Walls of insincerity
Shifting eyes and vacancy
Vanished when I saw your face
All I can say is it was enchanting to meet you

(Enchanted – Taylor Swift)

"That is very noble of you."

"Too noble for a servant, is that what you meant?"

"How did you know?"

"Takes a thief to know a thief."

"It is from the Princess. She wanted you to have it."

"Another unnecessary kindness. Her handmaiden defended her better than the Riders of the Mark."

"Is she hurt?" asked Elphir quietly. It was odd to hear him so composed; her eldest brother had never been one to hide his quick temper.

"No," said Amrothos, his voice just as soft. Even odder; as the youngest of the three boys, he had never been so quiet. It had driven their mother mad. Determinedly, Lothíriel kept her eyes closed and pretended to sleep. "I spoke to the guards. They were attacked on the road–" Elphir inhaled sharply "–but the company coming to collect Théoden's body caught up with them, and saved them from the worst of it."

"Was Éomer with them?"

"We do not know. The guards say no one mentioned the King was there."

"Is that where her scar is from?" asked Erchirion. She knew he was the one who stroked her face then; her middle brother had always been the most affectionate with her. She tried not to twitch when his fingers poked the bandages on her arm. The healer had told them it would scar, then. The Marshal had warned her, had tried to get her to take care of the wound better, but she had refused to listen. All she had cared about was Idis, who was now going to live. Nothing else mattered.

"Yes," Amrothos sighed, and squeezed her hand. He had not let go since he had sat next to her. "She would not take any of the medicine they offered. She gave it all to the injured, or to Idis."

"Including her crown," muttered Elphir. "What was she thinking?"

"She wanted to save her friend," said Erchirion. "You know what Idis means to her, and what she meant to Mother. And her plan was brilliant. Who would think to look twice at a maid when the Princess of Dol Amroth was lying injured in a carriage, too ill to speak to anyone? They would both be perfectly safe."

"Except that was not the Princess, and our sister now has a scarred hand and Valar knows how many other demons to deal with."

"You should not have lied," said Erchirion gently. "I know you love Idis, but you could have been killed. And how will we explain that scar to Father?"

"How can you worry about such things after what Idis has done for us?" demanded Lothíriel. Her green eyes glinted ferociously. "Why should my life matter more than hers?"

"I do not care how much you love your friend, Lothíriel, your life does matter more than hers," snapped Elphir. "I have already spoken to Idis. I will not send her away, but you are to tell no one else about what transpired on the road. I won't have the King of Rohan wondering what kind of daughter Imrahil raised, and your scar will raise enough eyebrows as it is. If anyone asks, we will say it is the unfortunate result of the siege. We will just hope that Marshal never comes to the city again. This discussion is over."

As two of her brothers left and slammed the door behind them, Amrothos hovered by her bed, his eyes downcast with guilt. Lothíriel gave him a look. "You promised not to tell."

"I'm sorry," he said, and she knew he meant it. He squeezed her hand. "It'll be alright, Lothíriel."

She had always been able to tell when he was lying.

Dol Amroth, December 3019

Her mother's grave had always been quiet. But that afternoon, as the winter sun beat down on the marble columns, the warmth had coerced a few insects and birds out of hiding, so it was less silent than usual. Amidst the singing of a nightingale and the buzzing of a fly that she would have ordinarily found irritating, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth finished her third letter of the day and sealed it carefully, before picking up her pen and a fresh piece of parchment. Mentally, she ran through the number of people still left to write to, and sighed.

"I am not as good a correspondent as you," she murmured. "And I do not think your friends will forgive me for that." She turned her face up and smiled, the winking sun making her squint. "Will they, Mother?"

The statue made no answer, but Lothíriel took comfort in the likeness: after all, the white marble had been etched and carved lovingly by three different sculptors who had had access to every portrait of the Lady Mairen in Prince Imrahil's possession. Considering the Prince's well-known affection for his wife, there had been plenty. The forest-green of her eyes was the only colour present on the statue, and Lothíriel tried not to think about how it was the only feature she had inherited from her mother. At that moment, she decided, as she stared at the blank piece of paper in her lap, it would have been better if she had inherited her penmanship.

"Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel looked up from her letter quickly, squinting her eyes up at her brother. Erchirion's interruption on her solitude, while not unwelcome, was unexpected; none of her brothers had ever visited their mother's grave with her.

"Hello," she said finally. Secretly glad of the chance to abandon her letter, she stood up and wiped her hands on her dress, even though they were clean. The bandage on her left palm scraped against the fabric, making a sound that, after six months, was more comforting than bothersome. "What is it?"

"There has been a letter from Amrothos," said Erchirion. "He says he will ride to Minas Tirith with the King of Rohan's company and meet us there."

"You mean the bride's company," corrected Lothíriel automatically. Then, the news registered, and she frowned. "He should return home and ride with us as the groom's cousin. Faramir would like that, and there are barely any family members left to attend the wedding as it is. What was he thinking?"

"I believe he finds the company of Rohan's Riders more suited to his tastes."

"Because they will frequent every brothel on the journey from Edoras to Minas Tirith?"

Erchirion winced. "Sister, please."

"Pardon me. I will refrain from pointing out that you dragged me to one of those brothels two weeks ago because you did not have the money to pay your bill."

"I told you, someone stole my money!" insisted Erchirion. "And anyway, the King is with them this time. He would not allow it."

"Why? Is the King a eunuch?"

"Lothíriel!"

"I apologise," said Lothíriel, without meaning it. Men and their proclivities, she thought to herself dryly. "Well, is your trunk packed for our journey tomorrow, or would you have me do that as well?"

Erchirion grinned. "Surely a Princess can make time in her duties for a brother who is never to inherit a title?"

"I have too many duties, and too many brothers," said Lothíriel. And letters to write. Suddenly tired, she sank back down and leaned her head back against the cool marble wall. "You have delivered your message, Erchirion. You may now go tell Elphir I will be ready to leave in the morning, as promised."

Erchirion's smile faded. "It has been months, Lothíriel. Will you still not speak to him?"

"No," she said. She opened her letter again and picked up her pen. "But you may give him the message. And send Idis to me when her chores for the day are done."

Erchirion would have argued, had he not secretly worried that his sister would extend her silent treatment to him. It had been six months since Prince Imrahil's eldest and youngest children had spoken to each other, although not for lack of trying on the former's part. Elphir was as stubborn as Lothíriel was proud, but he had spent the last month finding excuses to make his sister speak to him. His latest, clearly, had been enticement in the form of a letter from her favourite brother, messengered by the mild-mannered brother she had never been able to stay angry at.

Fortunately, staying angry at Elphir was as easy as breathing, and Lothíriel relished in her victory when Erchirion departed, muttering something about pig-headed siblings and a desire for whiskey.

Without company to distract her, Lothíriel returned to her letter. She had filled half a page with the small-talk expected of correspondence from the Princess's desk – or in this case, her lap – when she felt boredom creep up on her, threatening her penmanship and the beauty of her sentences. It would not do for a letter from the Princess to be less than perfect, after all; Imrahil would not like it, and the royal siblings of Dol Amroth never did anything that could displease their father. Groaning, Lothíriel tossed the letter aside and reached into the pocket of her dress for the loosely-bound pages of a sketchpad. Her pen was next to be thrown away, and the ink left splatters across the marble floor. Lothíriel winced at the stains, but did not have the energy to wipe it clean. As long as the statue was unscathed, she did not care; the charcoal she planned to use would stain nothing except paper and fingers, and she planned to be finished before anyone was the wiser.

Lothíriel did not know when she had decided that sketching the face of the Marshal who had saved her life all those months ago was her favourite pastime, but she was past the point of questioning it. With practiced ease, she sketched the outline of his face first: blonde hair, tied back out of his eyes, which she always left blank – bluer than the sea she had grown up with, the colour was unlike anything she had ever known, and she had yet to find something in her collection of paints, pastels, and pencils that did them justice. His nose was easy enough: it had been slightly crooked, as if he had broken it too many times for it to set properly now. He had probably deserved it too; her lips twitched at the memory of eye-rolls and insolent retorts. His jaw had been strong, determined, if tense: she remembered the muscle under his chin ticking away as he looked out into the distance, probably remembering something horrific he did not want to talk about. And he had not talked about it, after all. But he had let her talk. Her hands paused, and the images she had struggled to expel from her memory every night crept back from the recesses of her mind: Idis, with three poisoned arrows in her back, blood dripping out of her mouth; Stig, her guard, holding her back from running down the battlements as she screamed; and a pair of green eyes, so like her own, blinking rapidly as the life vanished from them. She gripped the charcoal tighter, and took a deep breath.

