And isn't it just so pretty to think
All along there was some
Invisible string
Tying you to me?

(invisible string – Taylor Swift)

"Are you nervous?"

"No."

"You appear nervous."

"I am not."

"You are acting nervous."

"Éothain, I will put you through a wall if you keep talking," snapped Éomer. "I am not nervous."

"You should be," said Éothain, unbothered by the threat. He adjusted his cuffs and tugged at the collar of his shirt, already irritated by the formal clothes he had been forced to don for Éowyn's wedding. Éomer did not blame him; he would much rather be in armour as well. "Are you certain you wish to talk to her? What if she tells the Princess?"

"Yes, I am certain," said Éomer, for what felt like the hundredth time since he had informed Éothain of his decision. "We could be mistaken. It could simply be a common name that hundreds of maids have. And there is nothing to tell the Princess because nothing happened."

"Then why do you sound nervous?"

"I am going to –"

"Good morning," said a calm voice behind them, and both abruptly shut their mouths as they turned to greet Elessar. He ascended the steps of the makeshift altar built specifically for the wedding, taking his place at the front. He gave Éomer a strange look. "Are you quite alright? You seem –"

"Fine," snapped Éomer. He ran a hand over his face tiredly and gave Elessar a look of apology. "I am quite well. It is simply… one of those days."

"Aye, I can imagine." Elessar patted his arm sympathetically. "An only sister's wedding –"

"– is a subject for another day!" The interruption was revealed to be Amrothos, who grinned as he approached the altar. "Well, my only sister's wedding, at least. Éomer King may suffer alone, for now."

Éomer felt dread pool in his stomach and looked away, feigning an interest in the flowers decorating the archway above his head. Elessar, however, did not sense his discomfort. "Where is your sister?" he asked Amrothos. "I have not seen her since yesterday."

"I believe she has just gone to check on the bride," answered Amrothos, and Éomer tried not to sigh in relief. "My father was looking for you, Éomer," he added, and the dread returned tenfold. "To facilitate an introduction, no doubt."

Elessar gave Amrothos a warning look, but Éomer continued to ignore them. It was fine. He could deal with this. Gondorian tradition dictated that the formal ceremony was small, just immediate family and the court, and the public-facing ceremony would be later in the day for the city's people to join in the celebrations. That was when he would worry. With more people around, there was a higher chance of running into the woman – he could not call her Idis anymore – but the hall was practically empty for the moment, and he was grateful for it.

Amrothos said something about finding a drink and stepped away. In the distance, Éomer saw Imrahil enter the hall, deep in conversation with a woman. For a brief second, he thought it was the Princess, and he froze. Not yet. Not her. He was not ready to meet her yet. But then they turned a corner, and the woman smiled, and he realised it was the singer from the previous night, Idis.

And Imrahil was leading her straight towards them.

Next to him, Éothain cleared his throat, a tell-tale sign of his unease. He had disagreed, vehemently, with Éomer's decision to find a moment to talk with Idis. It could jeopardise the proposed engagement, he had argued; what if the Princess thought he was interested in her handmaiden? Éomer doubted the Princess cared much about his opinion; after all, he had yet to see her face. But Éothain had been adamant that the risk to the alliance was too significant. An alliance they desperately needed, and one that was threatened by the very name of the woman directly in front of them.

Her head was bowed as she approached, the picture of deference. There was not an iota of her that was similar to the woman he had met, who had spat at Éothain's feet and pointed a sword at him with eyes brimming with rage. Éomer scoured her form, searching for something, anything that seemed familiar, but he saw nothing. Even if he could convince himself that everything about the woman he had met had been a fantasy, a lingering exaggeration his mind had come up with in rare moments of solitude, he could not forget those eyes. Green, like the lushest forests of Rohan or the most precious emeralds fit for a queen's crown. Eyes he had never seen on a woman before. Eyes, he knew, he could not have imagined.

Imrahil and Idis were close enough now that she looked up and smiled at the men by the altar, and there was no trace of familiarity in her gaze either.

And her eyes were grey.

