Chapter Two

Travel Woes

First Meeting

Blackroot Vale, Gondor

April 29th of the year 3020 T.A.

It was going to kill her. Lothíriel was now most sure of that fact.

She was going to waste away before she ever set foot in the Mark. The young Princess had never traveled so long or so far before in her life, and certainly not without any respite along the way. There were no major settlements between Dol Amroth and the Vale however. Her father would not have partaken in their comforts even if there were, for he was eager to make their scheduled arrival on time. Therefore it had been nearly two weeks since she had slept in a real bed instead of a pallet on the ground, or been able to enjoy a real bath—not a quick washing with whatever water was available. Lothíriel had not even been allowed to enjoy the small pleasure of camping near the Blackroot River the night before. Being so near the mountains that it sprang from, the water had been so cold she couldn't stand to submerse herself for longer than a few minutes before she was forced to jump back out again or freeze solid.

Not only that, she hurt from head to toe and was convinced that by the time she did make it to Edoras, she would be reduced to a walking pile of bruises. Even with the months of training she'd had before setting out, Lothíriel was still not accustomed to being so long in the saddle, and she feared her sore rump would never recover. She had strained and pulled muscles she didn't even know she had. As a result the young Princess was feeling decidedly less than her best.

Lothíriel now hobbled her way over to where some of the men had made a makeshift water trough using a bit of waterproof leather stretched over a wooden frame.

She only managed a weary nod to one of the men who saluted her, instead bending down and splashing a bit of the cool water onto her sweaty face. For all that the temperature had begun a steady decline the farther north that they traveled, it was still as yet warm enough to make hours in a saddle out beneath the unforgiving sun an uncomfortable experience. She was in desperate need of the refreshment.

Lothíriel stared down at her broken reflection in the small pool for a moment afterward, and sneered with distaste. She certainly looked a sore sight. Her black hair had begun to come unraveled from its prim headdress of the morning, hanks of the black coils falling this way and that down her back and in her face. Of which was sweat-streaked and flushed. She felt horrible, and looked worse; just the way she wanted to be when meeting her future husband for the first time, she thought with a scowl.

"Whatever it is," a warm voice suddenly called out from behind her, "I'm sure the water didn't mean it. Do not be so hard on the poor thing." Lothíriel straightened—wincing as the sudden movement reminded her of all the sore and tired muscles in her back—then turned to see her grinning cousin standing only a short distance away. Faramir chuckled at her disgruntled pout, which informed him just how not amused she was by his teasing. As always, he continued undaunted by her displeasure on the matter.

"I am sure whatever it did to displease you, it is very, very sorry."

"Oh hush, you," she muttered ungraciously. Weariness and discomfort, she was learning, could sour even her supposedly unrelenting good nature. "I do not find you in the least bit amusing," she informed him primly, which of course only made Faramir laugh the more. He didn't look the least bit put off by their long journey, as fresh and bright-eyed as he had been nearly two weeks ago. In fact, besides herself, only Riana showed signs of weariness. And even she wasn't quite so bedraggled as Lothíriel was herself.

That knowledge only served to sour her mood more.

"Not many do," Faramir agreed pleasantly to her previous assessment.

Lothíriel merely rolled her eyes, but refused to rise to the bait. She decided with a bone-tired sigh that she was just too weary. Some of her fatigue must have shown, for Faramir's teasing smile dimmed a little and she soon found his strong arm supporting her on one side.

"Are you truly unwell, Lothí?" he questioned then, tone concerned. She tried for a wobbly smile.

"I will be fine, cousin," she assured. "I am only tired. And sore. Some rest will rejuvenate me, I think."

He helped her to her tent, then accompanied her inside. She thanked him for the assistance, then let her tired frame plop down somewhat ungraciously onto her pallet. After a moment he joined her, crouching down at her side. He was silent for a moment, watching her undo the mess her hair had become. She had just started pulling a metal-toothed comb through the tangles when Faramir spoke again.

"I have not had much of a chance to talk to you about all that is happening, Lothíriel," he began slowly. "I won't bother asking you whether or not this is what you want. I doubt this is the future you ever envisioned for yourself." His blue eyes were sharp and discerning as he continued softly. "I only ask if you are sure that you will be able to do this thing. I know you wish to please your father and help the people of Rohan," he added before she could speak. "Yet this is no small task that has been set before you. Quite honestly, it is very much to ask of one so young."