It's over.

Mechanically, she filled in the rest of the details. Shadows across his forehead, eyebrows furrowed, a dimple in his cheek she had noticed when she had made him laugh once… these were features she had thought of constantly, and were easy enough to replicate from her memories. And then, like always, she hesitated. Would she draw him smiling that day, or frowning? Sometimes, when she was feeling melancholy, she drew the Marshal with a smile on his face, like the one he had given her when she had said goodbye to him. It was small, and a little bittersweet, and it made her heart hurt in a strange way it never had before. At other times, when she was happy, she drew him with the expression she felt best mirrored her own, when they had talked of the war: haunted, and most of all, lost. She had realised it made her feel better, to know she had shared something so honest with a soldier.

Even if she had lied to him about everything else.

"Caught you," said a smug voice behind her.

Lothíriel jumped, and the charcoal slipped out of her hand and skid across the floor, leaving a streak of black behind it. Her newest companion clicked her tongue disapprovingly and picked it up, holding it between her forefinger and thumb gingerly. Her brown eyes, always warm with affection, twinkled merrily even as she gave Lothíriel a disapproving look. They were five years apart and completely unrelated by blood, but Idis had always been the older sister Lothíriel had secretly wanted. She gave her friend a sheepish look. "You frightened me."

"Apologies, Princess." Idis giggled and sank onto the grass next to her. Pausing only to touch her fingers to her lips and press them against the base of the statue affectionately, she turned to Lothíriel and pointed to the paper in her hands accusingly. "Your brother said you were writing letters, but I see he was misinformed."

"I was writing letters," said Lothíriel. She folded up the incomplete sketch and shoved it back into her pocket. "I am an excellent correspondent, you know."

"You are excellent at everything you do," agreed Idis, and although it was a compliment, the teasing lilt in her voice had always made Lothíriel feel as though Idis was simply humouring the whims of a teenager, rather than speaking to a princess.

It was one of the many things she appreciated about her.

"Well, you are too," said Lothíriel. Idis carried three scrolls of parchment in her hands. "Are any of those for me?"

"All of them are," replied Idis, handing them to her. "Yesterday's declarations, last month's tax returns, and even a report of a petty theft by the harbour. Why did you ask for these?"

"I needed material for my latest letter."

Idis snorted. "What noblewoman are you offering gossip to in exchange for information this time?"

"You'll know when the time is right."

"How ominous," smiled Idis. "Dare I hope you are hoping to learn more about a man?"

"As if that would make any difference," snorted Lothíriel. "All I can do is plan to make the poor soul my father chooses regret the day he ever agreed to the match." She winked and flicking her braid over her shoulder haughtily. "Do you doubt me, Idis?"

"Never, Princess," Idis smiled. "I would doubt you only if I did not know you are hiding a certain drawing in your pocket, even now."

Despite her best efforts to control it, Lothíriel blushed. Reflexively, her hand rested against the pocket of her dress, and Idis heard the crinkle of paper as loud as if it had been a canon firing. Lothíriel sighed. "Fine. Maybe."

"After six months, I deserve to see his face."

"You do not," shot back Lothíriel. "What makes you so deserving?"

"He saved my life!"

"And mine!"

"Yes, but you saw him," groaned Idis. She leaned back against the wall and cross her arms over her chest huffily. "I was locked up in a carriage, drugged and pretending to be a Princess. I did not spend two days flirting with handsome men from Rohan!"

"I never said I flirted with him."

"You have told me every word you two exchanged. Believe me, Princess, even if you did not flirt with him, he flirted with you."

Lothíriel smirked despite herself, then covered her upturned lips with her hand. "It does not matter," she said, and the reminder was enough to make her stop smiling. "Even if we ever see him again, you know we have to pretend it never happened."

"Easy enough for me, since I do not know what he looks like," said Idis. She eyed Lothíriel's pocket again. "You really ought to let me see so I may take some advantage of your expensive drawing lessons."