However, there was something strange about her, he realised. She was not dressed like the rest of the women around them. Although certainly more conservative than the Rohirrim, Gondorian noblewomen were not wary of showing skin when the occasion called for it. A wedding, apparently, had been the perfect excuse, and even Lady Ivriniel, whom Éomer had yet to see smile, had worn a dress that bared her shoulders for the event. The young woman approaching them, however, wore a dress with such a high collar that there was not an inch of bare skin visible other than her face, with gloves on her hands that reached under her sleeves. She wore no jewels or finery, unlike every other woman Éomer had been introduced to since his arrival. Even her hair was pulled back out of her face in the most minimalist of styles. He noted nothing remarkable about her, except that Imrahil was resting a hand on her shoulder as though she were his own daughter.

"I wanted to ensure you all had a chance to meet before the festivities started," said Imrahil, smiling as he gestured towards Idis. "It gives me great pleasure to introduce one of Dol Amroth's bravest warriors. I daresay she could give the Rohirrim a run for their money." The pride in his voice was undeniable. "This, my friends, is our beloved Idis."

"You flatter me, my Prince," said Idis, curtseying deeply in Éomer and Elessar's direction. "It is my honour to meet the heroes of the great war."

"You are as much a hero as anyone here," said Elessar, evidently already knowing who she was. "It is a pleasure to see you outside the Houses of Healing, child."

"Only thanks to you, my liege," she said. When she turned to face Éomer and Éothain, she was still smiling. "We bid you welcome and hope you enjoy Gondor's hospitality, Éomer King, Éothain of the Riddermark. And we thank you for giving your lady's hand to our Lord Faramir. Their happiness has brought us all great joy."

It was the perfect opening. Elessar and the Prince were in conversation now, and as they stepped away from the group, Éomer and Éothain remained alone. Idis, fortunately, seemed not the least perturbed at being left with Rohan's most eligible bachelors and continued to smile pleasantly. She was certainly not as beautiful as the woman he remembered, but she seemed… good. There was a frankness in her manner that reminded Éomer of his sister, and it made him smile back at her, despite himself. Meanwhile, Éothain took his silence as a sign to continue speaking. "We have been told you sacrificed a great deal during the siege, and saved many lives," he said. "The honour is indeed ours, my lady."

"Oh, I am no lady," she laughed. "I am a mere handmaiden. Please, call me Idis."

"Idis?" asked Éothain, his voice so careless, so causal that Éomer almost believed they had not rehearsed the exact conversation that morning at least six times before the start of the wedding. "A common name in Dol Amroth for a handmaiden, is it?"

"It is no royal name, sir, but common enough," said Idis, confusion colouring her tone. "Why? Have you heard it before?"

Éomer took a deep breath. "In a manner of –"

"No," interrupted Éothain. He gave Éomer a sharp look. "Apologies; your Gondorian names are still unfamiliar to us."

"Oh," said Idis.

There was a beat of silence, where Éothain glared at Éomer, and Éomer stared back unperturbed. Finally, the guard cleared his throat. "Excuse us, my lady," said Éothain, grasping Éomer's elbow. "The King – we have – that is to say, the Lady Éowyn calls us to her side. The ceremony is about to begin."

Idis curtseyed and smiled, but the look in her eyes was confused, and Éomer allowed Éothain to pull him away without complaint. Despite the emptiness of the hall, everyone was crowded around the altar, and it was some minutes before they were sufficiently alone. Éowyn was still in a small antechamber, designated as the bridal suite, off the edge of the hall. Éomer took up his post leaning against the opposite wall, knowing he would be called in to escort her at any moment. At his side, Éothain mimicked his movements. The next words out of his mouth were unexpected.

"If she is such a brave warrior, why is she still a handmaiden?"

Éomer turned to give Éothain an exasperated look. "Of all the things to be concerned about, you are focusing on her lack of title?"

"It is a valid question," said Éothain defensively. Then, he sighed. "But not the most pressing problem at the moment. I may not have spent six months dreaming about her, but even I can tell that this woman is not who we met six months ago, name be damned."

"I know," said Éomer. Éothain's eyes narrowed, and Éomer realised he was fidgeting with the chain around his neck again. Ignoring his guard's look, he dropped his hand and opted to rest it on his sword instead. "And I do not dream of her."

Éothain ignored him again. Grabbing two glasses of foreign whiskey, he handed him one and finished his own in one large gulp, clearly content to while away the time until the wedding began. Éomer was not so easily appeased. All he had managed to learn was that this Idis was not the woman he had met and certainly not the one he had lied to. He told himself it was curiosity and the desire to save himself embarrassment that made him scour the small number of people in the hall now, hoping once again to find somethingthat could give him a clue as to who she was.

