22 December 3020 T.A., Ithilien
—Would it also be too much of me to hope, that when you look at this ring you may think of me fondly? More than fondly, perhaps? Were this war not worsening, I might speak more freely, but please know, Lothíriel, that I think only of you—
Lothíriel fiddled with the ring which hung on a chain 'round her neck, her heart aching as the cold metal band chilled her fingers. She had read that letter from Éomer so many times that it was seared into her memory, and even now, nearly two years since she had received it, she could recall his words perfectly. How joyous that day had been! And how it pained her to remember it now.
The midwinter sun shone weakly into her guest chamber, obscured by snow-covered branches of the trees outside. Ithilien was beautiful and much improved by Faramir's hard work, but Lothíriel could find no joy in it. Not when she knew she would see Éomer that night. No matter how she had tried the last days, the last months—Lothíriel could not forget him; not the love she had for him, nor the expression upon his face when she had uttered that horrible word, "No."
A sudden knock at the door made her jump. Her heart in her throat—could it be Éomer? Had he come to see her?—and she called in a wavering voice,
"Enter!"
But it was merely Amrothos's moppy head and winning smile which poked through the door, and she sighed.
"Come in, quickly," she said, and dropped the ring back between the cleft of her breasts, where it was hidden beneath her bodice. "What have you come to tell me?"
"Well, that is rather to the point!" Amrothos shut the door behind him, his smile never fading as he limped towards her, his false leg clunking loudly, to where she sat by the window. "Can I not visit my favorite sister without a true purpose?"
"Anyone else could—but you? Likely not!" This teasing was usual, and while Lothíriel could smile for her brother, her thoughts did not stray far from her unhappy musings.
Amrothos sat beside her, lounging with apparent comfort in the window seat despite the painful grimace that crossed his face as his leg stuck out awkwardly. Lothíriel stifled a real giggle, shaking her head. "Father did send me," he admitted, not surprising her at all. "Thought I might have come myself. He is worried about you—you have hardly left your chamber since we arrived!"
"It is cold," Lothíriel hedged. "I prefer to be indoors."
"There are still many activities in the hall and such, and many people to greet! I thought you might at least wish to see Éomer. Though to be fair, he is as elusive as you." He frowned thoughtfully at this.
Amrothos did not, of course, know of the breach between her and Éomer. She had told no one; allowing her family to persist in believing that she and the new King of Rohan were on friendly terms. Evidently the abrupt ceasing of letters had not been noticed amongst the increased activity of the recent months.
"I have not been feeling myself," Lothíriel tried again. "I may be catching ill."
Immediately Amrothos tilted away from her. "Surely not! Well—you look pale, I suppose. Ah, I will tell Father that I spoke to you. You will attend the wedding tonight? I have a vested interest, you know!"
She could not help smiling; for all his normally cheerful demeanor, somehow her brother produced so much more joy with his betrothal to Careth fast approaching. "Indeed. Ill or not, I shall be there."
"Excellent. I will come for you at sunset." He had stood, sidling away from her as if afraid of catching her illness. Lothíriel smiled wanly at this; her ailment was hardly catching.
"Goodbye, Amrothos."
The door was shut.
Éomer's heart was not quite in the festivities that night. Happy as he was for his sister, the raw resentment which burned in his chest was throbbing painfully as he tried to not see Lothíriel in the swarming mass of guests. Was she happy? Could he bear to see her smiling at anyone but himself? Did she love another already? If her heart was as inconsistent as he had decided, it was more than likely…
Éowyn, the only person in the world that knew the cause of his disquiet, cast him many sympathetic glances, though most of her attention was upon her new husband and their guests. With a hollow pit in his stomach, Éomer bowed shortly to the lord he had been conversing absently with and retreated.
He paused at a table of refreshments, taking a glass of wine and wishing to be anywhere else, before he turned and collided with a feminine body which he was sure had appeared out of nowhere. He barely kept his wine from spilling, but the woman was not so lucky; the reticule which she had been rummaging through fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. One glass phial shattered with a crash, and liquid splashed onto his trousers.
"Oh—oh, I am sorry, my lord!" The woman had fallen to her knees, hastily picking up the oddments. Her voice was familiar, and after a moment it broke through his haze of incomprehension.
Lothíriel.
Éomer crouched down at well, determinedly saying nothing but assisting her all the same, picking up an embroidered handkerchief and a spare hair ribbon. Did she not recognize him? Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed as she took her belongings from his hand with trembling fingers. She hurried to wipe the spill with the handkerchief, and he smelled jasmine.
But he was distracted, for his gaze travelled forward. From the silver-embroidered bodice of her frock fell a ring, swinging tantalizingly in front of his confused eyes as Lothíriel at last glanced up at him.
"Oh! Éo—" His name was strangled in her throat, and the flush in her cheeks deepened into scarlet. Despite the flash of trepidation in her face, she was as beautiful as ever with her dark curls hanging 'round her face. Éomer felt an answering surge of desire in the pit of his stomach for this woman, but firmly he quashed it. She had denied him. She clearly did not love him, and there was no use pretending otherwise. With great control, he picked up her limp hand and lifted her to her feet.
"Good evening, madam." He bowed shortly and turned on his heel to leave.
"Wait! Éo—my lord."
Éomer paused, turning back slightly to give the princess a level stare.
"I—I am sorry. I should have returned it—" She was fumbling, pulling the ring from its fine chain 'round her lovely throat.
"No," he said hoarsely. "Keep it. 'Twas a gift, my lady."
But she was shaking her head. "It would not be right, my lord, not since—"
"Discard it however you wish, then."
