At last! This still counts as coming in August, doesn't it? Please be warned, I really wanted to get this out, so the second half is unbeta'd. I have gone over it twice but am certifiably blind to the typos. Expect an update in the days to come once I have time to have another whack. Thank you so much to IstariWho and emmaG who favourited and BlackLady5 and beth9020 who followed recently.
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Sometimes punctuality brings rewards.
This was the conclusion of a certain Princess of Dol Amroth as she paused on the threshold of her brother's elegant, east-facing breakfast room.
The morning sun had reached just the perfect angle. It streamed through arched panes of cut and coloured glass, set brilliant diamonds of blue and green to dance upon the wall; hazy and just slightly indistinct like the canvases her little sister had loved to paint.
Ivriniel smiled at the ship and swan and the bright cerulean of Cobas' shallow shore. The theme, of course, was not unusual. Dol Amroth's sigil adorned many houses in their demesne, but this particular ship was unique. High prowed and sleek, a trader for another more peaceful time, it was the Alphros, her grandfather's fabled ship—its colours still glorious, bright and vibrant forty years after his passing; after her grandmother Fana had convinced Maenas, that most famous of Elven artists, to come south and create windows that so captivated the White City's court.
She walked into the sunlit space, rested a hand on a pale carved chair and looked about. Blue and green and sun. So little and yet so much had changed. The young woman of thirty springs who first saw the new-made work had been already then devoted to her craft; had turned aside all offers for her hand. At first this choice had pained her parents-the severity of their petite and fiercely proud eldest's path was unusual. It was not common for a princess to hold herself apart—to spurn a life of children and companionship-but then, in time, they understood.
Sometimes a heart, once wounded, can only scar.
Ivriniel worked hard to hide the signs. She delighted quietly in her work. Doted on (and bossed) her siblings' children. Watched for the myriad small joys of life. There were always spring's new buds, a nephew's hug and the beauty of a room. Around her carefully constructed, ordered world-the ward, its stillroom, the ever growing healing herbs- the years passed, fell like faded blossoms as Arda began to darken.
In time the once bustling docks at Amroth's hill saw little of his kinfolk, of Lórien or the Greenwood; the Elder race retreated as a shadow grew, and Ivriniel, hair greying swiftly until it took on the hue of her healer's head-rail, mourned the change. As she watched her sister fade and her fiercely honourable little brother grow into his strength without his beloved wife quiet tears of helplessness were shed. In private. Where none could see them water a growing theory of which her father would disapprove…
Life was spent all too easily. The Edain were doomed.
If Minas Tirith's Master Healer understood his assistant to harbor this gravest heresy it did not show. The quite un-Dol Amroth sentiment paradoxically made Ivriniel only fight the harder. Every wound and mangled limb was a battle to be won. Each man who rose to fight another day was a minor victory. Her doubt worked in harness to his hope… slowly, inexorably turning a tide of human misery that she, pessimist at heart, never thought to crest.
It felt oddly unmooring on this unlooked for morning to be proven wrong…
Ridiculous woman.. there is too much to be done to drift.
With a sigh, Ivriniel shook off her melancholy and sat down at the damask covered table. The basic spread arrayed -butter and sweet rolls and cheese-was simple but nourishing. Enough to slake a stomach already growling after an early visit to the ward. She had wanted to reassure herself on their latest patient and now needed fortifying.
Neat fingers reached out to begin with the elegant enamelled Kahva pot just as quick light steps outside the door announced her young niece was finally up.
"Good morning Aunt Rini!"
Lothíriel's sunny face breezed into the room. Ivriniel tilted her cheek to receive the customary welcome kiss "Good morning my dear. Did you sleep well?"
"I did…" The girl smiled wanly, pulling out a chair and sinking gratefully into a faded velvet seat. "Like a log. I hardly moved at all."
Her aunt could well credit it. A telltale crease on Lothíriel's left cheek bore witness to this fact, while below dark and heavy lashes there were also dark but fainter bags. Obviously her niece's deep discussion with Rohan's Marshal had lasted long into the night.
Ivriniel quickly poured a second softly steaming cup. "You could rest in the afternoon,"
Lothíriel looked over the hard gold cheese and plate of precious early pears from their little greenhouse. Her dark head shook. "I am not tired."
Ah, the resilience and energy of youth. Ivriniel doubted the statement but not the sentiment that lay behind. The cock had just crowed when Ivriniel heard Elfhelm's polite good-morn at the townhouse's covered door. Who of the young ones would sleep when the world was made new again? Certainly not her brother's children. Or her sister's son for that matter and that brought to mind the intriguing fact that Faramir had not made it back to the house.
She had checked. The rooms customarily set aside for the Steward's sons were untouched.
"Did you see your cousin last night at all?"
Lothíriel paused in the midst of her tidy bite of fruit and frowned thoughtfully. "No," she said at last. "Not hide nor hair. Nor of Eowyn. The Marshal remarked upon it. He came to bring her down to join the Riders on the flats."
And did not find her? So Faramir and Eowyn had vanished. Ivriniel hid a small, pleased smile. From behind her stern grey gaze, she had watched the pair, seemingly joined at the hip; thriving and improving swiftly despite the shadow of the Black Breath. Her nephew was a grown and thoughtful man: the Lady of Rohan's virtue was entirely safe in his company but she, an ardent student of horticulture, knew full well how swiftly dormant seeds ripened in parched and fallow earth.
Especially when they were offered the water of attention.
"I expect they were intelligent and turned in to their beds before the Houses barred the gate."
"This time." Lothíriel shared a wry smile with her aunt, not the only one to have noticed the Steward's unorthodox resting place. She brushed a few crumbs from her fingers and held out her cup to be refilled again "Is there any news from Father?"
