Chapter One
Doubts of a Princess
Who Would Be Queen
Dol Amroth, Gondor
April 17th of the year 3020 T.A.
This was it.
Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth took in a deep breath and did her best not to give into the growing urge she had to turn tail and flee into the sea. Perhaps the Valar would take pity on her and the depths would swallow her whole, saving her from the impossible task that had been set before her.
In some ways, she was still reeling from shock, which had not abated in the seven months that her father and three older brothers had returned from Rohan. Not since her father had given her the unexpected news, that he had offered her hand in marriage to the new King of Rohan and—against all believability—that the Lord of the Mark had actually accepted.
Aunt Ivriniel had been perfectly scandalized of course. Whoever had heard of such a thing as a Princess of Gondor wedding one of those "savages of the North?" Of course, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach had done so—wed to the former King of Rohan, Lord Thengel, in fact. Yet Lossarnach was only a small fiefdom and was so far north as to be practically part of the Kingdom of Rohan anyhow, according to her aunt, so that did not in any way count. The older woman had dropped into a dead faint at the news and took to her bed for months afterward.
Lothíriel herself had been a touch hurt and confused at first, that her father would make such a momentous decision without her knowledge or consent. It was true that such alliances were not uncommon, yet the Prince of Dol Amroth had always doted on her and given her choices in everything else about her life. Why take those choices away from her so suddenly? Then Imrahil had explained to his youngest child the reasons why he had done what he had, however. That he had hoped she and Lord Eomer could have met ere the betrothal was made, only Fate had decided otherwise. He sat her down then and told her of the troubles of Rohan, told her about their dire need and how the proud Rohirrim would not accept aide unless it came in the form of an alliance, not in the form of charity.
She therefore understood the importance of her marriage to the young King of Rohan, and did not begrudge her lack of a decision. Only . . . she still didn't think she was up to the task.
She didn't think that she was fit to be a Queen.
Lothíriel bit her lip as her maid assisted her in dressing. She let the woman worry about the cloak being secured around her shoulders, meanwhile she busied herself tugging on her thick blue-black riding gloves. She hoped that the chore would disguise her furiously trembling hands.
Faith, how many times had Aunt Ivriniel told her she was too quiet, too faint of heart, too shy and retiring? That she spent far too many hours with her nose stuck in a book? She was a gentle sort, a scholar at heart. She was too short, too plain, and so far beneath what the Kingdom of Rohan must value in a Queen it was near to unseemly.
Hadn't her father returned from Rohan to immediately have her begin instruction on how to "ride properly?" While she had always proclaimed a fondness for horses, she had never really had much to do with them. There wasn't much use for the creatures in her home by the sea. The only real exposure she'd ever had was to learn to ride side-saddle for the occasional tame trots ladies might take for leisure or for long journeys to other parts of Gondor.
Yet, as the future Queen of Rohan, she was expected to know how to ride astride and do so with poise and skill. The learning of it had been quite a trial, where she had earned no small amount of bumps and bruises after being thrown and falling. That is, she had sustained these injuries while attempting to learn to ride on one of her father's horses. Not so, astride her new mount.
A month ago, a small party from Rohan had arrived with her bridal gift, which Eomer King bade her to ride when she came to Edoras for the wedding. He had gifted her with a breathtakingly beautiful golden mare—descended of the legendary Mearas—a horse fit for a King. Or a Queen, as it were. The men who had accompanied the mare told her that their King had trained the horse for her himself all through the winter months, teaching her spoken commands in Westron instead of Rohirric. Her name was Gyldenfax, which meant "golden-hair" in their tongue. The horse was indeed beautiful, gentle in spirit yet noble in bearing. Gyldenfax had not once thrown her, had in fact moved in such a way several times that had managed to keep her from falling.
The gift, while cherished, only made her feel worse about her impending nuptials, however. She wasn't worthy enough to ride Gyldenfax, and she wasn't worthy enough to be Rohan's Queen.
No doubt King Eomer would take one look at her and run screaming in the other direction. She had met Lady Eowyn, now the wife of her beloved cousin Faramir, and had seen for herself what a lady of Rohan was expected to be. She was neither tall of build nor brave of character as was the White Lady of Ithilien.
The things she had heard of Eomer King in no way set her mind at ease, either.
