Chapter Two

"Keep still, child!"

Omelia widened shocked eyes at the matronly servant before her, but sure enough, Lothíriel made the effort to stop wriggling, even as Rosie's deft fingers laced the corset and deprived her charge of the ability to breathe with dexterous skill. The old nursemaid pursed wrinkled lips as she pressed the young woman into a chair and began to deal with her disobedient hair.

"Goodness knows, child, but what I wouldn't do for the hair your mother had," she remarked acidly. Lothíriel resisted the mounting urge to break away from the relentless tugging of the comb, and contented herself with replying with good humour,

"Everyone says that. Was she so very beautiful, Rosie?"

The plump apple-rosy cheeks creased with a rare smile as the nurse recalled her first mistress. Yes, Serina had been beautiful, with her smooth pale skin and dark, resplendent hair. The Prince's wife had been an accomplished hostess, too. Rosie's eyes sparkled at the memories of lively parties and celebrations, light and impeccably planned.

She directed a glance at the rich brown snarls that were so stubborn lying in her old hands, and at the young, stubborn face reflected in the mirror. There were more similarities between those two than most could see, even though they looked nothing alike. Freckles dusted the aquiline nose of the Dol Amroth family, which had a slight tendency to turn up. Lothíriel's figure, too, although pleasing, lacked the deceptive fragility that her mother's had possessed, being almost as tall as her father, and with a form which was more willowy than voluptuous.

Rosie turned her head rather abruptly to Omelia, whose shrunken form was stood quietly by the door. The new maid's big brown eyes were patient, but wide with faint shock. "Come on, wench," Rosie commanded, not unkindly. The girl limped hurriedly over, with a quick bob towards her young mistress. Mostly hidden by her servant's garb was the leg which had been responsible for many illnesses since she was born. She had been five when, inexplicably, her indomitable will to survive had conquered the fever which burned through her body, leaving her with a shortened leg, thin and somewhat wizened.

What many of the somewhat careless servants below stairs were not aware of was the girl's innate gentleness, which they mistook for ignorance in their own lack of knowledge, believing that a crippled body meant a slower mind. It was with an incomparably good nature that Omelia partook of her chores as a maid, and with an undeniable patience that she had borne the inconsiderate barbs uttered when her station was elevated to Lothíriel's personal maid. Lothíriel allowed herself a breath of relief as gentle fingers took the place of her old friend's rather more efficient appendages, deftly catching the princess' hair in a fine silver-thread net, expertly pinning it into place, and allowing one slender curl to brush the pale shoulder.

Rosie looked at Omelia's quiet unobtrusive work, and reluctantly voiced her approval. "You'll be needing to dress her, too," she warned. "I would help choose the outfit, but I'm needed downstairs. The kitchens are in uproar, what with the to-do about Milord coming this evening." She sniffed, briefly touched the young servant on the shoulder, and went out.

Lothíriel could feel Omelia's tiny body relax almost immediately. The petite girl was in her element. She looked critically at her mistress' face and refused the guile of powder or kohl, and crossed to the rather large chests that served to house Lothíriel's dresses. She shook out a robe of soft, dull green, the skirts of which were covered in such fine black netting as to lend a deeper, more sophisticated sheen to the whole. As Lothíriel slipped gracefully into it, Omelia admired the intricate working of silver thread on the cuffs and bodice, and selected a simple pair of silver earrings to be inserted gently into the young woman's neat ears.

As she deposited a light black stole over the graceful arms, Omelia reflected that her princess had been remarkably quiet, only voicing a gentle comment where needed to guide her new maid, as to her preferences.

"They say milord's a mighty fine man, miss," she said quietly. "You won't find better for courage. Were he the one that did all them battles?" Her big brown eyes were shining with admiration as Lothíriel nodded, glancing sharply at her maid's face.

"How do you know about that?" she asked slowly. There was a wry quirk to the young girl's lips as she replied, a great contrast to the gentle smile she always displayed.

"We do 'ear these things, miss. It's not like tha' battle fer the ring of power were secret," she said with good humour. Lothíriel gave a rueful smile.

"You're right of course," she said apologetically. "I was just surprised, that's all." There was a knock on the door, and Lothíriel went to open it herself, much to Omelia's consternation. There was a muffled exclamation, and then the princess of Dol Amroth was flinging herself joyfully into another woman's arms. The stranger returned the embrace with fond enrapture, her clear laugh resonating around the spacious chamber.

