"…the Lord of the City had beacons built on the tops of outlying hills along both borders of the great range, and maintained posts at these points where fresh horses were always in readiness to bear his errand-riders to Rohan in the North, or to Belfalas in the South."
-The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
9 March III 3019
Dol Amroth
Dírmaethor stood guard over the gate, one of the few left behind to care for the city. The night air echoed with the soft refrain of the waves against the shore, but all else was quiet. He had half-expected Lothíriel to attempt to join the departing warriors, or at least sneak out after them. Consequently, a guard had been placed outside her door, to ensure that Prince Imrahil's orders were carried out.
He cocked his head, listening, as a soft, coaxing whisper rose from below the gate, just barely loud enough to reach his ears.
"Sedho, Tegalad!" someone hissed. He turned, trying to see past the stones of parapet. "No dhínen, ar tolo hi!"
Staying close to the wall, he padded down the steps. He shook his head, unsurprised. From his position in the shadows, he could see that Lothíriel had loaded her stallion, Tegalad, with several packs, and was tugging him toward the gate. The hood of her dark grey cloak had slipped, revealing that she hadn't even taken the time to tie back her chestnut curls.
"Just how far did you expect to go without being noticed?" he asked quietly. Lothíriel started, whirling to stare up at him guiltily. Dirmaethor couldn't help but chuckle at her shocked expression. "Your father expected that you'd try something like this." Lothíriel's shoulders slumped.
"I can't stay here and just wait for them," she protested quietly, her eyes pleading for him to understand. "Not after Boromir. I just want to be there—I'll work in the Houses of Healing, sit in the most remote tower of Minas Tirith, anything—I just want to be there."
Dirmaethor leaned back against the gate, pensive.
"Please," she begged, her voice a barely audible whisper. "Please, Dirmaethor."
"On one condition," he said finally.
"Anything," Lothíriel promised. Dirmaethor smiled.
"I'm coming with you," he replied, drawing a pack of his own from behind his post. Lothíriel looked at him, eyes wide.
"You planned to go in any case," she accused, a smile spreading slowly over her face.
"Guilty as charged, my Lady," Dirmaethor replied, bowing deeply. "You took longer than I expected, but if we ride through the night and most of tomorrow, we should reach Minas Tirith by nightfall." Lothíriel shook her head, still amazed, before mounting Tegalad and following Dirmaethor to the picket-post.
"Will you join my father's men?" Lothíriel asked as they slipped through the gate.
"Yes, but you will not," Dirmaethor said, suddenly stern.
"I had no intention of doing so," she promised calmly. Dirmaethor raised his eyebrows, indicating her bow and the quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. "For protection on the road," she explained. "I will go straight to the Houses of Healing and stay there. I should have plenty to do." Dirmaethor nodded his approval before kicking his horse into an easy trot. Lothíriel followed suit, and they disappeared into the night.
Lothíriel thanked Boromir silently as she led Dirmaethor through the tunnels that entered Minas Tirith by way of the mountains. The maps to those tunnels were locked in a vault in the palace, to which only the Steward and his heir had the key. Boromir had led her and her brothers through the tunnels, once, swearing them to secrecy immediately after.
She handed Tegalad's reins to Dirmaethor as she dragged open the heavy wooden door that marked the end of the tunnels. It rolled aside with nary a sound, sliding on well-greased runners. Dirmaethor blinked at the sudden brightness as they entered stables lit by mid-morning sunlight.
"I lost track of time in the tunnels," she admitted quietly, sliding the door shut. Dirmaethor raised his eyebrows, impressed, as the door slipped back into alignment with the walls of the stables, appearing as nothing more than another well-worn section of wall. "Have we made especially good time, or have we been delayed?"
"Delayed by half a day, no more," Dirmaethor replied, equally quiet, handing her Tegalad's reins once more and leading his Lairear into the last stall. Lothíriel followed suit, rubbing Tegalad down and murmuring soft words of praise as she did so.