"You had expensive music lessons."

"Only because you cannot sing."

"And you cannot draw."

"Fine!" Idis sighed in exasperation. "Keep your romantic little secrets. Perhaps you will see him again at the wedding and we can finally put your infatuation to rest."

"There is no romance in this, and you know it," said Lothíriel pointedly. "He was our only means of escape. It would have been foolish to reveal our identities. What if he had turned us in to the King? Or worse, my father?"

Idis laughed. "Of course, Princess. There was no romance at all. It was the adrenaline, and the adventure of the road. You have said this all before. But even if it wasn't, you surely can't think a Marshal of Rohan would be an appropriate match for you?"

"Why, because Dol Amroth is full of Kings vying for my hand?"

"Well, if the rumours are true…"

Lothíriel froze. "Rumours?"

Idis raised her eyebrows. "You did not know? Amrothos sent two letters from Rohan this morning. Erchirion showed me the personal one. The other…" she trailed off suggestively.

Lothíriel's eyebrows shot up. "He sent a diplomatic missive? From Rohan?"

"That is why he went, you know. The King likes him; your father thought he could be useful to us, and to him."

"My father wants a spy in every court in Middle Earth," said Lothíriel. "Are you saying Amrothos is his pick for Rohan?"

"'Tis not spying, Princess," Idis sighed. "I could be wrong."

"You are never wrong," said Lothíriel. She clutched her friend's sleeve, anxiety rippling through her form. "What are you hiding from me, Idis?"

Idis smiled, and her expression alleviated some of Lothíriel's anxiety. "It does not have to be bad news."

"My father has found a match." It was not a question. Idis did not correct her, and Lothíriel leaned back against the statue heavily. "Is that why he sent Amrothos to Rohan, instead of Elphir?"

"I do not know, Princess," said Idis honestly. "I only know what I hear. The court wants an alliance, and Rohan needs aid. Amrothos was to find a solution that worked for all."

"Me," said Lothíriel. Her mind was spinning, and her own voice sounded faint to her ears. "You mean the solution is my hand in marriage."

Never one to beat about the bush, even when Lothíriel looked pale as a ghost, Idis merely nodded. "To the King of Rohan, if rumours are to be believed."

Lothíriel winced. It was not wholly surprising; arranged marriages were common in Gondor, and she had always known her match would be political. But the war was barely over, and her mother had only just died. Despite the rational part of her brain that told her this was to be expected, the news still stung. She was supposed to have more time… "Is he… what do you know of him?"

"Very little," said Idis. "But your brothers like him. As does the Prince, and the King of Gondor. And he is Lady Éowyn's brother. To be quite truthful, Princess, I have yet to hear a bad word about him."

"That means nothing," said Lothíriel. The drawing in her pocket felt impossibly heavy now. It was her own fault for indulging in such ridiculous fantasies. Idis was right. No one less than a King could be a match for a Princess. She had always known that, and yet…

And yet, she had spent months dreaming of blue eyes, witty retorts and reluctant smiles; of rough hands holding her own, a smooth voice coaxing out secrets she would never reveal, and a look – a look she dared not hope had been one of admiration. In another life, perhaps, she could have entertained such attentions, even enjoyed them. But this was not another life; it was this life, her life, a life she had committed herself to long before she had known what duties were expected of her. The news of this match was a reminder, albeit an ill-timed one, that her duty would always be to her country, and her father's crown. Handsome Riders of Rohan were meant as fodder for a young woman's imagination, nothing more. There had always been a time limit on how long she could indulge her fantasy of a certain blue-eyed soldier.

Then why did her heart feel impossibly heavy at the thought of letting him go?

Dinner was silent. It was always quieter when the family dined alone. Perhaps that was why it was a rare occurrence now; after her mother's death, Lothíriel could count on one hand the number of times the family had decided to sit down together. It was always feasts and balls and diplomatic dinners, when they were all in the city. Otherwise, Lothíriel was sure the men of Dol Amroth saw the halls of Minas Tirith more often than their home, and she had taken to eating in the library or her mother's study most days, in the company of books and familiar smells that reminded her of simpler times.

Nevertheless, she smiled pleasantly as her father asked her to pass the bread, and put an extra piece of cheese on the slice she handed to him, eliciting a smile from Imrahil.