Her brothers had returned from the Battle of Pelennor and the Battle of Morannon with amazing tales of the brave Rohirrim and their new Lord. A man who had single-handedly brought down two Mûmakil and an unaccounted number of Haradrim upon their backs with one spear toss, Elphir reported. A seven foot tall warrior broad of muscle and powerful enough to tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands, had been Erchirion's solemn boast. A golden lord so handsome the jaded ladies of Minas Tirith had all but fallen over themselves in order to taste, if Amrothos' lofty praise was to be believed. Surely a man such as this could do better for himself and his country than her? A shy Princess of Gondor who went atremble at the mere thought of the terrors that her father and brothers had been forced to endure. A young girl who was struck breathless in the face of the horrors that had returned to Dol Amroth after the War of the Ring had ended.
She wasn't sure just what her father had told the man to get Lord Eomer to agree to wed her, but whatever it was, he was bound to see it for a falsehood as soon as he set eyes on her. And then she would be sent back to Dol Amroth in shame. That was, perhaps, her greatest fear.
More than anything she desired to bring honor and pride to her father and family, a goal she had always felt falling short of her whole life. The thought of Eomer sending her away was almost more than she could bear.
And so—only weeks after she had learned of the betrothal—Lothíriel had begun to mount her own defense. It was the only sort of weapons or armor she had at her disposal; knowledge. As soon as the finality of her situation set in, she had bade her cousin to send her any and every bit of literature the Great Library of Minas Tirith possessed concerning their allies to the north. She read anything she could get her hands on—books, scrolls and treatise—soaking up any and all information about Rohan and its people as she could manage. She had even begun teaching herself a little Rohirric, though it was slow going and she could only translate a few words and certainly nothing complex as yet.
In the last seven months she had read all about the varied history of the Sons of Eorl, the long line of Kings that had led to her soon-to-be husband—who would in fact be the first in the Third Line. She had learned that the Rohirrim did not refer to their country as "Rohan," rather that was the Westron term that the people of Gondor had bestowed them. Instead they called their lands the Mark of the Riders, or Riddermark, or just the Mark for short. She learned that their language of Rohirric was largely spoken, that in fact many of the people of the Mark could not read or write. She learned that, instead, their history was handed down from father to son, mother to daughter in the form of great songs and epic tales. She had taught herself terms such as Éorlingas, which meant the Sons of Eorl, a loose title the Rohirrim gave themselves in deference to the first King of the Mark. She had also learned words like Éored, which was the name for an irregular unit of calvary, and learned the difference between the Westfold and the Eastfold. Lothíriel had familiarized herself with all things of the Mark, in an attempt to arm herself with whatever she could to help secure her fate. Whatever that was destined to be.
And now the day had come for their company to start out. Her father, three older brothers, Elphir's wife Riana, their three year old son Alphros and their nine month old daughter Finuviel as well as her cousin Faramir and his wife Lady Eowyn—the latter of which had just arrived in Dol Amroth earlier that week—would be setting out north today for the Blackroot Vale. They were to take the pass under the mountain—beneath Dwimorberg—which would open up into the Dimholt. From there, to Dunharrow and then only ninety or so miles north through the valley of Harrowdale to the capitol city of Edoras. Within which was the Golden Hall of Meduseld, which was to become her new home.
Being terribly claustrophobic due to a game of hide-and-seek gone horribly awry when she was a child, Lothíriel wasn't even going to let herself think of the many hours she would be forced to travel beneath the ground under the Haunted Mountain. She already had enough worries to contend with as it was, without needlessly adding to them. Taking the Dimholt road would cut their travel time in half. Though whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing she had yet to decide.
Lothíriel finished tugging on her gloves, then replaced the fluttering maid's hands in securing the silver clasp at her throat, cut in the shape of a swan in flight. Her gown was not the richest in her wardrobe but it was well-suited to travel, a fine gray-silver muslin trimmed in darker blue to match the velvet cloak now secured about her neck. Unheard of in Gondor, she also wore a soft pair of gray hose beneath her skirts in the way of Rohirrim women, to maintain her modesty as she sat astride in the saddle. A sturdy pair of soft black leather ankle boots had replaced her fine silk slippers. The only real Gondorian bit of fashion she retained was her headdress. Her thigh-length black hair had been twisted up and tamed in several coils pinned in her nape, all covered in a fine silver veil wrapped around her head and neck and trailing down her back beneath the hood of her deep blue cloak.