The door to Éowyn's room suddenly burst open, but only a group of dark-haired women exited, giggling and chatting as they left the chamber. A glance told him his sister was not among them, and he turned away again. As he raised his glass to take another sip, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up, and he sucked in a breath. Even though his instincts were too refined to consider this room, full of nobles and friends, a threat, he could feel the very air around him suddenly shift, and it was not with danger.

She was here.

"Something wrong?" asked Éothain, already holding a new drink.

Éomer shook his head. When he looked around, no one was watching him. Was he imagining it? His grip on his glass tightened. He felt haunted, convinced he was one small step away from seeing or hearing things: green eyes and a particular, breathless laugh, to be precise. He did not dare let his eyes wander too much, too aware that Imrahil, Éothain, and even Amrothos were watching his every move. But she was here; he knew it. He could feel it.

Quickly, his eyes scanned the people around him, assessing them like targets on a battlefield. Many were foreign, but painfully nondescript. A couple seemingly amid an argument; two old men ogling a group of women entirely too young for them; Idis, now speaking to the women who had just exited the chamber, all dressed in varying shades of blue and laughing; Amrothos and Elphir, conversing quietly in a corner and watching Idis with disapproving looks on their faces; three Riders who he ought to send Éothain over to reprimand because they were drinking too much; Elessar and Arwen –

Éomer frowned, his eyes flicking back towards Amrothos' face. The stern look on the ordinarily jovial man's face was decidedly out of place. Why was he staring at Idis as though she had done something wrong? He followed his friend's gaze, realising that it was not her he was looking at, but rather one of her companions. He suspected it was the woman who had her back to him as she waved a glass of wine around and continued to chatter away. Her hair was pulled over her shoulder, and despite himself, his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second too long on the smooth, unmarred skin of her back visible due to the low neckline of her dress, the slope of her nape, and the smattering of freckles along her shoulder blades. Catching himself, he gave his head a subtle shake before snapping his eyes back to Amrothos' face. His friend's eyes widened just as the woman's hand jerked again, and the contents of her wine glass almost spilled onto Idis' dress. As Éomer watched, slightly amused, Idis' expression morphed into one of horror and she shrieked and jumped back, away from the spillage. The two other women laughed, and the one holding the glass immediately set it down and made a gesture of apology, her free hand now pushing her hair out of her face.

Her hand.

It was scarred. The mark was deep, etched into her flesh with a permanence that spoke of the injury's seriousness. It sliced across her palm and over the back of her hand, twisting around her wrist before hiding underneath the sleeve of her dress. Éomer had seen injuries like it before. It was from a sword, and it looked like she had tried to fight off an attack with her bare hands.

And then she turned around to pick up a napkin from the table, and a pair of green eyes locked with his.

The room froze. Time froze. Éomer could not move; he could not even nudge Éothain who stood blissfully unaware as he drank his whiskey. All he could do was stare at the green-eyed woman he had last seen six months ago, barely standing ten feet away from him in a hall that would be filled with people in less than an hour.

She stared back, and then suddenly blinked and spun back around, the napkin lying forgotten behind her. He watched as her shoulders tensed, the expanse of bare skin he had admired only seconds ago now offering him a perfect view of taut muscles and a stiff posture he had no business finding that attractive. Éomer held his breath for approximately six seconds, unable to decide what to do. He could go to her, but there were too many people around. He could wait to corner her later, but what if she misconstrued his attentions? Idis, standing opposite her, caught his eye as he continued to stare, and the look of confusion she had worn earlier morphed into one of full-blown suspicion.

Did she know?

There was no time to worry about it. When the woman suddenly detached herself from the group and slipped out a nearby door, Éomer did not hesitate; he followed her. It only took him a few seconds to note that she clearly knew she was being followed, and he sped up when he realised she seemed to have no intention of being caught. Minas Tirith seemed more familiar to her than him, but it was clearly not her home. When she found herself faced with a dead end, she paused, and Éomer noted that her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The gesture almost made him smile. Almost, because she had still not turned around even once, and her instant reaction upon seeing his face had been to run away.

She was hiding something.