"Not yet. Kale was so anxious to hear himself he has already left to ask at the Citadel."
"Oh…"
Lothíriel's narrow shoulders sagged a little but Ivriniel was not fooled. Her neice was far more concerned than she let on. The perennial target of three elder brothers' teasing, Lothíriel was quite adept at hiding the strong emotions of a great and courageous heart.
To wait for word from far-flung battle, this was a new and unpleasant experience.
"Do not fret. Ill news flies faster than the lords of air who graced us yesternoon. There will be word. And they are well."
This last was said with an air of such finality it made Lothíriel tilt her head, raise one brow in question. Ivriniel- surprised and oddly pleased,— snorted at the thought. She, the practical mind of the family, had had no vision; had never been the dreamer her younger siblings were. "No my dear, Lórien has not seen fit to visit me. I am simply quite certain of your father's skill and your brothers' strength and steadiness."
"Well Elphir's anyway. It is likely a good thing Erchirion was left behind… "
"Lothíriel! That is not quite fair!" Ivriniel exclaimed, but then wondered at her own protest. Imrahil's youngest boys had earned, deservedly, something of a reputation for pranks and jests. Amrothos, in particular, from a tender age had found it hard to keep still. His restless energy often found itself immersed in foolery. Her brother had worked hard to instill focus in the boy. It worked, most of the time, and danger could focus the mind like nothing else. "Someone has to oversee the fleet and Amrothos is the better rider."
"And father is a master strategist." Lothíriel giggled. "It is quite wonderfully convenient they have to be separated. I expect they'd have not reached their destination else."
"Thiri!"
Ivriniel's tone was chiding but she could not help returning the girl's teasing smile. It did feel good to turn ones nerves to humour. Years of waiting by the fire had taught her that news came swiftly or not at all; yet that day, most unlike herself, she felt entirely certain of a happy outcome. All that was needed to make the victory complete was to hear that their family was unscathed.
They finished their quiet meal, speaking mostly of the Houses' rounds before a discrete cough sounded from outside the door.
"Princess?"
Kale, Imrahil's young second Seneschal stood, blinking in the room's brighter light, a most intriguingly hopeful look upon his face. He was new to his position, and had helpfully not yet acquired a long tenured servant's mask of unobtrusiveness. It seemed there was happy news.
"Come, " she gestured and he obligingly shut the half open door, strode into the room with a seaman's rolling gait, carefully balancing a small silver tray in his one hand. A Corsair's blade had taken his left arm off just above the elbow.
It still irked her that she could not have saved the upper half.
Kale bowed admirably correctly and offered the tray across. "Pardon me my Lady, Princess Lothíriel. You have a note from Lord Faramir, and letters from the field with Lord Hurin compliments."
Letters? From the north? So soon? The messenger would have had to have taken oars down Anduin and near ruined a horse to get so far. Her fine grey brows shot up silently as she plucked the first two folded parchments off the tray. One bore the scrawling loops of her brother's hand but the second, addressed to Lothíriel, was in a unfamiliar blocky style.
She passed it across, forced herself to put Imrahil's aside in favour of reading her nephew's note. "Faramir sends his apologizes, " she announced aloud. "He will meet Lord Hurin and the Marshal after noon and before that Bergil will know how to find him. He promises he will not miss us for dinner this eve."
"Oh.. that is nice.." Lothíriel replied absently. Her attention entirely taken by the parchment in her lap.
Ivriniel paused and waited for further comment, studiously finished the last sip of her kahva but nothing was volunteered. How very odd. A moment before the girl had been desperate for a word.
Ignoring the lapse, she broke the blue swan seal. "This is from your father!" she announced, scanning the pages without looking up. "All are safe. He has hardly a scratch. Elphir is a little bruised but only lightly battered. Amrothos is insufferably proud of a broken wrist."
Lothíriel's grey eyes snapped up. "He is hurt?!"
"Yes. A mace. It broke his shield."
Thankfully, this was not the wrist the boy had broken twice before. For a moment she silently pitied those tasked with dosing him, by far, her most reluctant patient.
"The King is unharmed but the Perian Pippin is hurt, " she went on, "he will mend quite soon, but the ones, Frodo and Samwise," the unfamiliar names rolled around her tongue, "who journeyed to Mount Doom will need many weeks to heal. They will stay at Cormallen field until then."
There was no reply, just a faint sound of parchment rustling. Ivriniel coughed and Lothíriel looked up, flushing faintly from throat to cheeks.
"Aunt Rini, will there be healers going to Cormallen? I could go and help with 'Rothos. With your permission of course," she added. "And Master Hallas'. I do not wish him to think me ungrateful for his support."
Ivriniel sat back, eying her niece, skeptically. Nursing 'Rothos? Whatever fancy had got into the young woman's pretty head?
While she had no doubt of Lothíriel's genuine desire to be of help, this was her next eldest brother.
The one who prided himself on being her chief irritant…
"He will be surly."
Lothíriel replied quite steadily. "And I shall be polite and firm and not let him get away with anything."
"As well you should." Ivriniel pursed her lips and frowned, thoughtfully. If the girl was keen to go what harm would it do? "In that case you need not ask for my permission, my dear. I am not babysitting you, merely chaperoning you at your chosen post. I will ask Warden Hallas to release you if that is your wish. The need here is no longer so very great but it would be prudent to ask your father first."
Lothíriel nodded eagerly. "And if he agrees?"
"Then you may go."
That seemed to satisfy Lothíriel for she picked up her pear and finished it quickly in a larger bite. "Do you know, Aunt Rini, how soon will be the service of Thanksgiving?"
Faramir had said something of this the day before. A gathering in Merethrond to give thanks for their salvation. It would be his first official act as Steward.
"A few days from now I should assume. The gates are still destroyed. All hands are on the deck working to shore them up."