"Lothíriel, you sly thing! No sooner than I've called for a lackey to unload my baggage than that younger brother of yours tells me that you're engaged! I simply had to come up here straight away."

She pulled back, studying her young friend with a sparkle in her dancing blue eyes. The shadow in the eyes of Omelia's mistress had lifted, at least for the moment. Omelia exited the room softly, forgotten, but extremely satisfied. If this woman could bring such joy with her appearance, the girl felt it was her duty to find out who the mystery stranger was. Her advance towards the bustling world below stairs was painfully slow. She rubbed her aching leg unconsciously as it gave another twinge. In doing so, she nearly collided with someone else.

Lorn, the elderly manservant whose esteemed position proclaimed him overseer of all matters at the palace, offered the girl a slight twitch of his lips that could have been a smile, considering his severe visage. He didn't offer to aid the maid, for it wouldn't have been seemly, and furthermore helping Omelia Hetterford was not something one did twice. He did slow his pace, though, so that she entered the kitchens with him at her side. There was a grateful look in the glance that she shot at him before hurrying to help Missus Senwyn, who raised her voice to considerable volume on sight of the small crippled maid. Even as she chopped potatoes and onions, and turned spits upon which great haunches of meat roasted luxuriously, her comically noticeable ears were extremely useful in discovering the identity of her mistress' friend.

"Why, she's an old friend of the family, that one," remarked one of the head maids. There was so much to be accomplished today that every single hand was needed. "They say there was an understanding between her and Prince Elphir, but they quarrelled and nothing ever came of it." Omelia's brows drew together, but she kept her peace. As they continued to talk, she learnt even more about the mysterious woman.

Her name was Caelwen. Just two weeks younger than Elphir, the daughter of Serina's dearest friend, it was inevitable that the two should be coupled as playmates when they were young. Thus, the young girl had enjoyed a remarkably privileged childhood as a lady-in-waiting's daughter would not usually have experienced. Her education was thorough, for when it was found that his charge found it less tedious to have his best friend at study with him, the tutor had made a point of persuading Imrahil to allow her to stay. Her quick humour and wit, and her merry good looks, made her acceptable to peoples of all circles. It was perhaps unavoidable that Elphir had fallen in love with his closest friend. But then...

Then had been the quarrel, the furious words, the remarks made that couldn't be taken back. And try as they might to find out, none of the servants had ever come to know what had separated the lovers so irrevocably, for just a month before their wedding, Elphir had returned from their morning ride, as was their custom, with terse lines etched in his young face, and a stony look in his eyes. Caelwen had not returned until the sun was making his heavy walk to bed in a blaze of gold, whereupon she immediately packed for a long journey and disappeared. No one knew what had passed between the two, but it was evident some kind of disagreement had occurred. But what had they been speaking of, to keep Caelwen away for seven years?

That, Omelia was determined to find out.

Lothíriel stopped her fingers from clenching around her friend's hand with difficulty. Caelwen's bright blue gaze was sympathetic as she breathed a comforting flow of conversation near her young companion's ear with the ease of long practise. Her crimson mouth curved in a bonny bow, her cheeks bloomed with health, and her hair was cunningly drawn back into a sleek arrangement of intricate coils at the nape of her slender neck. It was not a wonder that unsuspecting servants bent a little to catch the wonderful lilt of that thrilling voice.

"Peace, child," she murmured. "Amrothos will be all the more wary if he sees you upset." Her glance at the young prince was a little amused. He was unconsciously arrogant, that boy. His every movement professed his bearing, and his spectacular tunic worked in dull amber and gold only reiterated his station, but it was slightly spoiled by the restlessness in his deep grey eyes, uncustomarily serious. They brightened, though, at the sight of his sister and the long-time protectress of his manliness weaving together through the lively throng of nobility gathered to greet King Eomer.

"Caelwen!" His rapturous address was conveyed through the effusive salute he bestowed on the back of her slender hand. He was quite evidently delighted. "Have you made it up with Elphir? Are you back to stay?" At the sudden tightening of those pretty lips the youthful light died from his eyes, replaced by a sudden regret for his outspokenness. Caelwen laughed at his sudden discomfort, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

"You've grown so much," she said with a smile. "No, 'Ro, we haven't." His gaze was imploring.