In a way, Lothíriel was almost glad her Aunt Ivriniel had refused to come and bid her goodbye. Surely the old dragon would faint dead away at the mere sight of her. The young princess pushed away the pinch of hurt that assaulted her at the thought, doing her best to steel herself against it. It was true, her elder Aunt had had much of the raising of her in the place of her own mother, who had died when she was only seven years old. Yet Lady Ivriniel had never been what one might call loving and warm, instead she was everything that was strict, haughty and downright cold at times to her only niece. Ivriniel had felt betrayed when Lothíriel did not heed her words and refuse her father's wishes to wed the King of Rohan outright. She had made no secret of the fact that she could not forgive or forget such an end, and had all but disowned her, privately if not publicly.
Not that it mattered much. After today, she would likely never see her Aunt Ivriniel again.
Before she could depress herself even more, Lothíriel turned on her heel and left out of her room, putting out of her mind the fact that she would never return to it. She held her head high, chin lifted, as she glided through the open hallways of her father's hall. Her expression was serene, her smile tight but heartfelt to greet the throng of her father's people who had turned out to see her go. She nodded to those who called out to her, moving purposefully toward her horse and inwardly praying that her fierce trembling was not visible to the naked eye.
Gyldenfax waited patiently for her to mount, decked out in all the finery that she had come from Rohan bearing—an exquisitely wrought dark brown saddle and tack tooled in gold and green, made especially for her. This was apparent in the fine breast collar that attached to the saddle, having silver and gold studs intricately carved with alternating running horses and swans in mid-flight.
The mare itself stood at least eighteen hands high, her coat a burnished amber that glistened like molten gold in the morning sunlight. Her mane and tail were a pale white-blonde, and she had a bold white blaze down the front of her face, as well as three white socks on all but her left rear leg. As always, Gyldenfax greeted her warmly with a soft nicker and a gentle thump of her pale pink nose. Afterward the princess accepted the assistance of a man-at-arms and a sturdy mounting block, hopping up into Gyldenfax's saddle with little trouble—praise be to whoever was listening.
Lothíriel was so focused on not fumbling that she completely missed Lady Eowyn's small smile and nod of approval nearby.
As their party—surrounded by an entire contingent of her father's Swan Knights—started out from Dol Amroth, Lothíriel allowed herself one look over her shoulder. Her eyes wandered along the glittering coastline, gazing out along the rooftops of the city, staring at the awe-inspiring Sea-Ward Tower of Tirith Aear. She committed to memory the beauty and the wildness of the sea beyond that she had always admired, if never able to emulate.
Then the Princess turned resolutely forward in the saddle and promised herself she would never again look back.
"I still cannot believe he agreed to this madness."
Lothíriel was startled out of her game of keeping her swan clasp out of her tiny niece's grasping fingers and mouth at Eowyn's sudden, disgruntled announcement. She blinked, stunned, as the fiery Lady of Ithilien continued.
"Agreeing to marry someone he's never even met before! And you given utterly no choice in the matter, no less!"
Her sister-in-law, Riana, frowned from where the three ladies sat in one of the larger and more comfortably furbished tents. A full day's ride away from Dol Amroth, they had only recently set up camp for the night and were now seeking a bit of rest from the weariness of travel. The precocious Alphros was currently holding court with his father, grandfather, uncles and cousin outside.
"It is a little late for such thoughts, don't you think Lady Eowyn?" Riana demanded carefully after a moment of tense silence.
The White Lady merely snorted, crossing her arms with a huff. Even dressed in a fine blue gown with her golden hair twisted up in a plaited bun and tamed by a silver netting as was the way of Gondorian fashion, Eowyn looked more ready to snatch up a sword and defend the camp rather than hold court with her two female companions.
"It may be too late to put a stop to this foolishness, but it isn't too late for me to be disgusted by it all. I had thought that that oaf of a brother of mine was better than this."
Riana fell silent. Lothíriel swallowed the lump in her throat, then cleared it hesitantly. "I . . . I am sorry that I do not meet your approval, Lady Eowyn," she started, but was cut short when the Lady of Ithilien whirled to her with a stunned gasp.
"What? No! That's not it at all, Lothí!" she protested immediately and vehemently. She looked so surprised and offended by the thought that Lothíriel allowed much of the tension she was feeling to melt away. "While it is true that we have only recently met," the blonde woman continued, "I like to think that we have become good friends." Lothíriel nodded to Eowyn's questioning look, and the beautiful Shield-Maiden smiled winningly. "Never doubt that I hold you in the highest regard, Lothíriel," Eowyn announced fervently. "Even if I did not have Faramir's utter love and devotion to you to go by, I myself can appreciate that you are quite possibly the sweetest girl I have ever met. You accepted me immediately without a thought, and have never made me feel less of a person because of my homeland."