He stopped a few feet away, but she still did not face him. The hallway was dark, the only light from the torches adorning the walls around them. The fire caught the strands of her hair, dark and loose that she had thrown back at some point to cover up the bare skin he had seen earlier. A part of him wanted her to turn around simply so he could stop trying to catch another glimpse of the freckles along her back, but it was too dark to see them by the light of the torches. All he could see was the deep blue of her dress, decorated with patterns all in silver thread: Dol Amroth's colours.

Finally, he said, "We will be late for the wedding if you do not say anything."

Her shoulders moved, and he realised she was scoffing. "Will they miss you at the wedding, do you think?"

Yes. "Undoubtedly," he answered. "Will they miss you?"

"Without question," she muttered. But she still did not turn around.

Éomer craned his neck, trying to glimpse her face, but it was too dark, and she was deliberately facing the shadows. "It is no use hiding. I already know what you look like, my lady," he said. "Or do you prefer being called Idis? Because I think the young woman in the hall may take offence at you stealing her name."

Her shoulders tensed again; he saw the muscles work through the gaps in her hair. "You have met Idis."

"Yes. She is a handmaiden. You are not."

This time, she laughed. It was soft and breathy and exactly how he remembered it, causing his stomach to clench painfully. "What makes you say that?"

"Only a noblewoman would lie so effortlessly and yet be so bad at it," he said, forcing himself to concentrate on her words and not the sound of her laugh. "You were too confident that your ruse had worked."

"But it did work," she said, still facing the darkness. "You never questioned me."

"Because you never questioned me."

Her face turned fractionally to face him, and the light from the fire licked at the hard line of her tense jaw. "What do you –"

"Princess?" The voice made them both jump, and Éomer whirled around as footsteps drew closer. It was Idis, and she seemed only slightly surprised to see the two of them standing together. "Oh, there you are," she sighed and curtseyed to Éomer before approaching the woman behind him, scolding, "I told you not to run off!"

Éomer was about to interrupt her, say they had not seen the Princess and tell her to leave, but then the woman behind him spoke, sounding chagrined. "I apologise, I was… distracted."

Slowly, he turned around in time to see Idis clicking her tongue and practically shoving a pair of gloves into the woman's hands. "Never mind what you were, Princess. Put those on, and let us return before the ceremony."

She obeyed almost mechanically, her eyes fixed on the floor. Idis was watching her, either deliberately ignoring Éomer or genuinely seeing no reason to pay him any attention. He barely noticed. Their distraction gave him time to look at them, really look, and suddenly it all made sense. Idis was deferent, stern, but polite to a fault: these, he knew, were the characteristics of a handmaiden. However, the woman beside her, with her cryptic words and sharp retorts, was anything but those things.

The woman who, he now realised, was wearing a tiara. It was ornate, silver, with two miniature swans carved out of the metal intertwining up her temples until their beaks met above the crown of her head, where they cradled a large, perfectly cut sapphire, the likes of which he had never seen before. Her eyes, he realised, had utterly distracted him in the hall, or he was sure he would have noticed it. He would have also noticed her perfect posture, showing off the elegant curve of her throat, which was decorated with a string of blue stones that matched the one in her crown and were the exact shade of her dress. He spotted a matching bracelet on her wrist, covered by the gloves she pulled on, and when he dragged his gaze away from her hands to her face, she was looking back at him, her eyes holding an apology he knew she would never voice.

Damn it all to hell.

Idis cleared her throat, and Éomer immediately looked away from Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, to face her. To her credit, her expression was perfectly blank. "You should join us, my lord," she said. "Your sister is nearly ready, and your guard is –"

"My king!"

It was almost comical how the green-eyed woman in front of him – Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth – froze at the sound of Éothain's voice, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as the guard skidded into the small corridor in front of them, breathing heavily.

"Did he just –" Lothíriel began, her voice raising with each syllable, but Éothain interrupted by jabbing a finger in her direction.

"You!" Éothain practically screeched, staring as if she were a ghost.

"Me? You!" she snapped back.

"What are you doing here?" Éothain demanded.

"Do not speak to her like that," said Idis sharply. "She is a Princess, sir."

"She is a what?" Éothain turned to stare at Éomer in what could only be described as abject horror. "My king, did you –"

"King?"