"I wish you would," he muttered, but Lothíriel's gaze spoke volumes to her wayward sibling. He shut his mouth and escorted them punctiliously to his father, who had just entered the room. Her father's presence was a soothing balm to Lothíriel's raw nerves, which felt as thought they had been scraped and plucked as mercilessly as the fowl that would be served for the second course tonight. Imrahil was resplendent in a deep blue, worked similarly with silver thread as that of his daughter's gown. His eyes twinkled as he caught sight of her, a gleam of fatherly pride present in their grey depths.

"Well met, my dear," he murmured softly, as Caelwen tactfully stood to the side, easily capturing a courtier in conversation. He searched his daughter's face, seeming thoughtful. "Are you sure of your decision, Lothíriel?" In his heart he ached for her, his daughter, as he realised that he would miss their deep discussions and their comfortable silences. He would miss her pragmatism and the ability to host the balls and celebrations she had hosted, with a skill inherent of her dear mother. And even more, he hated the shadow of uncertainty in her gaze, knowing that he was the only one to see it in this moment of vulnerability. She squeezed his fingers.

"I am," she assured him. There was a sudden amusement dancing in her eyes, at their situation, at all of this pomp and splendour. His daughter seemed stronger, taller, and with a firmer edge to her voice, she repeated her declaration. "I am, truly, father."

"Good," he said somewhat quickly, as the sounding of Rohan's horn echoed outside. His eyes focussed on the doorway. "I will greet his Majesty. I would like you to stay here, daughter." Lothíriel nodded. It wasn't uncustomary for the prospective bride to be introduced only before the meal was served. Well-known faces surrounded her, and she engaged in conversation with several with the ease gained only by practise, and an awkward adolescence.

Thus it was that Eomer felt a twinge of disappointment when only the Prince and his most trusted advisors came to meet his entourage, rather than his prospective bride. He curbed any comments, and with an easy smile dismissed his horse to the care of a sharp-looking groom. Still, he couldn't resist one last, loving pat to the stallion's strong neck as he was led away.

To Imrahil, this Rohirric King seemed even more massive when he wasn't mounted on the white warhorse. Broad shoulders rippled beneath a tunic which was suited more to a warlord than a courtier, and he had yet to be relieved of his warm cloak by the ever-alert attendants who stood by the entrance. But as they entered, Eomer barely noticed their deep bows, already entranced by the lovely woman whose charming gaze had lifted to meet his just as they were announced. The king's throat was suddenly dry. With glowing locks of a more golden shade than that of his people, the lady was undeniably attractive to him. But there was more... In the line of her face, her speaking eyes, her crimson mouth - she was everything he had ever dreamed of. Imrahil spoke to him. His low murmur was lost as the arch of her voice richly filled the air. Eomer dragged his gaze away.

Suddenly, he was sure that this beauty was the cherished daughter of the prince of Dol Amroth. How could she not be? Her carriage was one of the highest nobility - and why not a princess? Eomer's mouth twitched in an exuberant grin. He was certain that their marriage would not be a failure on his part. He did not notice the rapid flicker of another young woman's eyes to his face, and the faint flush that stained her cheeks as her heart began to beat faster. It was after the initial rush of heat that filled her body that Lothíriel registered the King's inattention to her father's conversation. By now, the court was filing through to the long, lavishly set tables in the dining hall and standing behind their seats, waiting for the royal party to be settled first. There was an abrupt spasm of pain somewhere in her chest as she grasped the regret in his gaze on being introduced to her.

"Your servant, milady," he said courteously, recovering well. There was a brief smile on his lips, but it died quickly. Lothíriel struggled with her feelings, and returned his salutation with a sweeping curtsey.

"All that I have at your service, my lord," she responded formally, realising she meant it. Lothíriel's cheeks felt frozen as Prince Imrahil turned and gestured for him to be seated. A servant quietly pulled out her chair for her, and it was all the young woman could do not to collapse bonelessly into its embrace. Instead she straightened up, her dark, proud head high, and gracefully sat down, arranging her skirts. The silvery clink of crystal hummed through the air as her father brought his lips to his wine, so beginning the feast, as ritual indicated. Lothíriel could feel Caelwen's concerned gaze upon her, and glanced with as much reassurance as she could muster at her friend.

But her heart grew chillingly cold as she saw her eldest brother's face. Thunderous and pinched white with anger, his eyes were flashing fire as they flickered between Caelwen and the King. Lothíriel sighed. Matters had suddenly become far more complicated.

Author's note: Well, what did you think? I really appreciated the reviews I received for the last chapter. Anyone feel like chuffing me to bits yet again?

~ Rue McCann