Excitement lit a pair of dove grey eyes. "If there is a service.. can there be a ball? As Uncle used to hold?"
Ivriniel frowned, warningly. "The City is evacuated." It seemed hardly the time to think of grand festivities when there was a King to be welcomed back. Any many dead to be honoured. But still Lothíriel pressed her case.
"There are folk amongst the Riders and the Guard who play. And people will start to trickle back…"
That last point was certainly quite true. Ivriniel shrugged lightly. "I will let you ask your cousin that, I should think he has enough to do without organizing an entirely superfluous party," she added, not unkindly. "Either way, there will be a need for more supplies. I must ask Faramir to send a note to Erchirion. There will be no spring planting on the Pelennor whilst at home we have ample in the winter stores. "Chirion should prepare send the fleet to meet barges at the river's mouth."
"Lothíriel..?" she asked, when there was no reply. Parchment rustled suspiciously again below the table top.
"What? Oh. Yes…of course. 'Chiron will be happy to help…"
"What does your brother say? I presume 'Rothos is ordered to rest and does write himself?"
"What?" Lothíriel's answer was not quite a squeak. She flushed again. "'Rothos? Um no.."
Not a letter from Amrothos? How odd that Lothíriel did not share her news, but Ivriniel would not pry. Time was on her side. Her brother's children were much like him. Whatever was on his mind eventually came out.
"Is there a reply my Lady?" The manservant had begun to clear the dishes from the sideboard, balancing a small tower of plates and porcelain cups upon the now empty tray.
"No thank you Kale, there no need."
He inclined his head politely, "And if there are enquiries?"
"I will go back to the wards.. I want to watch Ranulf myself; the lad took an Orc's spear in Anorien. Varan's new compound has worked so far."
And she hoped it would continue to do well. Laying her napkin beside her place she rose, just as the tower bell rang out three times.
Kale bowed low beside his younger charge. "Princess Lothíriel?"
"Mhm…"
"My Lady?"
Lothíriel looked up, surprised, as if she had not heard Kale's soft words at all. Two spots of colour were still high upon her cheek.
"Princess, pardon my interruption, But did you not say you were to meet Lady Éowyn before the mid-morning bell."
"Oh blast. I quite forgot." She began to rise, hastily folding the letter and shoving a last morsel of roll into her mouth. "My apologies Aunt Rini. I must go.. This was planned days ago, before the victory."
Ivriniel tried not to bristle at the profanity, and waved toward the door. "Off you go, Do not keep her waiting any more."
Lothíriel breezed out, as Ivriniel shook her head, resignedly. That child's mouth. It came of traipsing around after her elder brothers and their friends, let to run wild too young; truly a child of Leylin for whom promptness never got in the way of a good conversation. Her sociable and energetic sister-in-law, the bright and endlessly curious center of Dol Amroth's court, had passed on those talents to her only daughter
Normally, Lothíriel was a very good conversationalist. Normally.
Ivriniel bent to pick up her headrail from the closest chair and began to round the large table's corner. It was time to get back to the wards and the morning was slipping past, but as she moved a flash of white against the deep indigo of the carpet caught her eye.
It was the letter. Dropped by Lothíriel in her haste to leave. Fallen face down. And open.
Ivriniel lifted the parchment up and smiled to herself. Lothíriel was pining. That much was clear, and it certainly was not a man about the wards. She, as chaperone, had watched her niece like a hawk. It must be the young soldier who penned the letter. Ivriniel glanced down, not really reading but neither much bothered if she caught a stray word or two.
Below the first sentence of greeting the letter held but a few spare lines. Written in the blocky, tight tengwar of one who has had little practice.
"My lady I find myself without a handkerchief. Is there possibility it could be returned in person?
-Eomer-King"
Well, well.
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.~~~000~~~
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"Are you tired Éowyn? I am afraid there are no horses for a carriage and I suspect Varan would not want to risk your arm should you fell from a startled horse."
The White Lady of Rohan paused as she wrestled with her shoes, looked up and regarded her companion in something akin to shock.
Fall from a walking horse?! Impossible. No Rider or Shieldmaiden could conceive of such a thing!
Slowly and deliberately Éowyn turned and set her shoulders back, raised her chin, prepared to take umbrage at the slight.
The young Princess of Dol Amroth stood by her open bedroom door, biting her lip uncertainly, pretty grey eyes anxious and darkly smudged by tiredness. One long hand rested against the jamb and the other nervously smoothed fine flyaway strands of dark hair that had been disturbed by her hasty and unexpected run up the Sixth Circle's stairs.
Lothíriel looked flushed and flustered. She had arrived near a half candlemark late for their rendezvous while Éowyn, unexpectedly, was still getting dressed. A woefully tardy Kira hovered just behind, hands still fumbling with the undone laces at her back.
"My lady, please."
Eowyn let out a breath, forced herself to still as a barely-concealed impatience furrowed on her brow. She was letting her temper get the better of her and well knew whyfor.
Nothing about the day had gone as planned. She had slept too late, rushed her breakfast and ablutions, waited ages for some help, unable to lace her bodice with her splinted arm. It was frustrating. And aggravating. Especially so as she was long used to her independence; had run the household at Meduseld and cared for her ailing Uncle since was but a stripling.
To have to wait to be ready for the daily was infuriating-but was also not the young maidservant's fault. She alone had put herself in harm's way and gained a wound.
And without Kira Éowyn would have been meeting Lothíriel in her shift.
Pardon," she replied, abashed that she nearly been so rude. With an effort Éowyn she tamped down her emotions and counted slowly in her head. Ān, Tweġen, Þrēo. It was unfair to be upset. Lothíriel most likely thought she was being considerate and Kira, of course, deserved to celebrate the victory just as much as she.
