7 April 3019 T.A., Dol Amroth
Lothíriel was not displeased to face the prospect of a feast welcoming Éomer to Dol Amroth, not really. But no matter how she tried, she could not summon any detached and happy anticipation on his behalf; only a hollow ache. Together with Nessiel, she had made arrangements for food and music and flowers, and while normally such a task for honored guests would bring enjoyment, in this instance, it did not.
She bathed and dressed that night with especial care, all the while attempting to convince herself it was not for Éomer, merely to present the best appearance to honor her father's house. This convincing did not go well—she chose a velvet, olive green frock in a new style; a tightly fitted bodice, which bared her shoulders but gave way to long, tight sleeves. The bodice flared from her waist, and beneath a matching skirt layers of sheer silk gave fetching volume, swishing around elegantly where she stepped. Slippers for dancing, and a lovely hairstyle which drew her lengths of hair behind her head, braided back intricately and falling in a long, loose tail to her waist.
It was tasteful, Lothíriel hoped. Certainly there were no vulgar ornaments to draw obscene attentions to her, and Nessiel had assured her when the frock was made that it did her figure very well. Perhaps some would think it too simple for a princess, but she did not care what anyone thought. Except, if she were willing to admit it—Éomer.
The sun was already setting when her preparations were complete, and the dancing due to begin in less than a half-hour. As part of the host's family, Lothíriel was intending to arrive early, but before she could depart her chamber with her frayed nerves, her father knocked upon the door.
He entered bearing a velvet box under his arm, and curiosity overcoming her anxiety, Lothíriel welcomed him with a smile, standing from her vanity.
"You are as lovely as your mother was." Imrahil bent to plant a kiss on her head, his voice strangely hoarse. But he was smiling as he pulled away. "I have brought you a gift."
She recognized the velvet box from the secret spying she had done long ago; one of the many storage chambers in the palace held her mother's belongings. This one had been in a locked trunk (she had picked it open with a hairpin), one of the few that was not dusty, and from which she knew Elphir had chosen a spectacular ruby necklace for Nessiel when they had wed.
Imrahil unlatched the box, prying it open to reveal a beautiful, freshly-polished silver diadem. Pearls dotted the rim, and silver lines crossed in a unique and stunning pattern. More pears were set at the points, and tiny jewels surrounded them, making a shape reminiscent of stars with the pearly bellies.
"It was your mother's," he explained. "She wore it the day we wed."
Lothíriel was speechless. She could not fathom this generosity, not even from her father, and she gaped up at him.
"For you," he said again, amusement twitching his lips. "A simple 'thank you' will suffice, my daughter."
"But Father, this cannot be for me—"
"I am not going to go through the hassle of putting it back into storage," Imrahil said testily. "Nor am I going to give it to anyone else. Amrothos already chose a gift for his bride, and this is too precious to save for Erchirion's wife, wherever she may be hiding from the lad. If you are too surprised to thank me, at least wear it tonight—then I will know of your gratitude."
"I thank you most sincerely. It is truly beautiful, Father," Lothíriel said properly, coloring a little at this speech. "But really—"
"Hush! No more protests. Will you set it in your hair, or shall I?"
"Oh, I will—I would not have you mussing my hair after the careful attention it required—"
Imrahil laughed at her playful joke, and Lothíriel lifted the crown from the box. Unable to look away from its sparkling, shining lines, she sat back at her vanity, looking into the mirror to place it carefully amongst her dark braids.
"It suits you."
Her nerves returned, more twisting and turning than ever, and taking her father's arm they set out for the feasting hall at once. Lothíriel felt conspicuous wandering the corridors dressed so richly, but she forced herself to remain calm—it was a night for opulence. She would not be noticed amongst so many others. Even Imrahil was wearing his finest clothes, and a silver circlet on his brow. Lothíriel's breast swelled with pride to be with him. Whatever agony she had to hide that night to see Éomer fawned over by the alluring ladies of Dol Amroth, she would be pleased to be part of her father's great house.
The great feasting hall was bursting with light and color; hundreds of candles lit the room, and bright torches glittered from sconces along the mighty marble pillars. The shadows of every corner of the arched ceiling were driven away by a dozen chandeliers, and woven garlands of flowers covered the stink of numerous bodies. Already a low rumble of conversation filled the air, and Imrahil strode confidently through the mass, oblivious to his daughter's nerves. Many people inclined their heads as prince and princess passed.
Lothíriel sighed with relief when her father gave her arm to Erchirion. Imrahil stood upon the tall dais to welcome their guests from Rohan in a carrying voice. Her fingers clenched upon her brother's arm, but either he did not notice, or he felt it unwise to comment. Heads were turning towards where Éomer was undoubtedly standing near the dais, but she did not—could not—look, and Lothíriel found unwarranted interest in the pattern of tiles upon the floor. Hot prickles spread across her skin, and she began to wish she had brought a fan.