"Oh, I could not! Not something so precious to me."
Éomer wondered if he was imaging the agony in her clear grey eyes. He had always thought he understood Lothíriel extremely well, even those things she did not say outright—but now he doubted himself. To hide his own tremulous feelings, he clasped his hands together behind his back, steeling himself.
"It needn't be precious if you do not wish it to be," he said indifferently. The expression in her eyes darkened to the purest misery he had ever seen in his life, and Éomer blinked in astonishment at it. That he had not expected, and he grew utterly confused.
He had decided upon her fickleness of character, her inconstancy of feeling, as the only explanation of her refusal. She should be entirely indifferent to him now, according to his reasoning. But if this was so...why were there tears now flooding her eyes?
Éomer picked up her limp hand, noting the quiver in it as she stared up at him in bewildered...hope? Was that hope he saw? Or was it merely his own, reflected in those beautiful eyes which he still dreamed of?
"'Tis only a ring," he said, keeping his voice level. "Lothíriel, you need not remember our correspondence any more than you wish."
She blinked, and he was surprised at the flash of anger in her features. "I will remember it whether I wish or not!" Lothíriel said sharply, withdrawing her hand from his. "Even when I beg to forget so that I might sleep at night instead of weep. Good evening, my lord." And she turned and swept away, her chin high in the air and her skirt sweeping elegantly behind her.
He had expected only a mite of remorse, for he knew his princess had a good heart, but he had also expected her to pretend as if nothing had happened between them. Now he did not know what to think, and he turned to walk the opposite direction, recalling almost against his will the precious letter which still resided in his desk in Meduseld, tied with a hair ribbon he had filched from her all those years ago…
What joy your letter has brought me! I cannot pretend subtleties when my heart overflows. Éomer, I love you! If I have mistaken your suggestions then I am likely the greatest fool in the world, but I cannot care...
The scent of jasmine stayed with him.
Lothíriel wrung her hands together, oblivious to the scene she was undoubtedly creating by her frantic pacing in their corner of the feasting hall. Careth watched this in part amusement, part sympathy—and when the princess failed to speak, her brows drawn together in worry, the healer gently said,
"Whatever is it, Lothíriel? What is troubling you?"
Lothíriel stopped her pacing, glancing around, as if surprised to find herself in a crowded hall. "Oh—nothing, nothing, I assure you. Everything is well. Quite well. I am well." And she took a deep, steadying breath, which was not steady at all.
Careth might have been new to the Prince of Dol Amroth's family, but she knew his daughter well enough to guess that everything was not well. She was not familiar with many things that could discompose the ever-kind Lothíriel, but from the scene she had caught sight of just minutes before, she might hazard a guess. Careth put a hand on the princess's arm, in an attempt to both calm her and draw her attention.
"I saw you speaking to the King of Rohan," she said. "He is very frightening, no?"
Lothíriel blinked. "Éomer? Frightening? No, I would not say so."
Careth frowned slightly. "No? In the Healing Houses, we were all frightened of him. He is so enormously tall and has such a scowl sometimes—"
"Very rarely, I would say," Lothíriel contradicted. Her eyes flitted away, confusing Careth all the more. Though she had only caught a glimpse of the princess speaking to the king, she had not the impression that it was a comfortable meeting. Perhaps what she had seen as fright in Lothíriel was something else. But she could not guess what. This show of nerves was so unlike Lothíriel that Careth could not help her concern growing.
The familiar touch of Amrothos drew her eyes away from his sister, and Careth smiled as he put his hands on her shoulders from behind, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking her arm.
"Are you nervous yet?" he asked, with that wonderful grin of his.
"Not at all," Careth said primly, for she knew the best manner in which to accept his teasing was to pretend he was not teasing at all. But then she remembered Lothíriel, and with a meaningful look in her eyes as Amrothos continued to gaze at her, she nodded her head slightly towards his sister.
Amrothos blinked. He glanced at Lothíriel, then back to Careth, his expression questioning. However well they understood each other normally, it was difficult to discuss someone standing next to them, no matter how vacant Lothíriel appeared. Careth pursed her lips, inclining her head further in the princess's direction. Amrothos looked again, frowning—then he turned back to Careth with a shrug.
Oh! He was useless!
But her thoughts were ungracious, for a moment later the prince asked, quite gently for him, "Lothíriel, are you well?"
Lothíriel jumped at this, turning and appearing quite surprised to see him standing with them. "Of course!" she said. "Why would I not be?" There was a hint of accusation in her tone. Perhaps she was growing weary of inquiries—Careth certainly would be, and almost she regretted drawing Amrothos's attention to her.
"I saw Éomer earlier," Amrothos said next, and his eyes were kind. "Can I fetch him for you, Loth? I am sure he would—"
"No, thank you very much!" Lothíriel hissed, her eyes flashing at her brother. Careth was startled at this, and more so by the swift sweep of skirt as the princess turned on her heel, disappearing with haste into the crowd. Silence followed her departure, and after a moment Amrothos said,
"Do you know, I think she is not quite well."
"Very astute," Careth said dryly. "Do you think we should—"
"No. She will only regret more interference now, I think. And anyways, I was just speaking to my father, it is nearly time for us."
Heat suffused Careth's cheeks; she had been trying not to think of their fast-approaching and very public betrothal. Her fingers clenched on Amrothos's arm, and he laughed. "Not nervous, eh?" he asked, lifting her chin to gaze better into her eyes. "Do not worry, Careth—for I will support you. Providing you assist me in mounting the steps, that is—"
And with a burst of laughter, the young healer allowed her concern for her lover's sister to dwindle.
