CHAPTER TWO

Lothíriel did not escape until lunchtime, when she renewed her offer to pick flowers for Éowyn's hair. A garland might be more than Éowyn could stomach, but a few sprigs of lily-of-the-valley would do nicely, Lothíriel thought, and then her promise to Æmma came again to the forefront of her mind.

She stopped just a few steps out of the house and looked around for somewhere to sit. If she wanted to think through her conundrum, what she really needed was time, solitude, and a seat. Preferably one in the shade with some protection from the breeze. The loose hair beneath her braids was already whipping into her face.

There were no benches in easy distance, so Lothíriel picked her way through the rustling shrubs to a young tree that looked sturdy enough to lean against. She dug her toe into the dirt. It was dry. Good. No wet stains on her dress, at least. Lothíriel sat gingerly against the tree and sighed.

For the first time, she turned her full attention on her reckless pledge to Æmma.

At once, her breath hitched. She pressed her forehead against her knees, eyes wide. Valar be blessed, how could she have been so foolhardy? Broken betrothals were rare enough among peasants. This one had been orchestrated by two of the most powerful men in a completely different country! What could she possibly do about it?

Lothíriel squeezed her knees to her chest, tipped her head back against the tree, and closed her eyes. She took deep, calming breaths.

All of this panic was foolish. In the end, it didn't matter whether she thought she could do it. She had given Æmma her word, and she would keep it. Her honor—no, her pride demanded it.

Not to mention her inner zealot. A forced marriage was barbaric. No woman should have no say in her fate. There was no imagining how betrayed she would feel if her father did such to her. Æmma's distress was not for nothing.

And yet the question remained: what could Lothíriel do? It wasn't as though she had a direct-to-Valinor messenger pigeon that she could send off with a prayer begging the Valar to cancel the betrothal.

The Valar were out of the question, but could she call on anyone for help? Æmma sprang to mind, but Lothíriel was loath to rely on her, not when she had already been cowed by her father. Lothíriel's parents, aunt, and two of her brothers were in Emyn Arnen, but involving her parents was impossible. Her brothers? Lothíriel wasn't sure if she could trust them to be discreet.

What of Aunt Ivriniel? No, that would never do. Her aunt was a grumbler if there ever was one, and Lothíriel doubted that Ivriniel would move past lecturing Lothíriel on her foolishness to actually provide any help.

That left no one, for Lothíriel had no desire to include any of her fellow ladies-in-waiting to Queen Arwen in such a venture. They had no cause to be involved, nor would they deserve whatever happened should someone get wind of her plan. Valar prevent such a thing! It might get back to King Éomer or Lord Aldor, and they would go to her father, and her father would reprimand her for her meddling, and…

Lothíriel shuddered. No, she was on her own. She ran her hands up and down her arms and nodded sharply. That was settled, at least. Now she just needed to figure out how in Varda's name she was supposed to prevent the announcement tomorrow.

There were only two people who could change anything: Lord Aldor and King Éomer. Lord Aldor was a consummate middle-aged politician. He had no doubt been dealing with such matters for longer than Lothíriel had been alive. And there was no reason for Lothíriel to have anything to do with him.

King Éomer, on the other hand…

Lothíriel pursed her lips. Her father and all of her brothers had been thoroughly impressed with Rohan's new king from their first meeting last March. They had spoken much of his valor, his skill in battle, and his love for his kin. Lothíriel suspected that Amrothos and Erchirion were so eager to come to Ithilien because Éomer would be here. She had never known them to show such an interest in weddings before. Erchirion had not even been present for their eldest brother's wedding!

When Lothíriel had finally met Éomer upon her arrival in Emyn Arnen, she'd been impressed too, although likely for different reasons. During the last few months she'd spent waiting on Queen Arwen in Minas Tirith, many ladies who had met Éomer last year had commented on his great height and good looks. Even Queen Arwen had noted that King Éomer had a noble bearing, which was about as close as she got to saying any man was handsome. And though she had chalked some of their praise up to Éomer being a young king, all of the reports had proven true. Éomer was handsome, despite the beard.

But Lothíriel had hardly spoken with Éomer beyond the regular polite greetings and meaningless exchanges one had with near-strangers. He might be great friends of her father and brothers, but he had never seen her before a few days ago. Only the most proper courtesies were to be given to his sworn friend's prized daughter—

Lothíriel started with a gasp. Of course! She'd been a fool not to think of it at once. The one thing that was sure to end a courtship was impropriety. And she was an unattached, reasonably pretty young woman.

All she had to do was engineer a situation where Lord Aldor thought he was witnessing Éomer being improper, and then Æmma would be free.

Lothíriel mused over the many tales told of young ladies losing their virtue. She remembered with clarity the whispers about women whose names were swept under the rug and the warnings about uncouth men she'd been ordered to avoid.

With all of that at her disposal, there was no doubt she could maneuver her way into success. And she had the perfect opportunity just a few hours away: the wedding feast, when all would be giddy with joy and drink, be it Amrothian wine or Rohirric mead. It would be easy to earn a dance with Éomer—all she had to do was ask one of her brothers to bring Éomer over. And everything else would follow from there.