"Are you excited for our departure tomorrow?" Imrahil asked no one in particular, but Lothíriel was the one who answered. She had to, since Elphir was talking to his wife, Erchirion was trying not to choke on a fishbone, and Amrothos's seat was conspicuously empty.

"Very," she said, helping herself to more lobster. "Cousin Faramir wrote to say he is anxious for our arrival, and I like Lady Éowyn very much."

"They are an excellent match. Of course, you know you will have to take the reins during the wedding," reminded Imrahil. "A true Gondorian wedding cannot be led by just anyone. As Princess of Dol Amroth, and the closest thing the groom has to a sister, you have certain duties.

Duty.

Lothíriel continued to smile pleasantly. "Of course, Father." No one at the table pointed out that Elphir's wife, who was ten years older than Lothíriel and had married off two sisters during the war, was better suited to the role. Nor did the Lady Reyna volunteer her services. Princesses were born in Dol Amroth, and the title could not be married into; it was a reality Lothíriel had long ago accepted, when she had seen the helplessly lonely look in her – unmarried – Aunt Ivriniel's eyes during her brother's wedding. Romance, her aunt had told her, was not for princesses, no matter what the fairy-tales she had grown up on said.

No matter what her mother had said.

"By the by," said Imrahil suddenly. "Did you ever find your necklace?"

Lothíriel froze. Unbidden images danced across her mind's eye, and she tried fruitlessly to dismiss them: blue eyes glinting with amusement, the faintest brush of skin on skin as she slipped her pendant over his head, the solemn way he had thanked her for an honour he had no way of knowing the true meaning of… she cleared her throat and immediately averted her gaze from her father's curious look. Picking up a lemon from the bowl in front of her, she sliced it and garnished her fish, mentally calculating how many excuses she had left to dismiss the piece of jewellery before one of her brothers suspected the truth. Fortunately, neither of them had noticed, and she pierced the piece of fish with her fork. "I apologise, Father," she said finally. "I have not seen it. It must have been lost during the siege after all."

"Hmm." If there was displeasure in his voice, Lothíriel could not hear it. "Very well. I think it is time to order a new one, then."

Opposite her, Erchirion looked up sharply from his plate, and the conversation between Elphir and Reyna abruptly halted. "A new one?" asked Lothíriel. Her mouth felt dry. She cleared her throat again, and took a sip of wine. Her hands were shaking; she put the goblet down quickly before anyone could notice.

"Yes. I know the custom is old, but you should not be so long without it." Imrahil smiled and fingered the silver chain around his own neck. Lady Mairen had given her Prince Imrahil her necklace the day they had gotten engaged, and he had never taken it off, even after her death. The affection in his eyes made the lump in Lothíriel's throat grow heavier. "Do not worry, daughter. We will find a man worthy of the Princess's pendant, I assure you."

Lothíriel could not smile back, but nodded. If her father noticed her wan expression, he did not comment on it, and returned to his meal. Elphir and Reyna resumed their conversation, but Erchirion was throwing her an apologetic look across the table, guilt in his eyes.

Idis had never been wrong about a rumour, after all.

Lothíriel picked up her fork. "Has Amrothos written?" she could not resist asking, even though she knew the answer.

Imrahil nodded. "He writes he will join us in Minas Tirith."

"Erchirion mentioned that. Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing of consequence," said Imrahil, continuing to eat as though Amrothos's letter had not contained information that would change Lothíriel's future forever. "I would have preferred him to ride with us, but it is good for him to befriend the people of Rohan. And Éomer is a good man. Perhaps his gravitas will influence Amrothos to take his duties more seriously."

Lothíriel bit the inside of her cheek to avoid pointing out that if Imrahil and Elphir had not been able to convince Amrothos to take his duties seriously, it was doubtful a newly-minted King would be able to do the job. But she held her tongue and merely agreed with her father; she was good at that, after all.

She had always been good at pretending.

Faking a headache ten minutes before dinner officially ended was easy enough. Avoiding Idis's watchful eye once outside the dining-room, however, was more difficult. Lothíriel borrowed a candle from the stand in the hall and hurried to her destination, barely sparing the woman following her a glance. When she reached the nondescript door with a rusted chain keeping it locked, Idis clicked her tongue.