Her voice was too sharp to ignore now. It was a tone of authority he had only heard come from the mouths of people born with it; it was not something that could be taught. At her words, Idis and Éothain stared at their feet; Lothíriel, however, stared at him. For a moment, Éomer considered laughing. He could barely command silence the way she could, and he had been leading men for years.

But it did not matter.

Éomer stared back, refusing to back down. "Yes, Princess," he said evenly, and her gaze faltered, eyes shifting to a point above his left shoulder. "I think we have all heard enough. It is my sister's day. We will return to the wedding and discuss… this… at another time."

She nodded and, without a word, brushed past the two men and left the corridor. Idis remained frozen, her eyes darting between Éothain and Éomer, her mouth hanging open slightly. Éomer nodded to her and turned, gesturing towards Éothain to lead the way back to the hall, until he felt a slight pressure on his arm and realised Idis had caught his sleeve.

"Please," she said, so softly he had to strain his ears to hear her. "I – may I have a word?"

There was no reason to refuse. "I will follow you," he told Éothain, who seemed too confused to argue. Idis dropped his sleeve when they were alone, wringing her hands together instead.

"It was my fault," she blurted out. "It was – I was injured. I was going to die. She did it all, the lying and the journey, to save me. Please, do not think ill of her. She is good and kind, so kind, and we did not know you were a king, or we would have never done it."

Éomer folded his arms across his chest, suddenly ravenous for a drink and the silence and darkness that accompanied it. "It was you in the carriage." It was not a question. Idis nodded. Éomer sighed. "At least you survived, I suppose."

Despite his words, Idis seemed to hesitate, and then, to his surprise, she suddenly tugged at the collar of her dress, pulling it down over her shoulder and leaving it bare. Only, it was not bare. Jagged scars, faded with the aid of Elf-medicine, were etched into her skin, criss-crossing over her shoulder and down the front and back, the true extent of them covered by her clothes. Éomer winced at the sight. She smiled grimly. "I really would have died," she said. "There was no hope. We had just lost the Princess' mother, and my injuries were far worse. The masters began to give me draughts for the pain, hoping I would pass in peace. But my lady never gave up. We heard that the new King of Gondor was a great healer, and she took every bleeding man, woman and child who had no hope with us. On the road, she gave me her gown and circlet and bade me call myself the Princess of Dol Amroth should something happen to her. She knew, you see, that people would care for our carriage more if they thought the only daughter of the Prince was the one injured and not a mere handmaiden."

"And then she took your name." Idiot, reckless, genius girl.

"Yes. And when I recovered, she told me about you," Idis said, and Éomer could not control the look of surprise that crossed his face. "She did not know you were the King of Rohan, although she did suspect you were keeping something from her. But this…" she chuckled nervously. "It was… well, the idea is still laughable. But we needed help, and you saved us. If you had not intervened, I would have died. She would have died too, although she is too proud to admit it. She is also too proud to thank you," she added. "But I am not. I will forever be in your debt for what you did for me. For us."

"You owe me no thanks," said Éomer. The chain around his neck, always so cool to the touch, was now burning a hole through his skin. "And she was not too proud to thank me."

He did not know why he did it, but perhaps it was because here, finally, was someone could answer the question he had been dying to ask for months. Idis, he could tell, did not often lie; her eyes had practically watered when she had apologised to him for something out of her control. It was why he took the pendant out from where it was safely hidden under his shirt, letting it rest against his chest. In the light of the torches, it glinted viciously. He tried not to notice how the swan pattern was the same as he had seen on the Princess' crown.

Idis' eyes widened at the sight, and she practically took a step back. "She…" she trailed off. "I thought she had lost it."

"In a manner of speaking," said Éomer. Idis was no longer smiling. She looked as though she had seen a ghost. Éomer frowned. "Does this mean something I should be aware of?"

"I – I do not know," Idis stammered. "The custom is old; hardly anyone but royalty practices it anymore. They are symbols of trust, only given once never to be returned. I know very little of it, but either way she should not have given it to you, my lord. Her father has been asking about it. It is a tradition that the Prince takes very seriously. I thought…" she trailed off and bit her lip. "When he mentioned it before the wedding, we assumed he meant for her to present it to you when your betrothal was to be announced."

This would not do. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, Éomer took off the necklace and held it out to Idis, who snatched it from his hand and pocketed it hurriedly, as though someone was watching them. It had not been heavy, but Éomer felt its loss almost immediately. It had been a comfort, and its absence was… unnerving.