She sighed with relief. That settled things.

Lothíriel jumped to her feet, brushed down her skirts, and skipped off to pick some flowers, humming.

. .

. .

While she was heading back to Éowyn's rooms with her bouquet, Lothíriel was waylaid by her brother Amrothos outside of the main hall.

"Lothíriel, come look!"

He dragged her inside the hall. Lothíriel slowed considerably, and a wide smile spread across her face. She wriggling out of Amrothos's grip and rushed into the center of the room. She spun in place to get a full view of the room.

"Oh, it's beautiful!"

Garlands of flowers and ivy were wrapped around and hung between the hall's thick wooden columns. Long tables lined part of the hall, leaving a good area before the dais cleared for dancing. A few minstrels were practicing one of Lothíriel's favorite songs from Minas Tirith. And the high table was adorned with fresh flowers.

"It's like an elven paradise," she declared.

Amrothos laughed. "That's pushing it a little far," he said. "But the floor is nice and springy." He danced over to her, took her free hand, and skipped them both to a round table near the dais laden with gifts for the couple.

Giggling, Lothíriel turned to look over the gifts. She spotted her own gift, a matching set of pewter wine goblets inlaid with pearls, and then her eyes fell on Amrothos's gift.

"Oh, Amrothos," she breathed.

Two painted leather boxes were stacked near the front of the table. Lothíriel set down her lilies of the valley and reached out, but glanced at her brother before touching them. He nodded with a grin.

The top box was painted to show Minas Tirith from a distance. The White City gleamed against the dark mountains, and a seven-pointed white star was set in the sky. The other box was the same size, but on it was painted a city Lothíriel did not recognize. A great golden hall glinted against dark mountains as well, and a few horses grazed in the foreground.

"Is this one Edoras?" she asked.

"Mm. I asked Éomer to send me a sketch and description. He very wisely had a local artist describe it for me." Amrothos ran a hand along the smooth top and restacked his boxes. "The varnish only just set this morning."

"Well, you outdid yourself," Lothíriel said. "These are beautiful. Truly beautiful."

"I thank you," he said with a flourishing bow.

Lothíriel sighed wistfully. "I only wish I had half your skill at—well, at anything, really."

"Come now," Amrothos said. His lips twitched. "You are far better than I am at bookkeeping."

"Bookkeeping!" she scoffed. "What are numbers to such art? And my gift is nothing to this. Yours was made with your own hands. Well, painted, anyway."

Amrothos waved her arguments aside. "You are better company, at least." He picked up Éowyn's bouquet and tucked Lothíriel's hand in his elbow. As he led her out of the hall, he said, "Well, I am glad you like the finished product."

Lothíriel banished her crossness with a shake of her head and smiled at Amrothos. "I do! And I expect something even better for my wedding. Whenever that is. Take care not to lapse in your practicing, brother. I shall hold you to high standards."

"I may not need to practice," he said. "You may be betrothed soon!"

"Why would you say so?" Lothíriel asked, aghast. "I've barely had a year of freedom! How would you feel if you'd been betrothed so soon?"

"You're twenty-one now," Amrothos said. "That's not too soon. Especially if our father has someone in mind."

Lothíriel narrowed her eyes at her brother. He didn't sound like he was trying to tell her something. But…

"Are you trying to tell me something?" she demanded.

Amrothos shrugged, face unreadable. "If Adar has anyone in mind, I'm sure he'll tell you about it," he said with finality. Lothíriel sighed; Amrothos patted her hand. "Now, where were you taking these flowers?"

"To Éowyn, for her hair." She led the way to Éowyn's rooms.

As they reached the last corner, Lothíriel heard someone coming just out of sight. She held Amrothos back. "Watch out," she called in Westron.

The footsteps paused, then a tall Rohir eased his way around the corner. Lothíriel's heart skipped a beat. It was King Éomer! She quickly schooled her features to contain her shock, but she had ended up a little behind her brother, and Éomer did not notice her at first.

"Excuse me," he said, and then he recognized Amrothos. "Ah, Amrothos." He smiled, his bright eyes glinting with pleasure. "Your father was looking for you."

"Of course he was," Amrothos said easily. He glanced back at Lothíriel, and Éomer at last spotted her.

"Forgive me, Lady Lothíriel," he said with a bow. "I did not see you."

"There's nothing to forgive, my lord," she said, face hot. Curse her luck! She must look a mess, what with her windblown hair and wrinkled skirts.

But Éomer did not seem to care, for he clasped Amrothos's arm and strode off to the main hall.

Lothíriel was torn between indignance and relief. Even when Éomer did see her, her presence barely registered with him! Was she so little to look at? She smoothed her hair with a frown.

Yet Éomer's disinterest now meant she could feasibly shock him tonight. She had seen such behavior before—Elphir, her eldest brother, had hardly noticed his future wife until she began wearing the newer fashions. Lothíriel had been baffled, but Amrothos had told her how little men notice.

Éomer was hardly an outlier. All Lothíriel had to do was look her best.

. .

. .

A/N: The "are you trying to tell me something" exchange is endlessly hilarious to me, for some reason! Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are always welcome :)