Lothíriel hesitated, then nodded. "I know how important this is," she assured him, slowly beginning to plait her thick hair into one large braid. "I do. And while I . . . don't really see myself as a very strong person, your wife has assured me that she believes I am well-suited for the needs of her people." She met his sharp eyes steadily, with a confidence she hoped to one day actually feel rather than feign. "Lady Eowyn believes that I will do well as the new Queen of Rohan. And I . . . I promise to do my best to not let her down. Or anyone, for that matter."

"And what of yourself?" he demanded knowingly, and Lothíriel flinched ever so slightly. Then she shrugged as she secured the braid with a bit of muslin and then flipped the heavy mass over her shoulder to fall down her back and onto the ground behind her.

"I keep no aspirations for myself. Only . . ." Here she fell silent, and Faramir motioned encouragingly for her to continue. Lothíriel paused.

Besides Riana, Lothíriel had always been the closest to her cousins, especially Faramir. More so than her own brothers in fact, for Faramir was more of an age with her and certainly more of the same gentle, scholarly mind. Though, the strong and capable Boromir had been very dear to her heart as well, and even a year later she still felt a pinch of pain at the thought of his passing. Yet, if she could speak candidly to anyone of her feelings, it would be Faramir. And so, though her cheeks heated and her voice became a touch more faint with embarrassment, she finished her thought.

"I only hope that the King and I will suit, if even a little."

She glanced away and stared instead at the wall of her tent to ease the discomfort of speaking so freely of such personal thoughts, so missed Faramir's slight smile.

"I was only seven when mother passed, but I remember well that she and father were very close. And Elphir and Riana are well-matched as well, though they do not always show it so clearly." She turned back to her cousin and shared his smile. "That is to say nothing of the affection I have seen develop between you and your Lady." At this Faramir grinned contentedly. She sighed, then. "I hold no illusions of finding such a love for myself. Yet I will be content if the King and I may become friends at least, if nothing else."

Faramir was silent for a moment, then, "from all that I have seen of Lord Eomer, I do not think that yours shall be a wish too very hard to obtain. You are a very likable person, Lothí," he added at her skeptical glance, "and Eowyn's brother is a good man. Admittedly he can be a bit . . . intense, at times," he added carefully—ever the diplomat—then shrugged. "That is just the Rohirrim way, I suppose. Theirs is a far different world than ours, as you've no doubt learned for yourself. That is if the amount of books and scrolls missing out of the Great Library is to be any sort of indication."

Lothíriel shared his chuckle, then hesitated. Yet she chose to heed her earlier decision to trust Faramir's confidence and eventually spoke again, though choosing her words carefully.

"Do you think he will be very disappointed in me, Faramir? That I am . . . not very much like his sister?" Faramir immediately snorted at that however, looking repulsed.

"What man wishes to wed his sister?" Lothíriel scowled at his returning playfulness.

"You know what I mean, you rogue. That I am not strong or very brave. Amrothos and Erchirion say Lord Eomer is a great warrior. That he killed two Mûmakil with only one spear toss!"

"Yes, yes, and that he's seven feet tall and can tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands," Faramir finished with a laugh. He gave his younger cousin a droll look. "I have heard the tales, and your brothers love to exaggerate, especially Amro." He shook his head with another chuckle at her disgruntled scowl. "While it is true that Lord Eomer is a great warrior, he is actually closer to six and a half feet tall, not seven. And I seriously doubt that anyone could tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands. Do not let them intimidate you with tales, Lothí," he admonished after a slight pause. "While no doubt brave and honorable, Eomer is just a man. Just like any other. And contrary to popular belief, not all ladies of Rohan are like my Eowyn," he revealed at last with another grin. "While it is true that many of them learn rudimentary skill with a blade in order to protect themselves from the Wild Men and other dangers, they are not all such fierce little warriors. I doubt Lord Eomer or his people will expect you to snatch up a sword and help defend Meduseld should danger arise."

