lothíriel is not a fickle woman."
"I never believed so before," Éomer said bitterly. "But now I wonder." And he turned away from her, stomping away to the door which led to his private chamber, which he disappeared through with another slam.
Éowyn stared at the door for a moment. Then without hesitation stood and strode to the writing desk, pulling forth a sheaf of parchment and dipping a quill—
Faramir,
If you recall our subject of discussion this morning, I would inform you that matters have not proceeded as we expected. My brother is in distress, and if you care for your cousin, respond at once—
É
She sent it with a page at once, and sat down again before the fire, though now she had little concentration for reading. A restless anxiety for Éomer's wellbeing and for Lothíriel set her pacing, biting her fingernails as she ought not to be doing. Should she not have summoned Faramir? Should they not interfere? But her brother's happiness was at stake! She could not sit and do nothing; it was not in her nature, not matter now ill-considered it might be. Absorbed in her thoughts, she nearly jumped when a knock sounded at the door at last.
"Faramir!" Éowyn sighed in relief, and she rushed towards him, and he caught in her a tender embrace.
"Tell me what has happened."
The story spilled from her lips even before she had drawn him to the chairs by the hearth, and with the comfort and solace of his strong hand on hers Éowyn no longer feared her confidence in him. Faramir would know; he knew Lothíriel well, and his sight would reveal much.
When she finished, Faramir said nothing. His solemn gaze was on the fire as he absently stroked her hand. At last he stirred, and said, "I cannot understand."
"But you must!" Éowyn insisted, then lowered her voice, lest Éomer hear. "Faramir, your sight—"
"Reveals nothing." He paused, and then turned to her with a sad smile. "I once dreamed of Lothíriel robed in green and wearing a crown of white stars. I told her such the day the host marched from the city. I knew then of her preference for your brother. As I told you this morning—I was prepared to offer them my congratulations as easily as you."
"Green is the color of the fields of Rohan! Even I can understand such symbolism!" Éowyn said in agony. "Faramir, I am certain they love each other—"
"But we must doubt it now, Éowyn, at least on her part. I wonder now—" He thought for a long moment, which grated on Éowyn's overexcited nerves even more before he spoke again. "She has been quieter these last days. I thought her merely tired, but with this…it may be more."
Éowyn frowned. "This cannot be, Faramir!" she said. "Whatever troubles have arisen, I fear they may be insurmountable! For Éomer, while he takes offence rarely, forgives almost never!"
"I should not wonder if Lothíriel has taken Amrothos's injury too much to heart," Faramir said. "It would be very much like her, for she bears the burdens of others at whatever cost to herself. And at my father's last rites…she looked unwell. I should have sought to give her more comfort then…"
"If you speak to her, I will try to reason with Éomer—they cannot leave this unresolved. Oh, Béma! He has loved her so long—" And with her heart piercing to feel her brother's pain, Éowyn felt tears gather in her eyes.
"We should not interfere," Faramir said gently, holding her face in his hands as his gaze searched hers with concern. "Of that much I am sure. I am sorry, Éowyn…"
She nodded, accepting his wisdom despite not truly wishing to. The vague hopes she had had of a shared wedding must be shut away, and with a sigh, she leaned into Faramir's willing comfort with weary dreams.
Lothíriel was lying in her bed curled in a protective ball, atop the covers and still fully dressed, when her father knocked on the door sometime that evening. With almost insurmountable effort, she opened her mouth and called in a weak voice for him to enter. Her head was pounding, and her nose stuffy from both the chill she had taken from the damp day before and from weeping.
It was dark; the sun had long set and she had never lit the candles. There was a silence as her father's footsteps entered, then she heard him strike a flint and a piercingly bright glare lit the chamber. Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut.
There was a dip of weight on the bed as Imrahil sat beside her, and she felt his caressing touch as he pushed limp hair from her face with great tenderness; something he had not done since she was a child. The very action burst the well of controlled grief in her breast, and tears began to leak freely from her closed eyes.
"Oh, Lothíriel…" his voice was soft. "What has happened?"
A sob shook her body. She tightened her own hold on herself, burrowing her face into the pillow so that her father did not see her agony. But that comfort was short lived—gently Imrahil lifted her by the shoulders, drawing her into his arms. The familiar though mostly forgotten embrace of her loving father broke her entirely, and she began to weep in earnest.
