The evacuations continued. Towards the end of February, the majority of the city lay empty. Hardly anyone was left to hear the whispers of the end of winter. Lothíriel hardly saw her father, brothers, and uncle. The Citadel itself seemed filled with ghosts flitting through the halls. To escape, Lothíriel found refuge in helping the Houses of Healing's preparations or lending a hand to some stressed family.
On the last day of February, Lothíriel mounted the stairs to one of the high towers to escape the cloud of fear that settled in Minas Tirith. Any who refused to evacuate with their respective circles now received the mandatory order and willingly complied. In two more mass departures, the city would be completely empty and eerier than ever. As Lothíriel viewed the city from her vantage point, she heard the echo of a solitary horn. It rang through mountain and vale, deep and distressed. She once heard that horn when Boromir visited Dol Amroth long ago. Then all was silent again.
Fear gripped her heart. Frozen in her place, foreboding thoughts ran through her mind. Lothíriel hurried down the stairs. She first came across Amrothos, who wandered the Citadel.
"Amrothos, do you think that was Boromir's horn?" she queried, heart aflutter for the answer.
Amrothos took his sister's hand into his own and said, "Yes, but hope for the best, sister."
"Uncle treasures him more than anything else," she said softly. "If he should fall, I suspect he would eventually fall as well."
"All this quiet is unsettling," said Amrothos, changing the subject. "We know that these times are not peaceful, yet that is how it is."
"The quiet before the storm," Lothíriel observed. "I am sure every man here is feeling what you feel."
They parted ways when they found themselves in the large courtyard. The following days, Lothíriel spent her time in the Houses of Healing to occupy her listless mind. It worked during the day, but the nights troubled her with strange dreams.
She stood alone, surrounded by misty darkness. Voices spoke around her. She could not recognize the language, but it grated her ear. Suddenly the mist now cleared, only to cover dark objects. Here and there, small fires smoked in the twilight. A stench filled the air, chocking her. Suddenly, a clear horn sounded. Soon horses rushed round her, the riders shouting. Bright swords flashed. Now, a bright light washed over her. When it faded, she soared through the sky as a great eagle. Below her, a host of riders cantered over hills. She flew a bit closer. One rider stood out from the rest, for a white horsetail flowed from his helm.
Lothíriel awoke, heart racing. Tis was only a dream, yet it was too real. The cold moonlight poured through her window. She lit a candle and opened her keepsake box. When she touched the handkerchief, the image of a rider with a white horsetail on his helmet came to mind. Maybe Éomer was whom she saw in her dream. She blushed when she recalled her past encounters.
Eight days into March, a messenger rode into the almost empty city at nightfall. In his hands, he carried a small object, wrapped in a cloth. After delivering the package to Denethor and reporting news from Faramir, he departed.
Two hours before midnight, Lothíriel found Denethor sitting in his seat in the throne room. The pale moon illuminated an ox horn, cleft in two, on his lap. When he looked up, it seemed that many years had passed.
"Uncle…" she began, but could not finish.
Denethor answered her unasked question. "Yes," he said, "my firstborn is fallen. Thirteen days ago. There was none like him, and there never shall a man such as him. A bulwark for Gondor, and now all shall fall."
Lothíriel approached. She said softly, "But is not every man fighting the darkness a bulwark of light? Your son…"
"My son is dead," Denethor interrupted coldly.
"I speak of Faramir. He toils with the same strength as Boromir did."
"Silent!" Denethor bellowed, eyes ablaze. "Faramir is no son of mine," he hissed.
"How can he not be your son when you partook in his conception?" Lothíriel cried. "I know you grieve for Boromir. I see it. That does not mean all hope is lost."
Clenching his teeth, Denethor snarled menacingly, "Get out of here." When she refused to budge, he roared, "Get out!"
Lothíriel drew herself to her full height and declared defiantly, "I shall leave of my own accord, and not from your command. Hear, at least, my parting words: let not your grief overtake your senses." She turned and walked steadily out of the hall.
The next morning at dawn, Lothíriel climbed up to the top of the Citadel's gate. The silent guards ignored her, paying attention to a rider, cloaked in grey, now fast approaching the seventh circle. Before him sat a figure the size of a boy. Then she gazed at the steed they rode on. His coat was as white as snow, and he galloped tirelessly towards the Citadel. Lothíriel almost mistook him for the Little White Horse, for he seemed so alike in appearance and build.
After the rider and his small companion entered the Citadel, Lothíriel headed towards the palace. Desiring to temporarily escape all present troubles, she headed towards the library to lose herself in the past. As she walked, she noticed the shadows of running horses on the marble walls. Glancing upward, Lothíriel perceived a leafy ceiling. Eventually, she came to the door she knew very well. Instead of finding that little sanctuary, Lothíriel found herself standing on a white beach. A bay of the bluest water opened before with a large flat rock in the middle. Gulls soared overhead, calling to one another. After walking a few steps, Lothíriel glanced behind her. A large cliff rose behind her, and there was no door.
Waves swirled round a rock in this magical cove, and the Little White Horse appeared. An ethereal radiance surrounded him. With a silent command, the water between him and Lothíriel parted, forming a dry path. Drawn like a magnet, Lothíriel stepped towards him.
"Surely your name is not 'Little White Horse,'" she breathed as she neared him. "It is a name created by men who do not know who you are."
The unicorn whinnied in agreement. He then approached Lothíriel, who now stood quite still. He bowed his head until his horn touched the girl's head. He then showed her what was closest to his name.
"Calacondo," she whispered. "You are not the light, yet you shine with the light. A representative like the Horses of the Sea, but prince over them."
He nickered and showed a different scenario. Understanding the connotation, Lothíriel mounted. In the blink of an eye, he transported her to another place.
Author's Note: Like? Dislike? Suggestions? Review so that I can know! The Little White Horse will be now be referred as Calacondo, which means bright prince. If you have an elvish name that is along the same lines as Calacondo, please tell me so that I may consider it!
To all who have read the first edition, please review and tell me what you think of this second edition!
Here is a timeline to keep track of the last five chapters!
Timeline: (All entries are about Lothíriel and her life unless otherwise noted.)
2999 – Birth
3009 – Witnesses the Horses of the Sea for the first time, meets the Little White Horse, and is introduced to the magical sanctuary.
3010 – Meets Éomer for the first time.
3011 – Second encounter with Éomer.
3015 – Third encounter with Éomer. Becomes an apprentice in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith.
3017 – (April) Lothíriel concludes her training as a healer and becomes Denethor's "assistant."
3018 – (July) Boromir leaves for Imladris.
3019 – (Early January) the beginning of the evacuation of the civilians in Minas Tirith.
(Mid-February) Imrahil and his sons arrive in Minas Tirith with a host from Dol Amroth.
(February 29) Boromir killed.
(March 8) Denethor receives the hereditary horn, now cleft in two.
(March 9) Mithrandir and Pippin arrive in Minas Tirith. Lothíriel meets Shadowfax and encounters the Little White Horse/Calacondo.