3019-3020 T.A., Dol Amroth
Lothíriel fared no better than her counterpart, though she did not know it.
The fortnight of riding in the spring chill with her weakened spirit had brought on a terrible case of illness, which laid her in bed for many weeks. While the remainder of her family travelled to Minas Tirith in July to meet Éomer and for some of them to travel northward with King Théoden's bier, she remained in Dol Amroth, nursing both the damp which had settled in her lungs and her broken heart.
Her father returned from Edoras (saying thankfully little of it) at the end of the summer, by which time she was well enough to resume activity; walking or riding along the cliffs, though always needing a rest afterwards. Imrahil did bring to her the well wishes and concern of many people she knew—Faramir and Éowyn, the kind and jolly perian, Elessar and his new bride, and Amrothos, still recovering in the Healing Houses.
"Your brother may return in the spring," her father informed her. "He is learning to use a false leg and growing stronger by the day."
Lothíriel pretended not to notice that Éomer's name was absent from her well-wishers. She smiled and kissed her father, adding her hopes to Amrothos's expedient recovery, and left from his presence for the solace of her private chambers. But her childhood abode was now comfortless.
She did not know what to think; still she did not know what to feel—the pain of her heart had been overwhelming her physicality for so long that sometimes she wondered if it had disappeared or if had simply become a part of her, the same way she did not notice her ears or the mole on her neck. But it was in this instance, when she could sense Éomer's contempt despite the leagues between them, that Lothíriel knew that the pain was still very present.
There was a hollow, gaping hole in her breast, and hastily she wiped away the tears on her cheeks before standing, brushing off her skirt and steeling herself. There was nothing for it; no cure, no forgiveness. She had made her choice, as much as she regretted it, and she would live with it.
Lothíriel tugged Éomer's ring from her finger. For a moment she allowed it to hover above a jewel case which she opened carelessly to receive it, but something in her cried out not to discard it so. For all the raw memories it invoked, it was precious to her. Hesitating only a moment, she chose from the case a slender, silver chain, and passed it through the ring. She hung it 'round her neck, tucking the ring beneath her bodice where it hung between her breasts. It was cold for a moment before warming on her flesh. She needn't see it, though it would always be there.
For all her determination to move forward, the winter passed very slowly and very unhappily for Lothíriel. Beyond her own pleasures, she filled her time with as much work as she could; taking on the duties of princess of Dol Amroth. She visited orphanages, oversaw charity projects, planned festivities and celebrations, immersed herself in the running of the palace and to fix the inevitable kinks of such a large household. For all her successes, her heart remained empty.
Nessiel assisted her with these responsibilities, as least initially—illness laid up the elder princess in her bed sometime around midwinter, and when she did not appear again from several weeks, Lothíriel divined the cause, and was rewarded with knowing she was correct sometime in February.
Then, of course, there was a celebration to be planned to announce to the court the prospective birth of a child of the prince's family, and preparations would have to be made for its arrival in the autumn. Lothíriel took all of this on herself, assuring Nessiel that it was no issue, for Nessiel's priority was to be resting and eating well, not worrying about arranging parties or of clothing for the baby.
"Really, Lothíriel!" Nessiel protested, when Lothíriel sat her down early one spring morning to plan what would need to be made—shifts and socks, blankets and little caps. "I still have Alphros's things, and they are in quite good condition—and I can sew more socks if they are needed! You needn't fuss!"
"I am not fussing," Lothíriel said stoutly, already deciding to make all the socks herself. "I am taking care of you."
"I am a grown woman!" Nessiel laughed. "Really!" There was only the slightest swell in her frock, and now that the first weeks of illness were passing, Nessiel was looking quite healthy and happy. But Lothíriel was determined, and she would have her way.
All these things kept her busy—busy enough to satisfy her, at least, and some weeks later they were all of them surprised to see on the road Amrothos's standard.
"But Amrothos cannot ride," said Erchirion, unwilling to be drawn from his luncheon though the remainder of his family had hastened to the east-facing window to see the road. "When I was in Minas Tirith a fortnight past he said nothing of it, nor of his plans to come—"
Erchirion was duly ignored. Lothíriel was first to rush from the dining chamber, forgetting in her excitement that she still held her fork. When she arrived at the courtyard, she laughed aloud to see that indeed it was Amrothos, and he was astride a horse, and he was grinning around in pure smugness.