Lothíriel inwardly winced, knowing all too well the prejudice some of her more "civilized" countrymen—especially the ladies—could have concerning the northern lands and their "barbarous ways."
"I do not protest this marriage per se," Eowyn went on to clarify. "Only the abrupt way it was arranged. Without your knowledge or even your consent!" She seemed so scandalized and upset, Lothíriel felt obliged to set her heart at ease.
"While it is true that I did not know of the match until after it had been decided, you must not let that bother you, Lady Eowyn. The need of your people was dire, and my betrothal to your brother was the perfect solution to their crisis." She gave a delicate shrug. "Such alliances are often made this way in Gondor."
Eowyn made a face.
"Well it is not the way of it in the Mark, let me assure you," she protested. "And I had taken my brother to be a better man than the sort to take a wife at the price of a few barrels of grain."
"Arranged marriages are not always so terrible," Riana intervened with a knowing smile. "My own marriage to Elphir was decided when we were still children. And as you can see," she continued, reaching out to lovingly stroke the black curls gracing her second-born's tiny head, "we have grown to care very deeply for one another."
Lothíriel gazed down at baby Finuviel, for a moment unable to chase away the cold terror that had suddenly taken root in her chest. It was one thing to worry over even being accepted by the King of the Mark, of becoming the Queen of the Rohirrim and establishing herself as a worthy Lady of Meduseld. It was quite another thing entirely to face the finality of becoming a man's wife, one who was a complete stranger to her and would not be much better by the time of her wedding night. To reconcile herself to lying with him and letting him touch her intimately. Of bearing the man's much needed heirs. How long would it be before her belly grew large and round with the next King of the Riddermark?
They were only a scant week and a half away from the White Mountains, where they were to meet Eomer King and his host of riders and be escorted the rest of the way through the Dark Door and on to Edoras. Her father had told her that after they arrived, they would wait another week to allow all those who wished to witness their union a chance to arrive. King Elessar and Queen Arwen Undómiel, as well as the White Wizard Gandalf were only a few among many others. After that they would hold a ceremony at high noon in the Rohirrim way; an exchange of binding vows before Mithrandir and the court of Meduseld, sealed by their sharing of a cup of wine, followed by a huge feast that would stretch long into the night and even the next day, she had been told. Not that she would be around to enjoy much of the feasting.
Lothíriel's face paled with the direction her thoughts were suddenly taking, despite her best efforts. The knowledge she had been so keen and stubborn on acquiring suddenly turned against her, for she now knew very well what came afterward.
It was tradition that the new couple would quit the hall early on the first night, just after the sun had set, in order for the man to have his conjugal rights. They would be brought refreshment later in the evening, but were otherwise forbidden to be disturbed. Only afterward, on the morning after, would she be officially crowned Queen of the Mark. Her "mettle" was to be tested, as it were, by her husband and King before she could claim the throne at his side. At that thought, her pallor instead burned into a scarlet tide. Admittedly, she didn't know very much about what happened between a man and his wife. Her Aunt Ivriniel had been very vague, only to say that it hurt terribly and was extremely messy. Her only advice had been that it was best she lay very still and close her eyes very tightly, and pray that her husband had done with it quickly.
And that had been told to her long before they had known that her husband would not be a Gondorian noble, but rather a Lord of the Rohirrim. Faith, with the fierce sort of man she was to wed, would she even survive the bedding?
Lucky for her, Eowyn and Riana seemed oblivious to the mental avalanche her inner-thoughts were creating, and continued their conversation.
"Very rarely are betrothals made by anyone other than the couple in question, in the Mark," Eowyn was saying, tone firm. "If ever. Finding one's heart-mate is a sacred matter to the Rohirrim, one we do not take lightly."
"Well you know the new King of Rohan better than either of us," Riana suddenly announced, and Lothíriel tensed. "Prince Imrahil seems to think that your brother and our Lothí will suit. What do you think?"
Lothíriel suddenly found herself under Eowyn's intense scrutiny.
"Eomer is a great warrior of Men," she murmured softly, her ice blue eyes missing little as they stared deep into the nervous princess's own. "He has fought many battles and faced many dangers—for our people and for all of Middle-Earth. He is strong, proud, fierce in temper but fair in all things. A great man, though stubborn and pigheaded at times," she finished with a grin.