Half the City was surely late that morn.
At her back, nimble fingers tied off the last and lowest lace before Kira quickly bent, took up one of the slippers that had dried in an awkward shape and held the heel out wide.
The girl's dark eyes looked up imploringly. "Let me help my lady."
Éowyn sighed and did her best to accept the offer with easy grace. Was that not the point of their morning's errand-to find clothing she could manage by herself? Béma make it so. If Amerith owned as many garments as were reputed there should be something she could use.
She wiggled her toes in the stiffened doeskin slipper as Kira slowly straightened up. "There. Now you are almost ready."
"Thank you, Kira." Éowyn eyed the girl's decidedly pale complexion and reminded herself to smile. Good manners can be heard by the Lord of Air himself, grandmother Morwen always said, and it was clear that Kira was suffering.
Anborn had been pouring entire goblets full of a 'special' Dol Amorth wine. Thank the Valar she had tried only one. Her head was only very slightly throbbing.
Eowyn took up the blue mantle that the young woman offered in case of stiffer wind and glanced back to the open door. "Thank you also Lothíriel but I am happy to walk. I slept quite well."
She had in fact. For all the lateness of the evening, Éowyn had awoken feeling light and rested, almost buoyant before the daily frustration of getting dressed and so she set on a more placid face, followed Lothíriel out of the Houses into the City.
The Duchess of Lossarnach's townhouse stood on the sunny southern side of the next lower circle, a location that was convenient and expedient: there was only one gate to pass and no need to traverse the tunnel of the Spire. The two women made their way along the unusually empty street to the high stone tower at the top of the Sixth Circle's long stair. At the guard post they paused. Two soldiers in the livery of the Tower stood with eyes cast resolutely east and hands clenched on spears.
They saluted smartly but not perhaps quite as swiftly as the days before.
"Good morning, Jorn. I trust I need not give you the password yet again?"
The taller of the two saluted and replied to Lothíriel's sunny smile. "Of course not Princess. And good morning to you, my Lady. "
"Good morning." Éowyn politely inclined her head. The man's eyes were red-rimmed and day's growth of short black stubble covered his square chin. She was amused. Obviously Jorn had eschewed the Gondorian's love for shaving for timeliness at his post.
The shorter guard looked up and raised his mailed left fist, making a turning motion to the gate warden high above. There came a heavy clanking as the wood and iron portcullis slowly raised, and Eowyn, noting this second man also looked a little peaked, wondered if what Anborn had said the night before was true. Did Gondorians actually eat raw eel to cure a hangover? It sounded horrible. Especially on an already queasy stomach.
Lothíriel answered her careful whisper. "It is absolutely true. I have seen Elphir and Erchirion downing an entire plate. And also warm milk with soot. I should imagine it tastes quite vile."
Éowyn grimaced and shook her head. Soot! No man of the Riddermark would bother with such a thing.
The only solution was obviously to start the day with ale again.
The rattle of the heavy chains soon ceased and Jorn gestured down the slope. "Go on Princess and good day to you both."
"Fair winds to you," Lothíriel replied and they began their long journey down.
At this time of the morning the gate tower above set part of the steps in shade, so they began with care. The steps were steep, their treads worn smooth as river stones by the feet of countless men. Eowyn held tightly to the right-hand rail for though she had a good head for heights, and loved to climb on the mountain slopes about Edoras, she was determined not to set her healing forearm back. It would not do to slip.
Once out of the shadow, Lothíriel stopped abruptly, peering out over the tiers of the city to the land beyond. Across the sparkling blue ribbon of Anduin the low brooding cloud that had hung perpetually on Ephel Duath's higher slopes was gone. Her ebony peaks stood fang-like and oddly exposed; almost benign without their wreath of red-black menace. It was a marvel. The rain that had washed the City anew before the dawn had dusted the peaks with a skiff of snow and left the jagged clefts sparkling in the sun.
"It is like another world." Lothíriel exclaimed in wonder.
Éowyn halted on the stair above and drew in a breath of the fresh westering breeze. With the tang of snow and dusty pine she thought she caught the scent of athelas. Green and soothing. Entirely free of the choking fume of the weeks before. She sighed, happily. "It does. Everything seems new and wholesome."
Lothíriel nodded. "And yet somehow it all feels unreal. The City is still on a defensive footing. Just days ago we were certain of disaster. How can we be truly celebrating?"
She lifted the hem of her skirt a little higher and took a step, ready to start down again. Éowyn, following with one eye on the stair and another on the view, found she did not disagree. The odds had been impossible. To snatch victory when so overmatched was glorious. Songs would be sung and many tales written of these days. It was far more than they had hoped and all the more blessed for it.
"Thank Béma," she murmured.
Lothíriel looked back and smiled. "And hobbits."
"Especially Meriadoc and his kin." Éowyn smiled. It was an entirely strange thing to be grateful to a folk she had not known existed, much less held a bravery unsurpassed by many men.
Truly the world was wider than she knew.
They made their slow way down. It was the longest staircase Éowyn had ever walked, steeper but more direct than the City's long winding thoroughfare. It should be faster but with each circle wall ten times the height of a man and horse, it took many minutes of careful concentration to descend.
Lothíriel, more used to the steepness of the stones, went more quickly down.
When Eowyn next came abreast she smiled sidelong. "We missed you and Fara at the townhouse?"
Éowyn blinked, surprised. Fara. It sounded childish but somehow also oddly intimate. As if she was part of the family now. A sudden blush crept up her cheeks. "Fara? That is the second time I have heard you use that name. Do you always call your cousin so?"