"Memnon!" she called softly, leaning over the door. The ever-present stable boy jumped down from the loft, landing in front of her. Lothíriel started, backing into Tegalad, who whinnied sharply at the intrusion. "Sorry, sorry," she whispered, carefully rubbing his nose in apology. Memnon snickered, and Lothíriel glared at him.
"Sorry," he replied, utterly unrepentant. Lothíriel rolled her eyes and flipped him a gold coin.
"For your silence," she informed him. Memnon hefted it, testing its weight, and bit it before nodding his agreement.
"Not a word," he promised, disappearing into the loft once more.
"Strange lad," Dirmaethor remarked. Lothíriel shrugged, slinging her packs over her shoulder. "To the Houses of Healing, then?"
"To the rooftop of the Houses of Healing," she corrected. "I'll need to hide my belongings, else the Healers will ask questions."
"You'll need to wear a dress as well," Dirmaethor observed. Lothíriel sighed, looking down regretfully at the tunic and breeches she'd borrowed from Elphir's trunk.
"Then a trip to the guest rooms at the palace, first," she replied, unfazed. "I've plenty of dresses there."
"Will you stay there as well?" Dirmaethor asked. Lothíriel shook her head emphatically.
"Father will be there," she explained. "I'll just gather a few things, and stay at the Houses."
"You'll be safe there?" he confirmed, shouldering his own packs. Lothíriel nodded. "I'll be with the men-at-arms, keeping well away from your father." She chuckled wryly, nodding agreement once more.
"Thank you, Dirmaethor," she added quietly. Dirmaethor bowed low. "Be safe."
"And you, my Lady," he replied, equally quiet. He bowed once more before setting off at a brisk trot. Lothíriel tugged her pack over her shoulder, patting Tegalad's nose one last time before turning to face the White Palace.
"Memnon, get down here," she ordered. This time, when Memnon landed in front of her, she managed not to jump backwards.
"You called?" he smirked. Lothíriel shook her head.
"I need you to get me into the palace without the guards seeing me," she replied.
"And what makes you think I'd know how to do a thing like that?" Memnon asked nonchalantly. Lothíriel held up a coin, and Memnon shook his head. She pulled out a second coin. Memnon reached for it eagerly, but she held it just out of reach.
"One when we get inside the palace, and one when we get back out," she cautioned. Memnon rolled his eyes. "Or I find my own way in."
"Deal," Memnon decided reluctantly, leading her to an empty stall and opening a panel at its rear. "Where in the palace?"
"The storage rooms. My clothes are there," Lothíriel informed him, wrinkling her nose at the worn, cramped tunnel through which they crawled. "Is there an easier way to get out?"
"You mean one that won't get your dresses so dirty?" Memnon teased. "Yes. It just doesn't lead back to the stables."
"Where does it lead?" Lothíriel asked, curious.
"The Houses of Healing," Memnon replied, and Lothíriel smiled as they crawled into the first storage room.
"My trunks are against the far wall," she said, brushing off her hands and legs before opening them. Plain cotton dresses in shades of white, grey, black, dark blue, and dark green lay neatly stacked on top, square-necked with long, fitted sleeves and the crest of Dol Amroth embroidered at the hems and necklines. She scooped them up, placing them carefully in her pack to avoid jarring her bow. A thick braid of ribbons lay bared in the trunk as she removed the dresses, and she added them to her burden as well.
"What's all that for?" Memnon asked, puzzled.
"To keep my hair out of my face," Lothíriel replied. "Where is this second tunnel? I would prefer not to tarry." Memnon indicated the closet door on the wall, twisting the doorknob right, then left, then right again. When he opened it, the back wall was gone, revealing a twisting staircase.
"Takes us right under the streets and into the basement of the Houses," he explained, his voice echoing in the stone passageway. "And you won't even have to duck." Before leading her into it, he turned around, holding out one hand. Lothíriel sighed, placing the first gold coin in it. Memnon's fist closed tightly about it, and it disappeared into his pocket.
"How far?" she asked, following him into the passageway.
"Not far at all," Memnon promised, pushing spiderwebs out of the way. "Watch your step. There are loose stones on the floor."