Riana laughed, but Lothíriel grew silent. She bit her lip again, then suddenly thrust her niece back into the arms of her mother. Riana took Finuviel with a surprised lift of her brows, frowning as the young princess got to her feet with a wrench immediately afterward.
"A great man," she burst out, tone strangled. "Far too great for the likes of me!" Eowyn frowned.
"What do you mean?" Lothíriel turned to her, expression desperate.
"Don't you see! You are right to despair, Eowyn," she let loose, near tears. "I am no Queen of the Riddermark! I am just a frightened girl so scared I fear near to fainting at any moment!"
Lothíriel put her face in her hands then, fighting off the sobs that wanted to break free. She felt Eowyn's firm but comforting hand take her shoulder soon after.
"Lothí . . . I did not mean to make you doubt yourself. Never was that my intent. I will count myself lucky indeed to gain you as a sister."
"And I am not worthy of such praise," she murmured miserably. She raised her tear-stained eyes to the tall Lady of Ithilien, and took no solace in her stunned expression. "I am n-nothing like you, Lady Eowyn," she admitted at last, her voice hitching. "I have tried very hard t-to learn all that I could of your lands after father announced my engagement. And everything that I have learned has only increased my doubt and dismay. I am no Shield-Maiden of Rohan," Lothíriel sobbed. "I cannot wield a sword, I can barely ride a horse and I have no great courage or strength in me. Your brother will be shamed," the miserable princess finished, "to find himself bound to a short, dark-haired child practically scared witless at the sight of her own shadow."
There was a long moment of silence, then Eowyn suddenly braced her fists on her curvy hips.
"No courage? Are you daft as well as dense, Lothíriel?"
Stunned, her tears dried almost instantly. She met the blonde woman's eyes again and took in her expression of exasperated humor.
"Surely you jest," Eowyn continued, "to proclaim you have no courage. When in fact you display a great deal of it to have agreed to leave everything and everyone who is familiar to you behind and start a whole new life in a country that is completely foreign. To wed a man you've never even met before on the word of your father for the sake of a whole nation of people who do not share your blood. I would not have the strength to do it," she then announced firmly.
Lothíriel blinked, stunned.
"But you . . . you slew the Witch-King of Angmar!" she protested, tone strangled, and Eowyn laughed. Riana joined her.
"Yes, perhaps. But killing the Dwimmerlaik pales in comparison to this, I think. Had Eomer or my Uncle even suggested it to me I would have blackened their eyes for it and refused on the spot. I am not so brave as you, in this." Lothíriel looked so scandalized by such a declaration that Eowyn had no choice but to chuckle and continue, wrapping a companionable arm around the smaller, younger girl and giving a friendly squeeze. "You may not wield a sword and shield on the field of battle, little Lothí, but that does not mean you have no strength or valor of your own. Agreeing to marry my brother solely for the sake of a people you owe no allegiance to," Eowyn paused, then shook her head, unable to put her thoughts into words. She continued after a moment along a different vein, instead.
"Your compassion and the strength of your heart would challenge my skill with a blade any day," she announced solemnly. "Yours is a valor of a different kind, and in fact far more in need by my people than any fighting skills that I might possess. The Rohirrim need a Queen such as you, Lothíriel. A woman of tenderness and gentleness, to sooth the pain of their loss and ease their way into a new age."
Here Eowyn paused yet again, to let her words sink in. Then she grinned again, and her serious tone took on a more teasing air. "And as to being 'too small and dark' for Eomer, you might as well reconsider that as well." She laughed at the other two when they looked confused. "My brother was quite popular with the ladies of Minas Tirith during his stay for Aragorn's coronation. He in turn found their countenance quite fascinating as I recall, compared to our own tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed variety. It seems my brother's tastes just might run more to the dark and tiny."
For all that Eowyn had meant to set her fears at ease, such a statement didn't exactly serve that purpose. Lothíriel wouldn't have thought herself capable of the emotion—especially for a man she had never met before—yet at the thought of Eomer dallying with the ladies of the White City she found herself pinched with a burning emotion that could only be likened to jealousy.
Yet, Eowyn had a point. She couldn't remain a frightened child forever. There were hundreds of people from both countries counting on her now. She felt her shoulders straighten. She was descended from the great Kings of Númenor. She was a pure-blooded Princess of Dol Amroth, by the grace of the Valar.
And from this moment on, she would start acting like it too. Even if it killed her.