She chuckled with him at the thought of such a silly scenario, then sighed again soon after. Faramir continued to amuse himself at the expense of her discomfort for a short time, then took pity on her and stood.

"I will go and fetch Eowyn and see if she might have something to treat your saddle bruises." Lothíriel blanched however.

"I do not wish to be seen as weak," she murmured, "especially to Lady Eowyn." Faramir waved away her protests.

"She will not see your pain as a weakness. In fact, everyone has been most impressed with just how well you've held up so far, given the circumstances."

Faramir exited the tent soon after, and Lothíriel was left to wonder whether or not what he'd said was to be seen as a compliment or not. It should have been, yet strangely she felt a pinch of annoyance that everyone apparently thought so little of her endurance. She shifted on the pallet, and had to bite back a wince. Then she released a foul-humored chuckle. Well, then again, mayhap they were not wrong to doubt.

As it was, Eowyn entered her tent only moments later with a sympathetic smile and a small jar of perfumed oil that she promised would work wonders on sore muscles and saddle bruises. After helping care for her injuries, Eowyn left again to go join Faramir for the evening meal—no doubt some forest fare that their scouts had managed to procure earlier in the day. For her part, Lothíriel wasn't all that hungry. Instead she readied herself for bed and ended up falling into an exhausted, near comatose slumber and missed the meal entirely.

The next morning she was roused early and felt as though she'd gotten no rest at all. Groggy and sore, she made no outward complaints as she dressed as quickly as her deadened limbs would allow. Lothíriel managed to eat a little of the seedcake rations that were offered for breakfast, but only a few mouthfuls. Unwitting of her father's slightly worried stare, Lothíriel instead dragged her weary body back up into Gyldenfax's saddle and tried to ignore her sore muscles' protest.

They were supposed to reach the Black Stone of Erech some time today, or by early tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere in the back of her tired mind Lothíriel hoped that it was tomorrow—if just to give her one more day of reprieve—though with every day that passed she found herself fearing her first meeting with her new husband less and less. She was getting near to the point that she just might agree to wed herself to the Black Lord Sauron himself if it meant a warm bath and a soft bed to lie in for the next year and a half.

As it was, around midday their outrider returned to the main of the group with the news that the Stone of Erech was only an hour or so away and that Lord Eomer waited there himself with a small contingent of riders.

It had already been decided that many of the Swan Knights who had ridden with them on the journey would remain behind at the entrance into the Paths of the Dead, and instead await her family's return after the wedding, since it would be difficult for so many to traverse the underground road. Instead only a small part of her father's garrison and a small part of Lord Eomer's Éored would escort her down the road under the mountain, and then in Dunharrow they would meet up with Rohan's full Muster—who would then accompany them the rest of the way to Edoras.

Lothíriel felt a brief moment of panic, her hands flying up to her wind-bedraggled hair and staring down at her travel-stained clothes in dismay. Yet she was simply too tired to hold on to the taxing emotion for long, and gave up with a small slump of her shoulders. Her newly-developed sourness reared its head with a thought; why not let the man see her at her very worst? That way anything else she did or became would only be an improvement. Besides, it would be ridiculous for Eomer to expect her to look her best after traveling non-stop for two weeks.

At least this was what she told herself, to gain what little bit of comfort she could in the telling. Meager though it might be.

Lothíriel nudged Gyldenfax up toward the front of their procession when Imrahil bade her, and as they made the last turn of the slowly narrowing valley, she found herself wedged firmly between her father's horse and that of her cousin Faramir. Her three brothers were directly behind, with Eowyn and Riana not far behind that, surrounded on all sides by her father's Knights.

Their scout must have made himself known to the Rohirrim, for—even though there were signs of recent encampment—when their procession arrived the riders were all mounted, fully assembled and ready for travel. There were about ten of them in total, all dressed in mail and leather and olive-green cloaks to ward away the chill. Many of them wore helms, several adorned with crests and long white tails, while others sported fierce-looking eye guards and other trappings that only increased the wearer's amount of intimidation. And given that every one of them was very large and burly beneath their armaments, it seemed a rather moot point to the increasingly nervous Lothíriel.