But he could not accept it.

"I have done nothing to earn her trust, not this way," said Éomer. "I lied to her."

"A fact she will understand, once she has calmed down," said Idis. "Besides, she lied to you too."

"At least she lied to protect a friend. Had you done for my people what you did for hers, I would have not let anyone stop me from saving your life either."

His response surprised the handmaiden, he could tell. She blinked slowly, and then offered him a small, shy smile. "Thank you, my lord. That is… you are a good man."

It was a simple statement, but coming from a woman he did not know, who had clearly suffered during the war and received nothing for her bravery, meant more to Éomer than he was sure Idis realised. He did not smile back, because the action somehow felt foreign to him, but he did press her hand between both of his own. "Give it back to her, and tell her I would like an audience with her," he said, and Idis immediately looked hesitant. "You can be there, if you wish. I only want to… explain myself."

Idis bit her lip but nodded, something in her eyes telling him that, if nothing else, he had at least gained one friend in Dol Amroth's court that day.

"Are you alright?"

Lothíriel ignored Idis' whispered inquiry, keeping her gaze fixed on the front of the room, where her cousin and his bride were exchanging vows. She refused to ask Idis why it had taken her ten extra minutes to follow her, why the King of Rohan had taken ten more to enter the hall, and why his guard was now shooting her looks of what seemed like amusement from across the room.

She was also trying very hard not to stare at the King of Rohan, who stood directly across the aisle from her, his own gaze fixed on his sister.

She was an idiot.

How had she not noticed? Power, the raw magnetic kind confined to kings and rulers, dripped from his stance, and it was hard to imagine what Amrothos had said was true, that he had never been meant to take the crown. True, he had looked kinder when they had first met, and now he seemed to frown permanently. Clearly, the responsibilities of his new title weighed heavily upon him. He had not smiled once, and she had observed him throughout the ceremony. Not even when his sister turned to him and kissed his hand, tears streaming down her face. Not when Faramir grasped his forearm in a sign of camaraderie. Not even when the King of Gondor rested a hand on his shoulder. His face was hard, stern, unmoving. His hands stayed folded behind his back, or one rested on his sword. They seemed ill at ease anywhere else. Of course, he was a soldier. A warrior. King or not, that part of him had not changed.

It was still so unbelievable. Those hands had killed people, enemies, Orcs, Corsairs… she saw his fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as the officiant said a few words in Sindarin that he did not recognise, and the flash of a gold ring on his thumb caught her eye. He had not worn it before, all those months ago. She would have noticed, because she had spent much time thinking about those hands. His hands, which had been kind when he had touched her, gentler even than the healers' who, to this day, six months later, applied salves and creams and herbs to her scar, hoping to vanquish it from her skin. He had held her bloodied, cut-up hand and helped her stand after the Orcs had attacked her. He had been the one to bandage it first, albeit crudely, as a sign to his men that she was not to be harmed, that she could be trusted. And he had touched her again when she had felt the memories of the siege begin to overwhelm her. His rough, calloused hands, war-torn and weathered, had drawn her out of her descent into the darkness, and she had never been able to forget it.

Refusing to marry the King of Rohan had been an easy thought. But how was she supposed to refuse the man she had been dreaming about for months?

It was a question she mulled over as the ceremony ended, as the bride and groom made their way into the courtyard outside to greet the city's citizens, and as she followed her father into the ballroom where the feast would be held. Music played, people laughed, and someone kept handing her glasses of wine that she dutifully took one sip from and discreetly handed off to servers until finally, she felt a tap on her shoulder. The sudden touch made her stomach practically drop into her feet.

But it was only Elphir.

"A dance," he said, holding out his hand. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open. Her eldest brother, the proudest man she had ever met, had finally broken his silence of two months.

But only in an environment where he knew very well she could not refuse to speak to him.

Rebellion coursed through her veins, and Lothíriel folded her arms across her chest. "That was not a question."

The vein above his eyebrow twitched. "Please, sister, a dance?"

She wanted to say no. But there were too many people around, so she gave him her hand, and he spun her onto the dance floor effortlessly. Despite herself, she smiled a little, because no one was as good a dancer as Elphir. She still held fond memories of when, at age twelve, he had taught her every perfectly executed step they now made as they whirled across the floor in time to the music.