"Again?" Idis frowned, something akin to disapproval in her voice. But she was too well-trained to express herself, especially in front of the Princess. Instead, she merely pursed her lips. "Shall I stay?"

"No need," said Lothíriel. She pushed the door open easily, the chain loosening to allow just enough space for the two women to slip into the antechamber. As it clicked back into place – it could only be opened from the inside using the key in Lothíriel's pocket – the Princess avoided her friend's eye and adjusted her sleeves. "I won't be long," she said finally. "They have the letter from Amrothos they want to discuss."

"Surely your brother would write to you of anything important as well, Princess."

"Amrothos does not realise what is and isn't important." Lothíriel peeked at Idis through her lashes, and sighed. "Do not look like that. You know I have to do this. They will not tell me anything otherwise."

Idis did not know. She would never understand; Lothíriel had accepted that fact years ago, but it still stung when her friend curtsied wordlessly and left her alone in the small room. There were no windows, and no sources of light beyond her candle. There was just enough room for the rickety chair in the corner, leaning against the wall. Sighing again, Lothíriel checked the door behind her to make sure it had closed after Idis's departure and took her seat at the far corner of the room. A dull thud was the only indication that her father's study door had been opened; taking a deep breath, Lothíriel counted to ten before slowly sliding open the small covered panel that had been cut into the wall just level with her eyes. It was barely a slit, practically invisible to the eyes of the inhabitants of the other room, but perfect for her to get a view of her eldest brother and father seated at his desk, sipping their customary post-dinner whiskey.

Apparently, she had missed the earlier part of their conversation; even as she watched, Elphir tossed a letter onto the desk between them and downed his glass, his lips twisting into an expression of distaste. "You should have sent me instead. Or Erchirion. Amrothos is not equipped to deal with Rohan's council."

"Your brother is our ambassador, Elphir. It is time he learned to conduct himself," said Imrahil. Her father had always been patient with Elphir; too patient. Erchirion and Amrothos had received tongue-lashings when they had dared to defy the Prince, and Lothíriel had never had the courage to disagree with her father anyway. But Elphir was heir, and his word had been seen as law even when Imrahil had been too young to consider stepping down. After the war, it had only gotten worse.

It made her blood boil.

"He says nothing about the match. How do we know he even discussed it with Éomer?"

"We do not. But I had a letter from Éomer that hinted his council had brought up the fact with him themselves. It would be better if he arrived thinking he had to make the offer himself. It gives us a rare advantage."

"He has never even seen her."

Lothíriel bit her lip. Here we go.

"He was quite taken with the portrait," said Imrahil. "You know how much Lothíriel resembles your Aunt Finduilas. At least we know he would find her pleasing, should she ever deign to bless him with her company."

There was a smile in her father's voice at that. The logical part of Lothíriel's brain appreciated it, appreciated that her father enjoyed her strength of character, even admired it sometimes. But the bitter part of her heart resented it; her strength had been earned through perseverance and hard work, but Imrahil had never once acknowledged it unless it could be used to his advantage. And evidently, this was an advantage.

"You are basing this match off Éomer's interest in the Steward of Gondor's portrait of his dead wife?" Elphir almost laughed in astonishment. "That is the kind of thinking I expect from Amrothos, Father, not you."

"I know Éomer better than you do, Elphir, and I can flatter myself and say few fathers know their daughters as well as I know mine. Lothíriel was brought up to do her duty to her city, and her people. This match would help us just as much as it would help Rohan. Once she knows that, it will all be easier."

Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat, but she doubted her father and brother would have noticed even if she had screamed at them while in the same room. Elphir poured himself another drink as Imrahil still nursed his first, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"My sister is a Princess of the finest order," said Elphir finally. The compliment was unwillingly given. "But just because she knows her duty does not mean she will do it. You know I have always believed in our commitment to our people, but asking her to marry a King she has never met and move to Rohan simply to keep up cordial relations is… extreme."