Lothíriel nodded. ""Yes. That has been his name since he lived with us for most of one whole year." She grinned. "Amrothos was only five and far too impatient to bother with saying an entire name. Did you and Fara have a lovely evening? "
The moment stretched. Eowyn did not immediately reply and Lothíriel regarded her quizzically, obviously waiting for a response. Éowyn's instinct, strangely untroubled by an admittedly precipitous decision, was to trust Lothíriel, to confide the exciting news (the younger woman was his family after all) but therein lay the problem: would it be proper for her to speak of what had passed between them? If Hilde had been standing before her Eowyn would not have hesitated, but this was Gondor. Custom and propriety were laced through every part of life so hard it could not be more tangled than the traces of a carriage-team.
She ran her hand nervously up and down her faintly aching arm, wondering What to say. Faramir would hardly have had the chance to tell his Aunt and cousin yet: the news really should come from him and, moreover, in the clear light of day the events of the night before did not seem quite real. The revelry, the journey home, but most of all the kiss, felt like some fevered dream; as if she and Faramir had been enspelled by the excitement of the night. Would he still feel the same? It seemed likely so, for that morning he had left a note underneath her door asking to take the evening meal together. Her heart thudded quickly in her chest. For so long she had given no thought to her own future, had assumed she would remain a maid, caring for her uncle and tied to his household, that to have a man pay suit was startling. And thrilling.
She would look forward to the evening bell. Eagerly.
"We did, thank you, "Éowyn answered finally, doing her best to ignore her friend's curious small smile. "The Ranger barracks were very welcoming. We danced, " she added, offering up a crumb of detail.
Lothíriel's grey eyes held her gaze but she said nothing, merely nodding before turning aside to watch a laden porter pass. She looked amused. As if she knew more lay behind the spareness of the words. "Well, I am glad. That is lovely. And you may get a chance for more. I do hope that there will be dance after the service of thanksgiving. It is good timing that we visit Amerith today for I brought only a few extra things."
Éowyn picked up a fold of her slightly too-short linen underdress. It, like the brown bodice she could not lace, were on loan from the slighter shorter Princess. A better fit would be most welcome. She would be representing her brother-King after all. "I have been very grateful for your generosity Lothíriel, as I hope to be to the Duchess after this morning's visit."
"Oh I am certain of it. Amerith's closet is famously quite large, you are bound to find pieces that will work. And for the service. I have nothing extra that is suitable for a such a grand event."
Éowyn frowned. Grand event? She had only thought of the service in the hall. Amerith had promised several dresses in an unusual Elven style: with cotes that buttoned in the front. She wondered if they would be suitable for evening.
"Grand? How grand?"
Lothíriel eyes lit with excitement. "Wonderfully. It used to be that there was always a ball after a victory. Food and wine and the most marvelous music. Pennants everywhere. I remember beautiful ones when I was little, when Uncle was not so severe. He would always save a dance for me and gave me my first circlet."
Eowyn blinked, struggling to merge the image of Lothíriel's generous uncle with the forbidding Steward of Gondor. A man whose name was only whispered in the Houses and had reputedly dispensed praise for his son by the thimbleful. It defied belief.
"I never met Lord Denethor," she noted carefully, but Lothíriel as always was too sharp- she caught the slight space of hesitation.
Fine fingers twisted in her skirt as a glimmer of tears shone on her raven lashes. Éowyn began to apologize. "I am sorry, I did not mean…" but the younger woman sadly shook her head.
"Please. Forgive me," murmured Lothíriel. "I feel oddly now as if a dam has let go. I should be happy, I am happy, but Uncle Denethor is gone and he was good to me. I know he was stern and hard, not always good to Faramir, but to me that came not from a streak of cruelty, but from too deep a hurt. My cousin reminded him too much of what he had lost."
On impulse Éowyn reached out and clasped Lothíriel's hand in sympathy. She had caught the pitying glances that followed the young Captain's back; the whispered words that the Steward did not value his second son. In his place she would find it hard to take.
"It says much about how he loved his wife. My Uncle lost his Elfhild at my cousin Theodred's birth but his reaction was the opposite. He cherished the son he had for it was all he had of her."
Lothíriel's mouth twisted sadly. "For Uncle Denethor that was Boromir. His eldest. Captain-General and the bravest man in Gondor. He did love both his sons, he did, but he oft showed it in other ways." She wiped away a tear that had silently tracked down her pale cheek. "I feel so sorry for Faramir. Boromir was always his closest friend. I suppose Amerith is that now that he is gone."
Amerith? The woman that he had once loved? Or thought he did...
Éowyn's eyebrows shot straight up. She did not deign to comment, merely bent and hugged Lothíriel a little shyly. Whatever Faramir had once imagined there was no mistaking the ardor of last night's kiss upon her wrist. The memory of a soft press of warm lips against her skin again made her shiver, made her limbs feel alight again. Evening felt too long away. As if the hourglass was stuck with honey.
The princess smiled and sniffed. "I am sorry. This is supposed to be a happy morning."
"It is. That we remember with sadness does not make it not so."
They started down again and at last reached the bottom of the stair. For the first time since she had awakened in Minas Tirith Éowyn saw with her own eyes the heart of the White City's faded grandeur—the graceful townhouses that crowded the Sixth Circle like forgotten debutants. High and ornate, each unique and elegantly adorned, they were also oddly quiet; most empty on order of the Steward. Here and there, a crumbling swirl of plaster arabesque made her wonder if some had been abandoned well before the fight.
Lothíriel stopped in front of a door with an awning of green and gold and rapped the rose-shaped door knocker. An elderly man with quite startling white brows opened the door. He was clad in a neatly cut uniform of darker green and black and boots polished so highly that Éowyn doubted he had ever ventured out into the City's dusty streets.
"Welcome Princess, Lady Éowyn. Her ladyship has been expecting you."