Lothíriel glanced down, just barely making out a few crumbling pavers at her feet in time to avoid tripping on them. Memnon snickered, then glanced down in response to her angry glare.
"Up this staircase, here," he indicated, leading her up a seemingly endless spiral staircase. Lothíriel was dizzy by the time she reached the top, but handed over the second coin to Memnon nonetheless as they entered the lowest levels of the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel stood still, looking at Memnon awkwardly as he didn't move. She cleared her throat, and he looked at her, puzzled. She sighed, pulling a dress out of her bag and holding up. Memnon's face lit up in understanding.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, ducking back into the tunnel. "Not a word, I promise." Lothíriel waited until the sound of his footsteps receded. She shook her head, stripping off her brother's borrowed clothes and slipping into a dress. Her hair she bound back with one of the many ribbons now in her pack before brushing the front of her dress and proceeding up the stairs.
The Houses were an entire level of interconnected buildings, each housing different patients. Lothíriel made for the House of Warriors, where injured soldiers were treated. The outer complex was spacious, filled with arches and columns and winding, flowering vines. At the heart of the complex lay the House itself, with wards that filled entire floors and private rooms for high-ranking patients. Lothíriel snuck through the courtyards, hoping to reach the roof without detection.
"Alqua!" someone called. She turned, cringing, to see Aradan, her former mentor, walking swiftly toward her, his silvered hair bound in a flowing ponytail that bounced with every step.
"How fare you, Lord Aradan?" she replied, bowing her head in deference to his position.
"Alqua, as I told you when received your Healer's scroll, no such honorific is needed," Aradan shook his head, smiling as he caught up to and fell into step with her. "I've rarely been gladder to see you—from what the White Wizard has told us, Healers will be greatly needed in the coming days."
"I'm glad to help—" Lothíriel began, but Aradan cut her off, talking quickly.
"I've not long to speak with you—there is much to prepare—but I've marvelous news, Alqua—I've been named Warden of the House of Warriors!" he said hastily, beaming. Lothíriel's eyes widened, and she halted in her tracks, bowing deeply. The Warden of any given House was considered a master of healing arts, equal to any guild-leader or Commander of the Tower Guard.
"Congratulations, Aradan!" she replied, meaning the words. Aradan had taken her as an apprentice just after her eighth birthday, while visiting her cousins. He had accepted without question her explanation that she lived in the countryside six months out of the year and came to Minas Tirith because her mother wanted her to become a Healer. Already renowned throughout all the Houses at 30, Aradan had arranged for her to take home books on anatomy, healing, and medicinal plants to study while she was away. "What may I do to help?"
"A half-dozen Healers and apprentices or so are following the local herb-women to gather plants outside the walls," Aradan informed her. "If you would, extra hands are always needed. And if you've skill with that"—he indicated her bow—"I would be far more comfortable. We've no more soldiers available."
"I'd be glad to, L—Aradan," Lothíriel promised. "I'll stow my pack, and go with them immediately."
"Eru Ilúvatar grant you his luck," Aradan said, clapping her on the shoulder as he hastened his pace.
"Estë the Gentle grant you hers," Lothíriel called after him, nearly bowling over an apprentice as she turned to enter the first floor. She took the three flights of stairs leading to the roof terrace at a trot, hiding her pack behind a large shrub and snatching her cloak from it as she ran before returning to the first floor as quickly as she had come. Rounding the final corner, she ran head-on into an apprentice, and landed hard at the bottom of the stairs.
"You really know how to make an entrance, don't you?" the apprentice asked wryly, his dry voice familiar. Lothíriel smiled, embarrassed, and accepted his proffered hand as she got up.
"Sorry about that, Corwin," she apologized. Corwin chuckled, picking up her cloak. Tossing it over her shoulders, he pinned it at her throat before brushing her hair free of the hood. Lothíriel fidgeted slightly, uncomfortable at his closeness.
Corwin had entered training when she was fourteen, also under Aradan's mentorship. He was considered a late-starter, as he was of an age with her, but was nearing the end of his apprenticeship. He had made no secret of his feelings for the girl he knew as Alqua, no matter how many times she rebuffed him.