Amrothos and Careth were welcomed as well, and the young healer presented to the court as princess. Lothíriel did look up then—she could see Careth's flushed face through the crowd, and Amrothos patting her hand on comfort. As their father had said, Amrothos had chosen a set of their mother's jewels for his bride; sapphires glittered at Careth's throat, and Lothíriel smiled. She would welcome her new sister formally when she could.
Music began to filter from the balcony above, where many musicians bearing a variety of instruments sat. Louder conversations broke out around them now, and space was made for dancing. She let out a breath; she had yet to see Éomer, despite the obvious appearance he must give with his enormous stature and golden hair. But she was now better oriented to the overwhelming atmosphere, and Lothíriel could relax the set of her shoulders, gazing out at the crowd with reasonable indifference.
Elphir and Nessiel were some distance away, conversing quietly and laughing. Their children were absent from the festivities, and taking advantage of this, soon they joined the dancers. Amrothos, of course, could not dance, (at least not without great difficulty), but Lothíriel was sure he was not lamenting it one whit—he sat upon a chair by a pillar, having somehow convinced Careth to perch upon his knee. His wife was noticeably blushing, though they laughed and accepted congratulations from various guests.
Erchirion's mood was most like hers, she guessed. He looked utterly bored (likely not as difficult for him to pretend than herself), and after a moment asked her to dance. Lothíriel accepted levelly, determined to show no emotions she ought not to have—
At last she saw Éomer, and her face flushing hot, she quickly looked away. He was dancing with a lovely dark-haired woman, his smile very much in evidence. Her eyes began to burn, and in a croaking voice she engaged Erchirion immediately in a conversation about the drills he had done that day. But her thoughts were elsewhere—dancing a few feet away, to be precise—and her stomach was turning with nauseous misery.
Was she so surprised that Éomer must give his attentions elsewhere? He needed a queen, as he had so poignantly declared that day long ago on the rooftop of the library—and she had refused. How could she feel such agonizing desire for something she could never have?
Lothíriel was distinctively unwell when the dance was concluded, which did not go unnoticed.
"Are you feeling ill?" Erchirion asked, his eyes filled with concern as he took her arm to lead her away from the dancing. "Can I fetch you water? Food?"
"Thank you, Erch. Water would do very well."
He left at once, and she was left standing, wavering, near the wall. The lights were too bright; she blinked in discomfort, shifting her weight as she clasped her hands together awkwardly. She hoped she did not see Éomer again—
Such was her luck that he happened to stride in front of her in that very moment. Lothíriel's heart leapt into her throat at his handsome figure, and he cast her a dismissive glance without a pause in his steps. So this was what she had earned of him. Desperately she wanted to weep, but pride kept her standing, her trembling chin in the air—
Éomer paused, and then turned back, retracing his path to gaze curiously at her. "Lothíriel?" he asked, his voice hesitant, disbelieving.
She swallowed. "Yes?"
He blinked. "Béma! I did not recognize you." And he made straight for her, and that wonderful, heart-warming smile was on his face as he bowed low to her. Lothíriel could only stare, her knees creaking as she curtseyed as was proper. But the edge of her nausea was eased by his easy manner. "Do you know," Éomer said, barely suppressing a beaming grin. "I have seen you in many forms, Lothíriel, but never a trueborn princess. Will you forgive me?"
"Of course!" She returned his smile, holding his warm, green gaze as her legs positively trembled.
"You are lovely, princess. But then again, I have always thought that of you, even when you wear a stained apron, or riding clothes that better befit a stablehand than a princess."
Lothíriel flushed. Was that what he truly thought of her? Before, she might have expected him to be teasing, though now she wondered—how well did she know Éomer anymore? But he was smiling.
"I have never seen you wear a stitch of green, either," Éomer added. "It looks well on you. And I must compliment the precise shade of your frock, for it is oddly familiar." And he broke into a real grin then. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, and then her eyes rested on his velvet tunic. Oh! Oh, dear. There was barely a discernable difference in the shades of green they wore, though his was complemented by a chestnut-colored cape fastened to his shoulders. He was so wonderful to look at, her heart beating so fast that she nearly forgot to answer, forcing a nervous laugh.
"What a coincidence!" she managed to say. "Did you send a spy to determine the color I would wear tonight? I might have expected such mischief of Amrothos, but never you."
"Oh, aye, I did," Éomer laughed. "And then I had this tunic made in a matter of minutes, so that I might match you tonight." He was assuredly teasing. It was obvious from his grin to his twinkling eyes. But Lothíriel was not bothered by it; how much she would rather have his teasing than his derision and coldness!
"Then I am complimented by your imitation."
"As well you should be." He reached for her hand, holding it tightly in his warm one. Lothíriel, who knew how clammy her palms were, felt a rush of embarrassment before he spoke again. "Will you dance with me, princess?"
Her heart thumped. "Oh! Certainly, if you wish."
Éomer led her again to the dancing, and she forgot Erchirion completely. Oddly, her nausea was fading and comfort was stealing over her under Éomer's eyes. She could not help smiling as she was drawn into his arms, feeling his radiating warmth and strong arms around her.