Lothíriel acknowledged the greeting with a nod and wry quirk of her lips. "And waiting patiently, no doubt. Thank you Willen. I apologize that we are late."
"No trouble at all, my lady."
Willen bowed smoothly back and politely gestured for Éowyn to enter first. From the old, pale scar that curved across the man's wrinkled cheek to the corner of his eye, she assumed he was a veteran of Gondor's wars. Perhaps one of Thorongil's fabled raids for his hair was now snow white.
She stepped across the threshold. The man closed the heavy door behind Lothíriel before pointing along a hushed and oddly expectant hall. "This way. The duchess awaits you in the day salon"
This was Éowyn's first look inside a Minas Tirith home and she found it oddly reassuring. Instead of severe stone walls and chilly formality, the house was warm and elegant, even opulent, with rich redwood paneling and thick silk draperies, entire cases full of gilded, painted pottery. It felt a bit like a set from one of the travelling puppet shows- everything to make a point or impression. Again and again the sigil of a ship and sword appeared. From her geography lessons with Theodred she knew it must be for Lebinnin: the duchess's dead husband's fief that lay at the mouth of Anduin. No wonder the house was grand. Lebinnin held, after Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, the richest lands of Gondor.
She followed Lothíriel up a curving flight of white stone steps to the second floor, along a corridor only a little less ornate than the one below and into an antechamber. It was bright and light, with tall sashed windows that looked out over the ruined fields to the port of Harlond where a fleet of black and bleached cotton sails rippled in the wind. Two dark mahogany doors gave onto adjacent rooms: one shut and the other just ajar.
A white stone mantel graced the large fireplace and to one side there stood a heavy carved wooden desk piled high with books.
It was elegant and imposing but not half as imposing as the woman who sat on a low velvet settee in the center of the room.
"Ah there you are."
Amerith, straight-backed and poised, hands clasped lightly in her lap, was so beautifully turned out that Éowyn could not help but stare. This was the duchess's morning dress?!
Her long organdy dress fell in a sweep of gauzy lavender so smooth it could have been poured from a bottle of coloured ink. The unusual long fitted sleeves were capped by small snowy folds that hugged her shoulders and her long auburn hair was bound up halfway in braids and small enameled clasps of freesia and lilac. They looked real and delicate that Éowyn could almost imagine they would have scent.
It was exquisitely lovely and far fancier than anything Éowyn had ever owned.
"The Princess and Lady Éowyn," Willen intoned.
Amerith arose. "Thank you Willen. Welcome, welcome, " she said, smiling and stretching out her hands to greet both her guests. Her nails were very small and round, as polished as her style and quite different from Éowyn's own. The woman had obviously never held a sword. She clasped a white, soft hand and resisted the urge to hide her calluses.
"What a treat this is," Amerith remarked, sitting back down and motioning toward a pair of waiting carven chairs. "Please sit and take refreshment if you wish. I am afraid we are making do with tea, there is no chocolate to be had. You must excuse the informality. I have kept only the barest staff. I am doing for myself."
"Thank you Amerith, this is lovely," Lothíriel replied smoothly once they were settled down.
Éowyn lowered herself onto a rose damask cover chair and mutely nodded her agreement. She accepted a delicate white cup filled with a fragrant, pink spiced tea and a freshly made almond cake. She took a bite. It was warm and smelled of orange. Making do in Minas Tirith appeared to have a different definition here.
For several minutes the group spoke easily of many things: the progress of the Houses' patients, the brightened skies, the celebration the night before; but before long, with the pleasantries dispensed, Amerith arose in a swish of lilac perfume and gestured to the part open door.
"Shall we see what we can find?"
"You are very kind," Éowyn murmured.
Amerith scooped up her tea cup and smiled. "It is my pleasure. Managing each day must be a bore and you can hardly be expected to still wear the Houses' garb. It is practical but hardly comfortable. And hardly suitable now that you can go farther about the City."
Éowyn and Lothíriel set aside their now empty cups and followed the older woman to the right hand, smaller door. Amerith pushed it wide. Inside was a smaller side room, about as long as the salon, but narrower across and with the same wide, light-giving windows. It was filled to bursting. Dressers and shelves in the same red wood as the houses' paneling were mounted against the walls. An entire precious full length mirror stood by the window. Cupboard after cupboard was open, dresses and robes in every colour of the rainbow spilling out.
Éowyn just barely hid the shock on her face. It was outrageous. Organized as precisely as any armory and absolutely unnecessary. How could any one person need so much?
Hallway along one long wall Amerith paused, reached into a heavy wardrobe and took out a wine-coloured gown. She held it up against her own shoulders, green eyes looking up and down Éowyn apprisingly and back to the length of the dress. "This closes in the front."
It did but it also had the most odd assortment of ruffles in the back. Utterly impractical if one were to ride.
Before Éowyn could reply Amerith frowned thoughtfully, held the piece out below and looked her up and down again. She stood stock still, flushed and embarrassed, feeling suddenly like a filly at spring action sized up for her conformation.
Ridiculous. There was no reason to feel acutely aware of her own far simpler borrowed dress. The fancy furbelows were hideous.
She tossed her unbound hair proudly back across her shoulder.
Amerith, focused on the cloth, did not appear to notice. "Hmmm, a bit too severe a tone, although the length is nearly right." She put the garment back.
Time and again there was a rustle of fine silk as the duchess pulled gowns out, considered their cut and colour before putting them back again. Lothíriel examined each selection critically. There were opinions expressed about the tightness of the sleeves, the height of the decolletage and the ease of the fastenings. Several moments considered work saw three in paler tones hung on a set of waiting hooks.
"These should be far simpler to manage, " Amerith smoothed the dresses' drape and showed off the front fastenings. All three had braided loops and curious three-sided toggles set on the front of light overcoats made of fine-spun cotton.