Lothíriel stepped back hastily, fixing her cloak for herself and tugging up her hood.
"I'm supposed to help the group gathering plants outside the walls," she informed him, drawing out her bow and quiver and slipping them over her cloak.
"I'll join you. I've nothing better to do," Corwin called, stepping quickly to keep up with her. Lothíriel sighed. "And I can take that for you. Who are you supposed to be delivering it to?" Lothíriel turned, confused.
"Who am I supposed to take what to?" she asked.
"That bow," Corwin replied, grabbing the arrow rest and trying to tug it free of her shoulder. Lothíriel yanked it back.
"This is my bow, thank you very much, and I'm more than capable of using it," she retorted angrily. Corwin let go, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. Lothíriel rolled her eyes at him, turning and departing at a trot to catch up with the group of apprentices and Healers exiting the gate. She heard Corwin following, but didn't turn. The group did, and Lothíriel saw several familiar faces among them. Still angry with Corwin, Lothíriel tugged at her hood until it covered her face, following along in silence. There was a small grove of trees to the northwest of the city, and the herb-women led them there.
"We're looking for white willow bark, arnica, ginger, feverfew—herbs that treat pain. We planted some aloe shoots here last spring, but we've no idea how they've grown. If you find any mature aloe leaves, we would absolutely take some back to make aloe paste. Should you find kava kava, ivy—not poisonous, of course—or raspberry leaves, feel free to gather than as well, but we have more than enough camellia, so leave those to grow. You are all able to recognize the plants we need?" one of the Healers asked. Those assembled nodded, taking sacks as they were passed around. Lothíriel moved immediately to the far side of the grove, picking carefully through the thick growth at the base of a large oak.
"I didn't mean to offend you," Corwin said quietly, coming up beside her. Lothíriel jumped, caught by surprise. She turned back to her work, ignoring him. "I'm sorry, Alqua. Truly."
"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, Corwin," Lothíriel replied flatly. "I resent any insinuation to the contrary."
"I'm just not used to women being able to fight," Corwin explained weakly. "Being allowed to fight, I mean." Lothíriel sighed, rising and pulling Corwin behind a tree, isolating them from the others.
"Can you keep a secret?" she asked resignedly. Corwin nodded slowly, seemingly taking things seriously for once.
"I'll tell no one," he pledged.
"My name isn't Alqua," Lothíriel began. "I don't spend six months of the year at home in the countryside, because I don't live in the countryside either. My father is the Steward's cousin, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."
"So that would make you—" Corwin began.
"A princess, yes," Lothíriel finished. Corwin stared at her for a moment, utterly shocked.
"And your real name, then?" he asked, his face and voice inscrutable.
"Lothíriel Mithelessa," she replied, unconsciously straightening as she did so. "Please, Corwin, you can't tell anyone—"
"Well, that makes a lot more sense," Corwin interrupted.
"I—what?" Lothíriel stammered. Corwin clasped her wrist, turning her hand over to show her palm.
"No calluses," he explained. "Your hands are far too nice for any farm girl, for one. For another, even when you try to change how you talk—and believe me, it's not hard to notice—your speech is far too educated. Your dresses are well-made, and those mysterious gifts you receive are left by a palace messenger or one of the Steward's sons." Lothíriel shot him a bewildered glance. "I spied on—I mean, happened to see Lord Boromir bring you a bouquet of flowers at Midwinter," he clarified. Lothíriel glared at him, relenting only when he released her wrist. "I won't tell, Al—Lothíriel." She shook her head.
"It's best if you continue to call me Alqua," she cautioned.
"Very well, then," Corwin agreed. "And Alqua? Thank you. For trusting me, I mean." Lothíriel inclined her head regally, and they returned to the clearing.
"So why the bow, then?" he asked conversationally. Lothíriel chuckled.
"I've three older brothers and two male cousins. If I ever wanted to spend time with them, embroidery wasn't exactly an option," she explained.