For the four minutes they danced, Lothíriel allowed herself to forget the blue-eyed man she could feel watching her from across the room, practically boring a hole into the back of her head. She forgot that the five words she had said earlier were the first words she had spoken to her eldest brother, her biggest protector and saviour and defender, in months. She forgot that her father was eyeing her every time she walked past him, clearly waiting for the chance to introduce her to the man whom she was expected, without a doubt, to accept as her husband.

And she hated that she no longer seemed to find that task quite as horrific as it had been that morning.

"Have you been introduced to the king yet?" asked Elphir. The delightful spell of silence and forgetfulness she had cast around them broke, and Lothíriel sighed.

"Not formally," she said, avoiding her brother's eye. "Father will do it soon."

"What do you think of him?"

"I have not spoken to him."

"But you saw him," he said, and Lothíriel tried not to wince. "What do you make of him?"

"I suppose he is handsome," she said, deciding that was the safest thing to say. Elphir did not need to know exactly how true that statement was.

"Is he?" Elphir frowned. "He does not smile."

Lothíriel quirked up an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"That is beside the point."

"What is the point?"

Elphir sighed. "He is a good man, sister, but he is so… serious."

Coming from Dol Amroth's heir, the man who had gone nearly his entire wedding day – the celebration of a love match no less – without smiling once, the comment almost made Lothíriel laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle it. "Am I a clown, brother, that I require people to laugh in exchange for my company?"

"You laugh more than he does."

That made her laugh. "I think it would be better if you simply said you do not like him."

Elphir smiled stiffly. "I like him well enough. I do not think he is good enough for my sister, that is all."

The sister you refuse to speak to. "Amrothos likes him."

"Amrothos has terrible judgement."

"I see." The music ended, and she dropped her brother's hand. "Thank you for the dance."

Elphir did not answer. Lothíriel curtseyed before stepping away. To her slight irritation, Elphir followed her to the refreshment table, where she picked up another glass of wine and took a much larger sip than any she had had all night.

She would need it, if the conversation went where she suspected it would go.

"I am merely saying," said Elphir, as if she had not just excused herself. "That you should consider this more carefully."

"You speak as though there is a choice in the matter," said Lothíriel. "Tell me, Elphir, when was the last time Prince Imrahil gave you an order that sounded like a choice?"

"No one would ever make you marry someone you did not want, Lothíriel."

"Wants are immaterial, as is love," said Lothíriel. "He seems a perfectly respectable man, notwithstanding the title. I see no reason to doubt Father's word that he will be a good husband."

She was being contrarian on purpose, and Elphir knew it. If anyone in her family would know how truly dissatisfied she was with the current arrangement, it would be Elphir, without her having to voice it. She had never had to tell him anything, after all; he had always known, and it had irked her since she was a child. But stating it now would mean agreeing with him, and that was something she had never done. So, she sipped her wine and smiled at the people milling about, willing her brother to leave her alone before she decided to announce her engagement to the king in public simply to spite him.

The thought of how red his face would turn was almost tempting enough to make her do it.

"Rohan is far. The language is foreign. You would have no one there," said Elphir. Lothíriel took another gulp of wine, trying to ignore how her heart had begun to race at his words. It was all true, and they were facts she could not dwell upon. Not yet, not when she could still feel those blue eyes watching her, probably staring at the godforsaken tiara she had been forced to wear for the special occasion, the one she never dared touch because it was too elaborate and old and just not her.

"Was I this bad when you decided to marry?" she asked lightly. "I ought to apologise to Reyna if I was."

Elphir shook his head. "That was different."

"Why? Because you were allowed to fall in love?"

Elphir recoiled as if slapped, treating her words as an accusation. "You are upset."

Her temper flared. "I am not a child anymore," she snapped. "I will not be treated as a twelve-year-old who requires toys, familiarity, or comforts to amuse herself. I have a duty, and I see no reason you must dissuade me from it when we both know it cannot be undone. Now leave me alone."

Elphir opened his mouth to argue, but she continued to glare at him, and he closed it, giving her a stiff bow and leaving her in peace. And Lothíriel threw back the rest of her wine and returned to her duty of playing the host, perhaps making an unnecessary effort to appear particularly agreeable to everyone in the room, simply because she could still feel a certain man with blue eyes watching her from across the hall, never letting her out of his sight.