Éowyn reached and found she could undo them easily with one hand: the oddly shaped fastenings slipped into the loop with hardly any effort.
"Why these are much much easier! What design is this?"
Amerith explained. "They are in the style of ancient Edhelond. Made for Lady Gelin's summer hunting party."
Clothes made just for a single party? To wear only once? Éowyn could not conceive of such extravagance. Lothíriel's amused observation hid her sudden cough. "And I thought Father has a lot of robes!"
A beringed hand was waved dismissively. "A journeyman, I assure you. Although I do allow that Dol Amroth's artistic streak comes out admirably in his choices."
Éowyn's stared in astonishment. The woman saw it as a compliment!? A trait of which to be proud? She shook her head. How would she never understand the Gondorim? To a woman of the Riddermark gluttony in any form, food, gold or frippery, was a mark of shame.
Fengel's reign of cruel excess lingered long in memory.
She glanced across but Lothíriel, busy with placing the rejects carefully back, looked quite unperturbed. "Father is a bit of a peacock. He always says that the clothes make the man, that a good turnout shows discipline and pride." She grinned. "His sense of style is almost as legendary as cousin Faramir's total lack. He wears black every chance he gets-never bothers with what he wears."
Éowyn looked from one noblewoman to another, lips flattened in a frown. Was Faramir poorly dressed? In the Houses of Healing she had only ever seen him clad in the simple linen tunics and breeches that they supplied; neat as one could expect when cooped up and recuperating. His arm was in a sling—or had been—and he could not be expected to handle elaborate fastenings. If he eshewed fancy dress at other times, to her it made a certain sense. He was a soldier. One used to the wilds where survival could be thread thin and thus appreciated the practical, the essential, all the more.
It was almost Rohirric in a way.
She was about to object when Amerith replied. "Ah but there I disagree, Lothíriel. It is not that he has no sense of style. He has. It is simply that oftentimes he has other issues top of mind."
"Like books," Lothíriel grinned, holding up a hanger as Amerith draped a sheath of cloth about the chosen robes. "He does look very well in his dress uniform. Or at the balls when he picks tunics other than plain black."
Amerith inclined her head and placed her hand upon her chest. "Thank you my dear. Sometimes I do have influence."
Whatever did she mean? The duchess could hardly be there to pick clothes from his closet? Éowyn eyed her small, bemused smile and wondered what lay behind the words. It felt as if there was another meaning hidden amongst the syllables, tucked just out of reach where she could not see.
And she was far from certain she wished to dig.
"Do you wish to try these on, Éowyn, or will you take them as they are?" Amerith's question was slightly muffled. She had turned her back, was looking through a section of bright designs, heavy with silk and decoration.
"As they are, thank you."
"As you wish. And do you need something also for the service?" Her hand stopped on a cascade of embroidered cream and white. It was square necked, loose-sleeved but not so loose that they would catch on every little thing. Fitted at the waist with a silver belt of linked lily petals.
Eowyn could not help but sigh.
"Oh it is beautiful!" Lothíriel exclaimed.
Amerith looked over and smiled, pulling the hanger of the rod and twisting it for her to see the back. "Do you like it? It is from last year's shorter style but still suitably elegant for the sister of a king. White, as I understand is correct. You need not use a hand to hold your skirts and the sleeves will easily go over your splinted arm."
They would. The sheer sleeves were loose and slashed below the elbow, made of a silky fine voile far finer than any veil that Éowyn had seen. She touched the end. It felt like gossamer. "I like it very much," she nodded quickly. Éomer would tease her for her vanity, but in that moment she did not care. She had never wanted to wearing something more.
"Excellent. Then you must take it. You will still need help to dress but it will suit you very well I think. All eyes will be upon the Hero of the Pelennor. You must look your best." Amerith laid the gown across a padded chair before turning to looked over a section of watery blue. Dol Amroth blue, as Éowyn was coming to understand.
"Lothíriel, do you have a gown to wear?"
The young princess politely inclined her head. "Thank you, Amerith but I do. I brought one good gown. After service I hope to go to Cormallen to see my brothers. There will be little need for much formal there."
Her eyebrow raised up in surprise. "Have you heard from your father?"
"This morning. All is well. Or as well as can be. My youngest brother has been wounded but it is not serious. Father and Elphir are unhurt. I hope to join them if the Warden gives me leave."
"Praise Este. It has been good news for the Captain of my guard reports my men have had little casualty." Amerith glanced quickly to Éowyn. "And you, my dear? Have you had word from your brother?"
"Yes, I did. A letter just this morning. He is unhurt."
"I am relieved to hear it. Will you also go?"
Éowyn hesitated. Éomer had asked for her to come but she was still torn. To be with him and the Riders of his eored would be a joy but to leave right then—that felt not right. Varan would laugh. Her heart still stubbornly cleaved to the Houses's grounds. For a reason she did not want to admit.
"I have not decided yet, " she temporized. "But I will stay and be present for the Service. Do honour for my Uncle-King."
"To whom we owe so much."
She bowed her head, surprised and grateful for the duchess's kind words. Gondor, too, had lost its leader. That he was admired more than loved did not lesson his years of selfless toil. Mindful of Lothíriel's words that morn, she added hastily "And to honour the Steward who was also lost."
Lothíriel smiled wanly. She reached for Éowyn's hand and gave it a silent, grateful squeeze. Her grey eyes were bright with unshed tears but she did not cry. "Amerith will you go?" she asked, a little hoarsely. "The King is there."
The older woman did immediately reply. Amerith was frowning, tapping one hand against her recovered tea cup, seemingly lost in thought. "Hmmm. To Cormallen? No. There is yet so much to do. The City is not yet in a state to receive her liege. There is a service to arrange and perhaps there will be a dance."