"Fair enough," Corwin admitted. "But why did you take it with you while we're gathering plants?"
"Master Aradan asked me to bring it, for protection," Lothíriel replied.
"Protection from what?" Corwin asked, skeptical. Lothíriel looked up sharply, hearing something more than the quiet chatter and movements of the Healers as they went about their work. "Alqua, what are you—"
Lothíriel hissed a warning at him, pushing him into a pile of brush before slipping the bow loose of her shoulder and fitting an arrow to the string. She drew it back, focusing, before loosing it into the neck of an Uruk-Hai scout just outside the clearing. Several Healers screamed as he fell, tumbling into their midst. Incongruously, Corwin sat up, spitting leaves and pulling twigs out of his hair. Lothíriel just stared at the body on the ground, eyes wide with shock.
"Return to the city immediately," the lead Healer ordered. "Run!"
Corwin shepherded the younger apprentices out before him.
"Alqua, come on!" he yelled, turning back. Lothíriel still stood over the corpse of the Uruk-Hai, frozen.
"I killed him…" she whispered, her voice trailing off.
"Yes, and we're very grateful, now come on, Alqua!" Corwin snapped. Lothíriel didn't move. Corwin took three quick strides across the clearing, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. "Lothíriel Mithelessa, either you start walking now or so help me, I will carry you back to the city slung over my shoulders."
That got Lothíriel's attention. She spun, stumble-cum-running out of the clearing. Corwin kept his grip on her arm, half-dragging her when she stumbled. Aradan was waiting for them at the gate, color returning to his ashen face only as he caught sight of Corwin and Lothíriel.
"Quickly, quickly," called the Warden, ushering them in. "I'd no idea they were this close—are you alright?" Lothíriel's face was still ghostly pale, lips thin and white.
"Hold these," she ordered hastily, shoving her bow and quiver into Corwin's hands. She fell to her knees, shaking, before emptying the contents of her stomach. Aradan knelt next to her, murmuring nearly-inaudible sounds of comfort and smoothing strands of hair back from her face. Corwin stood over them awkwardly, cradling the jumble of Lothíriel's weaponry in the crook of his arms. He fumbled to tuck them under one arm, reaching for the flask at his waist and passing it to Aradan.
"It's just water, with a little lemon to clean your tongue," Corwin promised. Lothíriel managed a small sip, swilling it around her mouth before spitting it out and scrubbing her mouth with a spare handkerchief.
"You haven't done that in quite a while," Aradan jested gently. "Not since the second year of your apprenticeship, if I remember correctly."
"I'd never killed anything larger than a deer before," Lothíriel said quietly, slightly defensive. She pulled her cloak-hood back up, glancing around nervously to see if any of Dol Amroth's soldiers were nearby. Aradan and Corwin each grasped one of her arms, helping her up.
"You saved our lives, Alqua," Corwin replied, equally quiet. "Thank you." Lothíriel nodded slowly, absentmindedly accepting her bow and quiver from Corwin.
"I took the liberty of having a cot prepared for you, Alqua," Aradan said as they made their way back toward the House of Warriors. "We've no idea when the battle will start, but once it does, we'll all be catching sleep when we can. I thought it easier to have a bed at the House for you."
"Thank you, Aradan." There was some color in Lothíriel's cheeks once more, and Aradan smiled approvingly.
"We've much to prepare, yet," Corwin reminded them. "Back to the Houses?" The other two nodded in agreement. Lothíriel took one last deep breath, clearing her mind, and followed them out.
A/N: I tried to figure out how someone who'd never killed anyone before might react to being put in a situation where it's kill or be killed. I also tried to balance that against the fact that she's fully aware of what's going on, knows that the Uruks are evil, and has practiced so that she's able to kill them. Hope I managed that alright…in other news, I wanted to make Corwin's character likeable/approachable but not perfect or anything. His character's name and persona are derived a great deal from a character on the Arwen-Undomiel forum with whom I used to do RPGs (on the off chance that you're reading this, Corwin, it's Silmeriel). Reviews are welcome, as ever!