Yes, it is, thought Lothíriel. Despite herself, she smirked. Her brother was many things, but he was fair. Arranged marriages were all too common in Gondor, particularly between royalty; but if her father meant to announce her engagement or, Valar forbid, her marriage to the King of Rohan at Faramir's wedding, there would be an uproar. There was no love lost between the two countries, despite the end of the war, and the Rohirrim were not considered trustworthy by many nobles in Gondor. Privately, Lothíriel did not agree with the assessment, but in this case it could be used to her advantage. And her brothers would never agree to sending her away so soon, no matter how much they liked Éomer.

Unless she agreed to it, of course. Which was exactly what Imrahil was relying on.

"It is not just for diplomacy," argued Imrahil. "Think what it could do for trade, for our people, for those left without livelihoods and homes! And so many of us harbour prejudices against the other. If the Princess of Dol Amroth can accept the King of Rohan, who is to say relations would not improve? It may seem unjust at first, but these are extreme times. She will understand. War has hardened her."

Elphir did not argue. "And Rohan will soften her?" he asked instead. "She has never been there, Father. The climate, the people, even Éomer… you are friends, of course, and he is an honourable man, but have you thought of this match outside the realm of diplomacy and politics?"

"I have. The King of Rohan will not mind a hardened woman as his Queen. In fact, he may prefer it," said Imrahil. "How many Gondorian noblemen can say the same?"

Elphir paused, and Lothíriel knew they were all thinking the same thing. Six noblemen had already refused her hand, after the war. The proposals had come before the siege, and when Imrahil and his sons had finally sat down to discuss the terms of her marriage after the war, all six offers had been withdrawn. Men shied away from accepting the Princess of Dol Amroth, with the curiously scarred hand and the cold green eyes. Six different evenings Lothíriel had spent with her eye glued to the peep-hole in the antechamber as her brothers and father had discussed the possibility of her marriage with men she had only spoken to a few times in her life, before finally deciding none of them could be considered worthy.

They had never even told her about any of them.

Elphir ran a hand through his hair wearily. "But why is her marriage so essential now? Aunt Ivriniel never married, and she has never lost a place in your court."

"That is because your other aunt did marry," said Imrahil. "Ivriniel fulfilled all the duties of the Princess of Dol Amroth, and she has given me her word she will continue to do so if Lothíriel leaves the city. I have one daughter, Elphir. We always knew her match would be political, but the last heir of Rohan was too old for her, and times were different then. But the war has allowed us to befriend our neighbours once more. Éomer is close to her age, he is handsome enough, and he is a man of honour. Do you think I would give my daughter to anyone less?"

"I worry you are giving your daughter too much responsibility. She is only twenty-five. And you may rest assured, Father, I would not turn my sister out, should she choose to stay unmarried."

"I trust your honour, son. What I do not trust is your sister's heart," said Imrahil. "I fear there is no peace for her in Dol Amroth now. Not after what she has seen. She is itching to leave, and I would rather she not forget her duty in order to do so."

Elphir was silent at that. Lothíriel winced, her heart racing at the thought of what her brother could reveal to their father in that moment. Her actions after the siege, the true origin of the scar on her hand, Idis's injuries… Imrahil knew none of it, and Elphir had made the decision on their behalf to keep it that way. Even now, when they had not spoken in months, she knew he would not go back on his word. He would keep her secret, not that it made any difference. Her distaste for home had grown since her mother's death, and she had clearly not been as subtle as she had thought, if her father had noticed. Of course, his solution when Amrothos had grown similarly restless was to make him an ambassador.

For Lothíriel, he had chosen marriage.

Elphir's voice interrupted her seething once again. "My sister was not taught how to be a Queen, Father."

"The King was not taught how to rule either. Perhaps they may help each other."

That was all they said on the subject, and the conversation drifted to other topics. Lothíriel remained sitting in the small antechamber long after her father and brother had left the adjoining room. The candle she had brought with her had died; had it been hours, or minutes? She did not know. All she knew was that her fate had been sealed, and no one had even asked her what she wanted.

The worst part was that Lothíriel knew she would never fight back, had known she would agree to every demand her father and brothers would put forth the second she had realised Amrothos had been sent to Rohan to be a negotiator for her hand. All the fight in her had died with her mother, with her city's last defences, and with the last shreds of naïve innocence she had possessed as a young girl. Now, she was a woman, a Princess of Dol Amroth, and Princesses held their duty above any and all desires.

Even if all she had ever desired was just a little bit of freedom.