Her father did not speak again for several minutes, allowing her to completely spend her tears, which were many. At last she hiccupped through the last stream of sobs, and the chamber grew quiet once more. Imrahil's head was resting on her chin, and though she did not know it, the tears of a father witnessing his daughter so distraught dampened her hair.
"I am sorry," she said in a hoarse whisper.
Imrahil stirred. "Nay, you have nothing for which to be sorry," he assured her. "Certainly not for wetting my doublet—'tis only clothing, my love."
Lothíriel smiled, an empty smile, into the dim light of the chamber, though she was sure he could not see.
"Will you confide in me, daughter? I would ease your pain, if I may."
This gentle request knotted the painful strings in her breast once more, but she merely gave a shaky sigh. How could she speak to her father of Éomer, and in such miserable terms? She could not. It was too raw, too sensitive. What would he think of her? So her rely was merely, "I have done wrong by someone whom I love."
"I see," Imrahil said after a moment. "And is this an offense which may be repaired?"
No! her heart cried, and Lothíriel pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound against her will. At her silence, her father offered further,
"If it is your doing, an apology made in sincerity may—"
"My doing? How am I to know if I am at fault? The only thing I may know of a surety is that I know nothing." Lothíriel drew away from her father's embrace, sitting on her feet and clenching her shaking hands tightly together. Imrahil continued to study her gravely, his face betraying nothing. "I only wish things may have gone differently—" she began to say, "But they did not. And I cannot hope for forgiveness."
If they had gone differently—if Éomer had not offered marriage to her that day. If she had not witnessed such horrors from the war, to turn her inclination against happiness in such a time of grief. That the shock had not spurred on a sense of such guilt for loving, when such love was torn apart by evil—
"Daughter," Imrahil said, and his voice was cautious. "You may consider the limits of your own understanding. When one is young, it is too easy to view the world in such cases as only two-sided; black and white, wrong and right. The wisdom of knowing that matters are most often far more complicated comes with age, I am afraid—but I would that you do not despair so easily. I venture to say you do not comprehend fully of your offended's feelings, however you may try to guess them. To handle such a delicate situation…I would advise only not to assume your guilt, nor theirs."
Lothíriel was entirely certain, knowing Éomer as she did, that he would not forgive her. He was removed from her forever…and that very realization, awful in all its surety and damning her to lifetime of unhappiness for having lost the one she loved most, broke her heart completely. She had not realized, until that moment, the very last threads holding it together were Éomer himself. Shaken to the core down by death and destruction and Amrothos's terrible ordeal, Éomer had been her steady comfort…but no more would he be, and she felt her face drain of blood.
"You are unwell," Imrahil declared, picking up her limp hand at once. "I will send a maid to care for you. You must rest; I will make your excuses at supper tonight."
She could only blink at him.
"The feast in Merethrond, do you recall?" he asked, now frowning at her apparent forgetfulness. But Lothíriel could make no response. "It is to farewell Elphir and his knights before they depart in the morning for Dol Amroth. Now that, I am sure, you remember!"
She was surprised from her stupor. "Elphir? Tomorrow?" she cried aloud. "Oh, Father, allow me to leave with him, I beg of you!"
The earnest plea startled Imrahil, she saw—his expression stilled as his frown deepened. "You are unwell," he repeated. "And it is a long journey."
"Rest will restore me, I am sure of it! Please, let me accompany him!" Lothíriel begged. "Let me return home! Let me be of use to Elphir and his family—let me see the sea again!" Let me never behold Éomer again, nor anything that reminds me of this awful day, these awful weeks…
It was a moment longer before her father replied. "If you are resolute," he said slowly. "I would not gainsay you."
"Oh, thank you!" And impulsively, numb with relief that she might leave this city and find peace elsewhere, she threw her arms 'round her father's neck, and he grunted in surprise.
"Lothíriel, I must advise against this if your true motivation is to leave the cause of your distress. If not resolved, the breach may only deepen."
"Father," she said, pulling away from him to gaze balefully up at him. "I have not seen my home in many years. May my desire to see it not outweigh other considerations?"
Imrahil was frowning, but he nodded shortly. "So be it, then. Have the belongings you need packed tonight, for you will leave at dawn tomorrow."
By the time her father took his leave a few minutes later, Lothíriel felt enormously better. She had only to leave her cares and regrets behind as she returned home at long last, and she would be free from distress in the city of her childhood and the palace of her dreams…
That she was leaving her heart behind did not bear consideration, and so she ignored it completely.