As soon as they neared, one rider broke away from the rest. Immediately it was apparent that he was a cut above the others in station and in bearing. The billowing green cloak secured over the shoulder-guards of his leather armor bore an intricate white and gold brocade down the edges compared to the plainer fare of his fellows, and the high-necked collar of the tunic beneath his armor boasted the same. His armor wasn't especially fancy of make, instead well-worn and obviously bearing use, yet it was finely polished—as though someone had desperately attempted to bring back some of its former glory. Lothíriel took one look at the man who wore it and quickly decided that it must not have been him.

He didn't look the sort to care overmuch what his armor looked like, just so long as it served its purpose.

The stallion he rode was also a little fancier than his fellows. A massive dapple-gray whose sheer size and lofty bearing showed his Mearas ancestry. Much of his coat was a spotted charcoal gray and black—his long mane and tail black as well—with his face a pale white-silver and patches of the same across his spine beneath the impressive saddle and tack he sported. Yet Lothíriel spared the mount only a brief acknowledgement in deference the man who sat astride him. Her attention was very quickly rapt.

He seemed huge and larger than life astride his great horse, his shoulders broad and pulled back to a proud angle as he sat so comfortably in the saddle, as if he'd been born there. He wore no helmet to hide his features, which she discovered with a breathless hitch were very handsome indeed. She had almost hoped that Eowyn and Amrothos had been exaggerating on that part as well. Yet she was to find that the young King of the Rohirrim was as fiercely attractive in the flesh as the tales gave him credit for.

He had a strong jaw shadowed by a short and well-trimmed brown beard, heavy brows of the same color pulled low over a set of dark eyes—the exact color she was still too far away to see. What stood out the most to her however was his long mane of golden-blonde hair, which fell down well past his shoulders in a riot of unruly curls. Currently he had the top layers pulled back tight and secured in the back, presumably in a simple tail to stay out of his face.

Lord Eomer, King of the Riddermark, stopped his horse only a few lengths ahead of his fellows and then sat waiting for them to arrive. His gaze was centered on her and strayed nowhere else, his dark eyes intense and probing even from such a distance. Under his perusal Lothíriel seemed to become painfully aware of her every flaw at once, of each and every one of the dirt stains marring her face and clothes, and of the strands of unkempt hair that had managed to find their way free of their bindings. Her raw nerves frayed more with every step Gyldenfax took toward her former master.

Her father raised his hand and called a halt to their movement at last with only a few feet standing between them. Prince Imrahil then started to call out official greeting, but was abruptly interrupted.

"Eomer!"

Everyone turned to see Lady Eowyn, grinning widely, promptly launch herself out of Windfola's saddle and then race toward her brother—heedless of anyone else. For all her harsh words about Lord Eomer and her annoyance concerning his betrothal, her fierce love and affection for the man was plain for all to see as she gave no thought to the chuckles that erupted on both sides due to her behavior.

And it was a bond that was obviously shared, for at the very sound of her voice Lord Eomer's stern expression softened considerably and a small—though warm—smile spread. Imrahil just shook his head and sighed with his own smile, while Faramir chuckled outright. As they watched, the King of Rohan quickly dismounted, with an ease and fluid skill that belied his familiarity with the action. He then caught up his younger sister in a fierce bear-hug, spinning them both about with a rich roll of laughter after she practically flung herself into his arms.

Lothíriel found herself smiling even through her cold knot of nerves. She suddenly realized that it had been over half a year since the siblings had last seen each other. Some of her apprehension began to ease away at the King's open display of affection for his sister. Surely a man who could care for his family so openly could not be that frightening. So what if he towered over even Lady Eowyn, who was more than several inches taller than herself? And so what if the King had swept the blonde woman up off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather, and held her aloft for several moments without the slightest hint of strain?

The siblings disengaged themselves after another moment, and Lady Eowyn gave a somewhat breathless apology to everyone for her lapse in manners. Prince Imrahil quickly assured her such was not necessary, then cleared his throat for a more officious introduction.

"My Lord Eomer, it does me great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter at last," Imrahil then announced, and just like that, her tongue lodged itself to the roof of her mouth and she forgot how to breathe as those dark eyes lifted from his sister and centered on her again. "I give you Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."