"Nothing much has changed around here," he said loudly. "Hullo, little sister!"
"Get down from there at once! Did the healers give you leave, or did you steal away in the night? Oh, Amrothos, you look so well!"
And so he did. His smile was as roguish as ever as she took his hand, pressing a kiss to it. His color was all returned, and there was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he winked.
"I did get permission to leave, if you can believe it! But I also stole a healer away with me—"
Lothíriel blinked at this, and as she watched a small pony pulled up alongside Amrothos, a familiar-looking young woman dismounting with a flush in her face.
"I will help you," the woman said, taking the reins from him. "Really, you rode far too quickly that last mile! I need to ensure that you did not damage your leg any more—"
"Lothíriel, this is Careth," Amrothos said pleasantly. "Careth, cease fussing about and meet my sister."
"I know your sister," Careth said, and her green eyes darted shyly to Lothíriel, who was still staring in complete bewilderment. Her brother had stolen a healer? So nonchalantly? That was mighty strange, even for the irrepressible Amrothos.
"Oh! I do recognize you," Lothíriel managed at last. "And I do promise that if my brother has mistreated you, or if you wish to return to Minas Tirith, my father will—"
Amrothos interrupted with a loud laugh, allowing Careth to take his hand as he swung his stump of a leg over the saddle with a grunt. "She does not wish to return," he said. "At least, not yet. After we are wed, perhaps. What do you think, my love?"
Careth's cheeks were red, and Amrothos slid expertly from the saddle to the ground, only a bare flash of pain in his features as his good leg took all his weight. He wrapped an arm around Careth's waist and pulled her close to plant a kiss on her lips.
Lothíriel nearly fainted.
"Where is Father? We wish to tell him first. Well—second." Amrothos's eyes were alight with mischief and happiness, and even Careth was hiding a smile, though she looked distinctly less comfortable than he was in the mighty courtyard of the palace of the princes of Dol Amroth.
"Er, he is—ah…"
Fortunately the remainder of her family arrived then, looking surprised and pleased at Amrothos's appearance, though there were definite expressions of bewilderment as they saw him wrapped affectionately around the little healer.
Lothíriel's heart had sunk down to her toes. On numb legs, she whispered something about having rooms arranged for them and turned to run back into the palace.
Tears were blinding her. She was rushing around without realizing where she was going, but her unfailing memory took her to her chambers, and after locking the door behind her, Lothíriel collapsed onto her bed and gave into shaking sobs.
Amrothos! To marry!
She was not angry at him; not bitter, nor unhappy. Nor could she detest his choice in bride, for Lothíriel knew Careth from those long days in the Healing Houses, and knew the woman was kind and capable. No, her anger was for herself.
How stupid she had been! Thinking that love had no place after a war—apparently that was where it belonged the most! Denying Éomer because she thought—nobly, stupidly—that evil had taken too many lives, torn too many families apart for happiness to ever shine again.
There had been considerable losses in the war—'twas true, and she had lost much. But…Amrothos had gained from it. Somehow, he had lost a leg but gained a true-hearted, devoted woman. Lothíriel could have had Éomer after all was done; she could have—she could have—despite everything, despite her pain and misery, he still had wished to marry her. She could have had him…they could have healed together.
In that moment, Lothíriel knew that she was the most foolish woman alive.
1 November 3020 T.A., Edoras
"—And our last order on the agenda is to discuss the upcoming marriage of Éomer King—"
Éomer sat up straight, alarmed out of his stupor. Eyes turned to him at once, and the speaker, an old councilor of his uncle's, faltered under his king's fierce gaze.
"My what?" he demanded.
The councilor swallowed, his ears turning red. "Your—your marriage. Sire." The word marriage was spoken in a whisper, and for the humor of the man's obvious nervousness Éomer might have laughed.
"My marriage," he repeated slowly. "I did not know I was to be congratulated. Do send me an invitation, Halsig, if you will."
There were stilted chuckles across the council chamber at this, and Halsig even managed a wan smile. Then he steeled himself, and under Éomer's inquiring gaze, said, "Sire, forgive my impertinence—"
"I have already forgotten it."