"Why do you smile?" His voice was low and gentle, and more pleasant warmth spread across her skin.
"It is merely a lovely evening," Lothíriel said honestly, though she could not have said so ten minutes earlier.
"It has improved, yes." Éomer's lips formed a thoughtful frown, and he added, "I had intended to dance first with Nessiel, then Careth, and then you. I was informed that following such hierarchy was the proper protocol. But all three of you were spoken for at the onset of the first dance! I could hardly believe my misfortune."
"Oh?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "I suppose it would be protocol, as you are our highest-ranking guest. But I did not notice, and I daresay few others must have either."
He smiled in relief, and she tried not to notice his hand on her waist, pulling her closer. She nearly stumbled over her feet, and flushed. "I thank you for such an assurance," Éomer said. "I can be easy, now. I hope I did not offend by dancing with Lady…Lady—Béma, I cannot remember! Do not tell anyone, I beg of you! Now I truly am ashamed."
Despite herself, Lothíriel laughed aloud. "There are too many courtiers for you to be expected to remember everyone. I am sure no one will judge you so harshly."
"I am grateful for that!"
It was easy to forget herself, whirling around in the hall in Éomer's arms. She gazed up at him, a smile lingering on her lips (and how strange it felt to smile for such a long time!). His eyes were clear, boring into hers with an oddly gentle intensity as they roved over her face. In that moment, it felt as though the last years had not happened—that they had never suffered a breach—
But they had. Immediately Lothíriel's gaze dropped, and she felt heat suffuse her face. She could not allow herself to be drawn back to Éomer, no matter how tempting it was! She had botched that chance entirely; he was only being kind, he did not want her any longer. The lifting of her spirits since he had greeted her collapsed inward.
"Are you well, princess?" His voice was filled with nothing but concern, and she weakened—and steeled herself.
"I am well," Lothíriel said politely, glancing back up briefly to his face before focusing on a point beyond his shoulder. She could not look at him without wanting him. She breathed deeply, and forced a smile. "Are you enjoying yourself in Dol Amroth, my lord?"
"Aye." She could hear a frown in his voice, though she could not see it. "I like Dol Amroth very well. I have never forgotten your descriptions of it; I find that you did your beloved city justice. I am glad that I could finally see it."
She flushed, her eyes flitting to his face, his handsome face, and she straightened her shoulders and choose to look at the neckline of his tunic. That could not be too distracting, and likely less rude. Keeping her voice level, Lothíriel said, "I am happy to know it."
He made a grumbling hmm in response, and she saw a flash of his throat. Her fingers clenched in his, and she swallowed to clear her own throat. She would look at the dancers around them, then, pretending curiosity.
"May I ask from where you have procured such a striking crown, princess? I am fascinated by it; I have rarely seen pearls in my lifetime."
"Oh! It belonged to my mother." Lothíriel spoke hastily, relieved to be on a safer topic. "My father presented it to me this very evening as a gift. He—he told me that she wore it at their wedding."
There was a pause, and in a low voice Éomer finally spoke. "If she looked anything like you, princess, then it is no wonder your father loved her so. It looks as though you are crowned with the very stars of Varda against your black hair."
She tried not to flush this time, but to no avail. Her face was hot. Faramir's voice echoed suddenly in her mind, her ears buzzing: I dreamt of you as your own woman, looking exactly as you do now, yet you wore a crown of stars. Is this what Faramir had seen? Lothíriel could not begin to fathom it, and her discomfort grew.
"My lord, you flatter me far beyond common politeness," she forced herself to say coolly. "Really! I daresay Varda herself will not appreciate such words coming from your lips."
"My care is for you, princess; not to any distant goddess." There was the weight of insinuation in Éomer's voice, and she pretended not to hear it. She gave a vacant smile, hoping it was enough.
The song ended only a few moments later, and relief and disappointment weight down her limbs in equal amounts. Lothíriel forced her breathing to steady, taking Éomer's arm with the briefest brush of her fingers as he led her away. Erchirion, thankfully, waited for her, looking annoyed but not overly so.
"I was wondering where you disappeared to," he said as they approached. He held two cups of water in his hand—well, one cup of water, and one empty glass. Lothíriel released Éomer's arm at once, taking the cold cup instead, willing the heat in her hands to disappear. There was an awkward silence.
"I ought to go," Éomer said quietly, and if she knew him at all—he was speaking with utmost reluctance.
"There are many a lady to dance with!" Erchirion responded cheerily. "'Twould be a shame to avoid them."
Lothíriel sipped at her water to prevent herself from having to speak. She observed Éomer over the rim of the glass, and she saw the hurt in his eyes, and his haste at hiding it. He bowed shortly to her, nodded to Erchirion, and turned on his heel to leave. Her own heart ached, and she wished he had not asked her to dance. It had given rise to her hopes…and now she must suppress them.
The sooner he departed Dol Amroth, the sooner she could attempt to find her peace.
