May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith and Beyond

Amrothos grew restless in the Healing Houses long before the Warden declared that he might return home. The white-washed walls were boring, the arched ceiling was dull, there was no one to speak to except the healers and whichever relative of his remembered to visit him that day. Lothíriel had, of course, come every day—until Erchirion came to inform him that their eldest brother and sister had left for Dol Amroth.

"Blast," Amrothos said irritably. "She is the only sibling I have that visits me."

Erchirion was not incensed so easily, brushing this off. "If you are intent on being so ungrateful, I shall cease coming. She did leave without being betrothed, if that interests you."

It did interest him. Amrothos propped himself upon an elbow, ignoring the lancing pain through the stump of his leg at this action. "Without being betrothed? But why?"

"I can hardly know the details," Erchirion snapped back.

"What of Éomer, then?"

"He is grouchy as an old man, on the rare occasions that I see him."

Amrothos scratched his chin. "They will reconcile," he said at last. "I am sure of it."

"I am not so sure," Erchirion said. "I have never seen Éomer in such moods before. And do you not recall Lothíriel's insistence to stay in Minas Tirith? It does not align with leaving off one morning with hardly a by-your-leave."

"I am sure," Amrothos said confidently. "Would you care to make a wager?"

His brother cocked a brow, clearly unimpressed. "On our sister?"

"She needn't know. We can make it small, say…ten silver pieces."

Erchirion pursed his lips for a moment, finally shaking his head in resignation. "Very well! Father insists that we humor you in your illness, so I accept your wager."

"Very funny," Amrothos retorted. "Father said no such thing."

Erchirion said nothing, merely shrugging in response.

"…Did he?"

Soon after the brothers parted, and Amrothos was left alone once more. He was more annoyed that he would admit that Lothíriel had left Minas Tirith; truly he found little solace in any company but hers. Her teasing was gentler than their brothers', and her concern for him never wavered.

A healer came by some hours later. Amrothos's restless impatience was growing, and when his bandages were unwrapped for his wound to be inspected, he snapped out unduly at the sudden pain of it.

"You are causing it to hurt worse! Are you a healer, or a torturer?"

The woman paused, her eyes travelling slowly up to his face. The sense of having been unkind—nay, more than unkind—with someone who did not deserve it began to prick at him at her steady gaze, and he swallowed.

"If you would prefer, you may change your own bandages and I shan't be bothered one bit. There is much work elsewhere for me, for those who desire it," she said coolly. "But if you are wishing medicine for the pain, you must suffer us healers. By all means, choose your way as you see fit."

Her eyes were green, pure and dark, and a chestnut curl had escaped from her grey head covering. These things normally might not have caught his attention, but the expression upon her face—proud and weary, irritated and stern, turned his prick of conscience into real remorse. Amrothos knew at once that if Lothíriel had witnessed him just then, she would have given him a terrible scold, which he likely deserved.

"I apologize," he said at once, the words bitter. He was not in the habit of apologizing, but forced himself to go on, leaning back on his pillow to stare at the ceiling to gain some relief. "I should not have lost my temper."

"I must agree," the healer said, and she returned to her task. There was more pulling and tugging on the bandages, and Amrothos bit his tongue to distract himself from the peeling agony. It did not suffice. "Your leg has scabbed over nicely," she told him. "Once the skin beneath heals enough to shed the scab, you should be well enough to leave the Healing Houses."

"And how long will that be?"

"Two or three weeks, by my estimation." She was now rolling out fresh, snowy-white bandages, and she smiled upwards at him before uncorking a bottle of salve. "It will feel much longer than it is, I assure you, my lord." The salve was cool on his inflamed skin, and her fingers gentle. Her lips were pressed together in concentration, and even from where he lay he could see her dark lashes against the paleness of her cheek. Despite the stodgy uniform the healers wore, he thought she could be deemed pretty enough.

"What is your name?" he asked, deciding that conversation was like to be more distracting that staring at the ceiling.

"I am Careth, my lord."

"And where do you come from, Careth?"

"Yonder in Cair Andros," she said, and her voice turned quiet. "I came to Minas Tirith in the winter to train with the healers, and none too soon. My brothers fell defending our home."

Amrothos did not respond straightway; this healer's story was all too common. "Did your parents survive?" he asked.

Her smile was tight, but kind. "They died when I was young," she said. "River fever. I have no relations nearer than a second cousin, now." Careth cleaned her hands on her apron, and then began to wind the bandage around his leg—his stump, he must now think of it, Amrothos thought dispassionately.