"—but you really must wed. The Line of Eorl—the line of our kings—has suffered too much in the last years, and we would see it replenished for the sake of Rohan. A queen would benefit our nation greatly, be she as admirable as your late aunt, and the security of the progeny of your loi—er, blood would—"
Éomer gave up listening, his stomach twisting with rebellion. There was no stopping Halsig when he got into a topic he felt passionately about, and this was clearly one of them. He tried not to think of the phrase 'progeny of your blood', for he surmised that Halsig had nearly said 'progeny of your loins,' and he did not find that the least bit humorous in his mood of late.
"—And I have drawn up a list of suitable women, should you wish to consult it. The choice is, of course, entirely yours; we would not presume to choose your bride ourselves."
Éomer saw Erkenbrand exchange an amused glance with Elfhelm, but any laughter was stifled. He sent the pair of them a mild glare as Halsig delicately placed a sheaf of parchment in front of him. Éomer picked it up, hating it already.
Many of the names he recognized, some he did not. He smiled grimly to himself, and then glanced up. "Did you compile this list yourself, Halsig?" he asked innocently. "And did Erkenbrand ask you to put his daughter upon it? Or did you assume that he would be pleased to give her willingly to me, whom he has always called a half-witted lout?"
Erkenbrand's smile faded at once. "Halsig!" he boomed, his massive fist on the oaken table. "You scheming—without my permission—my Frithild is not yours to decide what to do with—"
The council chamber erupted in protests, both in offense against and in defense of the poor Halsig, who was looking pale as he sat down weakly in his chair, unheeding to the shouts around him. Éomer's smile turned smug, and no one heard the screech as his chair legs scraping against the floor to stand. He tucked his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself, strode out of the chamber unnoticed, thinking that a ride would just the antidote for his near-heart attack of being bullied into marrying.
Such matters only brought forth his aching memories of Lothíriel, and his smile turned brittle. Éowyn's wedding was fast approaching, and he would see her there, whether he wished to or not. And did he wish to? Well—
A ride, he told himself sternly. Think of a ride!
30 November 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth
Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, and the baby squirmed as the brightness shifted onto her face. Lothíriel bounced her niece gently, turning her away from the window, cooing as Nerriel yawned before settling back into her blankets, eyes closed and letting out sleepy, shallow breaths.
Lothíriel dipped her head, placing a bare brush of a kiss against the babe's rosy cheek. Nerriel smelled of sweet milk and soft soap—a perfect scent if there ever was one. She wished she could bottle it up and take it with her to Ithilien!
"It is time, daughter."
Lothíriel's heart wrenched, but she smiled at her father as she glanced at the door. "I was only saying goodbye," she said.
"I know." His eyes were soft, affectionate. As she joined him by the door, he bent down to kiss Nerriel as well, his large hand covering her dark curls. "She is a sweet baby," Imrahil said, a catch in his voice. "Elphir is very fortunate."
"Not least because he is avoiding a long and tiresome journey to Ithilien," Lothíriel teased.
"Too right! You must be sure to remind him."
They walked slowly together towards the courtyard, where already the horses were saddled and waiting. Through the open corridors Lothíriel could see Elphir farewelling their brothers, and Nessiel embracing Careth. She had delayed too long with the baby, she surmised.
Presently Nerriel was given to her mother, not once opening her eyes at the commotion of horses and knights. Lothíriel tightened her cloak at her neck and ran her hands over the belts and ties of Wilwarin's saddle to see that all was properly secured. She was turned away from the white marble walls of her home, for fear of premature homesickness wrenching her already fragile heart.
"Good bye, sister! Safe travels!"
She was enveloped in Elphir's strong arms, and she laughed and returned his embrace.
"Farewell, Elphir!" Lothíriel said. "Think of us sleeping out of doors while you are tucked in your warm bed, tonight."
"I will!" he laughed, tugging on one of her braids on instinct, and she winced.
There was no more cause for delay, and they mounted their steeds—Amrothos with some trouble, but gallantly persevering all the same under the watchful eye of Careth. Lothíriel steered Wilwarin towards the north gate, where many miles distant Ithilien stood amongst its mountains and tall trees. She could not help the anxiety twisting her stomach then; she was trying with all her might not to think of Éomer being there—which of course he would be, as it was his sister's wedding.
It would be sixteen days of riding, and sixteen days of considering just how she was going to avoid seeing him for the entire week of wedding festivities.