Lothíriel brightened at that thought. "I told Aunt Ivriniel so this morning. It would be lovely. A lift to all our spirits. Even if the City is quite empty."
Amerith snorted in amusement. "An unmarried Steward and, eventually, an unmarried King? The City will not stay empty for very long. If a ball is organized it will bring the court swarming back like bees to honey. Tripping over each other's heels in their haste to return."
"But Aragorn-the King- is affianced." Éowyn blurted the words before she could stop herself.
She flushed, embarrassed at the slip. Damn her unruly tongue. But it was quite true. Aragorn's heart was taken and the nobles of Gondor would soon discover that inconvenient fact.
The duchess's bright green gaze snapped up. "Is that so?"
"It is," she answered as steadily as she could, as remembered shame burned high on her cheeks "To a maiden of the north." Where lies his heart.
Blessedly. Amerith did not notice her reaction for she had begun to pace, tooled leather shoes drumming on the floor just as swiftly as the gears of thought that turned in her head. She stopped and put a hand aside her cheek. "Worse and worse. Faramir will now be the most eligible man in Gondor. The skies will be thronged with pigeons calling their dear Miriels back to roost."
Lothíriel covered her mouth, giggling at the image. "And you think little of them?"
"I do," Amerith nodded sharply. "They are, on balance, empty headed chits who expect a man to tell them what their opinions are"
The young princess laughed and shook her head. "That is not my cousin. He loves a good argument."
So Éowyn had seen. Was that part of her attraction? she wondered, keeping the thought to herself Did Faramir appreciate that she spoke her mind to him? Béma, make it so, for she would not keep silent to appease a man anymore. Even one so honourable and true.
Amerith regarded Lothíriel thoughtfully, pursed her lips in silence before setting her cup down decidedly a little hard. "He does indeed but they are far more dangerous than he understands. They will be merciless. Stop at nothing to show their sympathy." She began to pace again. "I like it not. There are things he does not know..."
Know? "What things?" Éowyn began to ask when Lothíriel blanched white as the silk laid across the nearby seat. She sank abruptly down onto its arm, drained of all colour, eyes wide with horror. "The pyre…" she whispered.
Éowyn looked on aghast. They had held that horrific detail back? And now he would find out? Her stomach fell nearly to her feet. "He does not know?"
Amerith clenched her long fingers in the folds of her skirt, so tight her knuckles turned to white. "No. Mithrandir and the King bade us not to speak of it until he had duties to attend. Grief needs work. Busy hands keep the mind at peace."
"So too do we say in the Riddermark," Éowyn looked from Lothíriel back to Amerith. Both of them were upset, but the older woman held herself apart. Straight and tall; jaw tight and eyes intent, focused now far away, as if with will alone she could master the emotion.
She nodded, absently. "The Service. He must be told before. There is nothing so pretty as sympathetic tears. One of them will tell him. Hoping to show the depth of her consideration."
"But that would be impossibly rude!" Éowyn protested. "Surely they would not speak of something so personal and horrific!"
"You think that will stop them?" An auburn eyebrow raised again. "Absolutely not. The marriage market is the fiercest battle they will fight. The blessed nimwits will seek to exploit his every vulnerability."
"You make it sound like he is the foe. An adversary!"
A tinkling laugh rose up. "My dear lady of Rohan that comes much later. When they are wedded, bedded and bored. And cannot stand each other." Her rings clattered against the saucer as she picked up the teacup again. "I must see him."
Lothíriel, still visibly distressed, silently gathered up the gowns. Amerith followed her out into the salon. Beside the door she reached for and pulled on a long length of tasselled rope.
Éowyn sank dispiritedly into the chair beside the desk, uncertain if it was time to speak of his suit. Such a charming portrait of the married game Amerith painted. She understood that most matches in Gondor were arranged, political contracts for the benefit of all parties involved, but surely the court was not so cutthroat? If Amerith were to be believed it was some sort of contest-with winners and losers across a human field. She frowned and shuddered at the thought. Faramir might pay suit to her but that did not stop other women from vying to change his mind. And blithely hurting him in the process.
A double knock sounded on the outer door. They all looked up as Willen's grey head appeared.
"My lady? You rang?"
"Willen. Gracious. That was remarkably swift even for you."
He gave a short half bow. "I was already on my way. There is a young man here to see you. He is says it is most urgent."
Amerith's upset evidently did not forestall the urge to flirt. "Really? And I thought my days of youthful suitors had long passed. How delightful. Where have you left him?"
"On the front stoop, my lady. Bergil, Captain Beregond's young lad. He will not come in but insists on seeing you right away."
Some sixth sense of urgency had Amerith out the door and sweeping down the staircase before Willen had finished his explanation. Éowyn and Lothíriel followed quickly close behind, They found the boy, hopping foot to foot. Face flushed and a bit breathless from his run.
He pulled off his cap and twisted it in his hands. "Princess. Your grace. My lady." He bobbed his head. "He.. I.." The boy was stammering in his haste to speak and could not get his words to come.
Amerith reached out to draw him in, set a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Slow down. Bergil. Take a deeper breath. You have run the whole way down from the Citadel?"
He nodded quickly. "I have. I came straight away. Cahill said I should let you know." He flushed and took a breath, began again as Amerith nodded approvingly.
"I was helping Lord Faramir in his rooms. I mean in the Lord Steward's rooms. He plans to go to the Hall of Waiting, my lady. To take up his responsibilities. But first he wants to see his father's bier…"
.
.-
Thank you so very very much to Thanwen, Artura, CarawynO and Wheelrider who provided comments on part 1. Their enthusiasm for Eomer's letter reminded me that there is the sequel to Bride Price to finish. It will be first up once this is done. Just a few chapters more. Happy back to school everyone!