"I heard rumor that your sister has left Minas Tirith," Careth said softly after a moment. "She was of great help during our darkest days; I would that you convey to her our thanks and best wishes."

Amrothos let out a low breath as she tied off the bandage. "I will," he said.

"I thank you." She bundled away the bloodied bandages before turning back with a smile. "I have a syrup to numb the pain. It will make you sleep."

"No, thank you," Amrothos said, despite the yearning temptation of empty solace. "I am well enough to be alert. Will you come again?" There was an odd feeling in his chest, a feeling that the company of a kind healer, even a stranger, would better ease his spirits than any medicine. He missed Lothíriel more than ever, but clearly he would have to make do with whom he could find.

"I will." Careth stood, bending over briefly to touch his forehead with her cool fingers. He flinched away, but she was satisfied. "If you are in need, call for us. But you seem to be healing nicely."

It was the best compliment had received all day, even with Erchirion's poor company. Amrothos was smiling to himself as she left. Perhaps confinement in the Healing Houses would not be so terrible after all.


Éomer took the news of Lothíriel's abrupt and unexplained departure with no outwards signs of, well, anything. He did not realize how irritating this was for his sister, whose worry was quite visible (though Éomer chose determinedly not to see it), and when they departed for Rohan two days later he appeared entirely composed, though his emotions were a different matter entirely.

The feeling of complete and utter betrayal burned in him without ceasing. He could only see Lothíriel's refusal as treachery against every good thing in his world; against their friendship, against their love…for she had loved him, though now his certainty of that wavered. Why would she not wish to marry him, if she still loved him? He simply could not fathom it.

The dreams he had built were now dust. Éomer had always been content to hope that one day she would agree to be his wife in Aldburg. He had never understood her to be a woman who sought advancement in the world, and while being a marshal's wife rather than a princess may be viewed as a regression to some, he had never thought Lothíriel to care much about that sort of thing. Never once had she given that impression, in all those years of corresponding.

And in the last weeks…the thought which had sustained him during those darkest hours, of grief for his uncle and the overwhelming responsibility of fulfilling the role of king, was that Lothíriel, his beautiful, wonderful princess, would be with him. To have his dearest friend and greatest comfort with him always, he could bear the losses of all his family; Théodred and Théoden to death, and Éowyn to Faramir in Gondor.

Now, Meduseld would be empty. As would his heart.

The anxiety of rebuilding Rohan from a state of disarray and destruction from a new and unfamiliar position had greatly distressed Éomer in those first days after his uncle died, but now he welcomed it wholeheartedly. It was a distraction, something else to think of than the wound from Lothíriel which felt far more physical than it ought to be, a throbbing ache in his chest which never eased. The vigor he put into the rebuilding might have alarmed Éowyn, but he was thankful that she at least had the sense not to advise him any differently.

The heat of summer came and passed, and another journey to Minas Tirith was taken and not enjoyed. He did not see Lothíriel in those days, without knowing if he truly wished to or not. Would it have been easier to bury his uncle with her by his side, with her generous love and care? Would the crown of the House of Eorl be less heavy upon his head if she was among the crowd? He did not know, and once Meduseld was free from its peculiar guests, there was only more time to bury himself in hard work.

Autumn eventually came with the dawn-till-dusk harvest season, and Éomer reveled in it, imagining himself thinking of Lothíriel less and the needs of his nation more. Usually that smug consideration brought the princess back to his mind, and so he tried to stop discerning whether he was thinking of her or not altogether.

But there were always reminders, and her father's regular letters were a certain one. An invitation to visit Dol Amroth was always included, but Éomer could not consider such a thing. Not now, and likely not ever, however highly he esteemed Imrahil and his family. When the first flurries of winter were howling outside Meduseld, he penned a plainly-worded response which he hoped would satisfy the prince for several months at least—

I thank you for your gracious offer, but I unfortunately must decline at this time. The rebuilding of Rohan goes well, but I cannot be spared, or so my councilors tell me. I humor them, for huffy councilors are perhaps a greater annoyance than any enemy I have faced.

There. Éomer signed off his letter to Imrahil with a flourish, relieved to have an excuse not to travel to Dol Amroth, and confident in his joking that Imrahil would not notice anything amiss in his temper.

Once the letter was neatly sealed, Éomer laid it on the desk in front of him atop a missive to Aragorn, ready to be given to a messenger and sent to Gondor. There was more blank parchment at his elbow, and his fingers twitched. After a moment his picked up a quill, nervously running it between his fingers as his carefully controlled thoughts jumbled. No. No matter the temptation, no matter the urge, no matter how badly he missed her…he would not give in. His mouth tasted bitter, and donning the calmness he had practiced so much of late, Éomer stood, grasping the letters and leaving to give them to the messenger before his control crumbled.

It was another mild winter, and feeling as restless as the season usually made him, Éomer sought any reason to leave Edoras, to distract himself with travel and duties. December took him to the Hornburg, back to Edoras for Yuletide, and when January brought merely a few inches of snow, he made for Aldburg.

Elfhelm had taken over the position of marshal, and very well, too, but the evening Éomer arrived Elfhelm presented him with a box of possessions which had been left behind.

"I could have sent it along earlier," Elfhelm said with a roguish grin. "But I thought I might hold these things of yours hostage, so that you would not forget to visit an old friend and share a pint of ale."

Éomer gave a laugh at this, deciding not to contradict him—the first item in the box to catch his eye was a darkened piece of parchment, the unbroken seal of Lothíriel pressed into it. He surmised it must be old, for otherwise it would have been sent to Edoras, and he did not want to read it. At least, he did not think he did.

The pint of ale was shared, with many remembrances and much laughter between the men. But it was a hollow comfort for Éomer, who, near midnight, was forced to return to his private chamber with that letter to haunt his thoughts.

He tossed and turned that night, deciding first to burn the letter without reading it, then deciding to at least find out when it was written before burning it, and finally thinking that reading its entirety would do no lasting harm. The harm was already done, and by the lady in person, and not through writing. He had little to lose and nothing to gain by reading the letter. But it was addressed to him, and did he not have the courtesy to give it an indifferent perusal before burning it?

Eventually it was the suppressed yearnings of his heart, which seemed no less despite his every effort in the past months, which raised him from his bed near dawn, to light a taper and break the seal of the letter with curiosity both morbid and heart-rending.

Dearest Éomer, it read,

I fear you will not receive this missive, for the disquiet and mistrust which has been rising everywhere; in Gondor, and between our nations. I hear often Rohan spoken of, with mutterings that your Riders will not support us here. I hold my tongue when I hear these things, for I do not trust myself not to lash out angrily, or to keep from betraying myself. If the people of Minas Tirith look upon Rohan with such dismissal, what would they think of me, with my heart in your keeping across our borders? Not that I particularly care what people think of me in the general way, but I feel it prudent to be wary. I feel that our bond could do a great deal of harm, were the power of it in the wrong hands. But between us, I assure you, it brings me nothing but comfort. I do not regret you, not one whitso do not misinterpret my writings in that manner!

Every day I worry for you more; we have received news of your cousin's death and I ache for you. I curse these evil forces which are so intent on destroying every happiness and comfort in this dreary world! I hope that in your grief you are sustained, that your uncle will be well again soon, and I send my best wishes for your sister, whatever the source of her malady. And youI can see your face in my mind even now, declaiming that you are quite fine, thank you very much, and that you are simply grateful for the life you have; however it pains you at present. Éomer, you must not force yourself to be too strong, for that is when men become brittle, and are like to shatter at any pressure.

Attacks in Gondor from across the river increase daily. Many people have been fleeing their homes to safer havens in the mountains or in Minas Tirith itself. The city is overcrowded; there are bodies sleeping in the streets nearly every night now. It is terribly warm here, uncannily soit is so unusual for winter that I cannot but feel restless and uncertain.

My days have changed little. We wait for tidings, and are often disappointed. We help where we can, but it is little. I have taken to keeping Wilwarin's coat brushed and shined, though I daresay we shall do little riding in the coming weeks and months. But it keeps my mind busy, and reminds me of better days.

Ah! The messenger has arrived early, and taps his foot with impatience. I seal this letter with my love and hope and pleas for your protection

Lothíriel

Éomer's lips were curled into a frown, and he limply allowed the parchment to fold over on itself as he stared into the slumbering ashes of the fire. The letter brought no comfort, but neither did it deepen his aching regret. He was hollow, rigid, pained to the point of unfeeling. He cast the letter into the ashes, and after a moment new flames began to lick the edges.

He must assume that Lothíriel had cared for him—but only as a youthful fancy. She was eight years younger than him! While he had felt for her with the strength of a man prepared to give the rest of his life to one woman, her feelings must merely be subject to fickle change. It was the only explanation he could consider, and it was the only one he could accept to both soothe his smothered affection and to satisfy his pride.

Then he rose and left the chamber, expressly intending to take a long, hard ride across the plains in search of forgetting.