Veiled Hearts
In the wake of the broken Siege of Minas Tirith, all those who resided in the White City were grateful yet full of despair. For they were alive, yes, but their minds were burdened by a future of Shadow.
Still, hope remained in their hearts, stubborn as a deep-rooted weed growing forth between the rubble of the shattered walls of the Rammas Echor. That collective hope was greedy for the meagre light that managed to break through the dark clouds overcast.
The Race of Men was stubborn, indeed. Despite their severe losses, they kept their head down and continued their labours. They buried their dead and they mourned their losses. They healed the broken and reunited with loved ones. They rebuilt, replenished, comforted and wept. They looked out ahead towards the East and they strengthened their resolve to continue the fight against the Darkness.
And so the dwellers of Minas Tirith found courage with and for one another, as everyone did their part. Their resilience was unwavering, though their hearts were as heavy as the stones that had been used to build – and break, their home and refuge.
Even the smallest of efforts held its weight. From digging a grave for a fallen soldier to offering a cup of water to a weeping widow.
For that reason, smoke billowed from the chimney of the Apothecary Wing of the Houses of Healing that day.
Another batch of poultice had just been readied for the patients at the Houses of Healing, and it had been securely stored in a ceramic pot.
Lothíriel washed her hands in the basin and moved to lean out of the window. Like all the Healers and their assistants, she was tired. The brittle respite from the war after the Battle of Pelennor Fields meant that the Houses of Healing were overwhelmed with patients requiring attention in various degrees.
She had only a little experience in Healing that could be of actual use, but she was well-versed and trained in herb lore. The young lady was glad to help. Besides it being her duty as a Princess, it was a beneficial way to keep her anxious mind busy.
And busy she had been.
The few minutes to herself were much needed.
The air was stuffy inside the stillroom in the House of Remedies, however, the air outside the window overlooking the herb garden was heavy with the pungent smell of smoke, dust, blood, and sorrow. She closed her eyes and let the wan rays of the sun touch her face.
Just a bit more, and then she would prepare the tinctures the Healers had asked for.
True to her resolve, she opened her eyes and was about to walk away from the window, when movement caught her attention. A lone figure all but stumbled into the herb garden from the doorway of the wing where the more distinctive patients were looked after.
He moved to hold on to the parapet visible from the left-hand side of her view. He was only a few feet away from her window.
The silence was heavy, brimming with unspoken pain and pent-up sorrow.
He swayed back and forth slightly for a few moments before bending forward over the parapet, hands still clinging to stone.
A choked sob.
A gasp.
And then a gut-wrenching wail echoed from him through the otherwise empty garden, and he sank on the floor. Then, leaning his back to the short wall, the man let his head fall against it. His bearded face was contorted with anguish, and he sobbed quietly, one hand over his brow.
Here the man had find a private place to release his profound grief, and she was intruding upon it.
Lothíriel moved further out of his sight, feeling slightly guilty, but she continued to look at him with worry and fascination.
He clearly was a distinguished warrior and leader from the Riddermark. His long, partially tied-back blonde hair and the visually striking armour he was wearing were proof enough. Stains of blood and dirt did not reduce the splendid designs of motifs and carvings on the plates and leathers of his protective gear.
Lothíriel had no trouble imagining the same man, earnest in his sadness, to be equally forthright during battles.
With his imposing stature, wild hair, and elaborate armour he would have made a terrible and beautiful sight out on the battlefield.
And as she gazed upon his crumpled form, she wondered what loss had broken this man down, quaking with quieted sobs and gasps.
What terror had this man seen while at war?
Her heart ached for him as she caught sight of the tear tracks through the dirt on his bearded face.
He stayed put for a while, and she too continued to watch him soundlessly, yet eagerly for every detail of his being. Slowly he seemed to come to himself and his tears too had subsided. Eventually, he rubbed his face roughly and leapt to his feet, his armour ringing clear in the quiet of the herb garden.
He gripped the parapet and heaved a great sigh. And then he did something that Lothíriel did not expect.
Softly, in a deep, clear voice he sang a slow and beautiful lament in a language she did not know. His voice cracked and faltered in some places, colouring the song with raw emotions.
Her breath caught in her throat and she stared at him, enthralled. Yes, it was a lament, but she could also feel pride and love, and her heart ached once more. His loss was profound.
Too soon the song ended and he chose to remain quiet to look down at the ongoings of the Fifth Circle that were visible from where he stood.
A sudden urge overcame Lothíriel to do something. Right now he was alone, but perhaps she could offer some comfort to him, like she had done for patients of the Houses of Healing. If she could not talk to him, then perhaps she could help him clean up a little. It was what she did best and it might set him at ease.
Having made her decision, she turned around to the basin and promptly bumped into something solid.
Startled, she looked up at the figure and saw her eldest brother looking down at her. Elphir, the heir of Dol Amroth.
"Brother!"
His expression was unreadable, and he stepped around her to look through the window. With a frown, he turned back and asked: "Sister, have you been staring at Éomer King all this time?"
"I was not staring, dear Elphir." She said as smoothly as possible while she struggled to keep both shock and embarrassment from her face.
That man was the King!
"I was trying to see if I could be of service to him in some way. And... is the King of the Riddermark not someone more of Ada's age?"
She did not look at him for his answer and instead gathered a few items that she thought would be useful to the man... King in the herb garden. A washcloth, a drinking cup, a pitcher of water, and a loaf of bread stuffed with nuts and fruit. The bread was from her own, untouched, morning meal.
"What you heard just now was part of the song of Théoden King. He died valiantly in the Battle of Pelennor Fields today. His nephew, Éomer son of Éomund, the man you see there, is now the King of Rohan."
She halted her movements, and she looked down solemnly. "May the forefathers of Théoden King welcome him in their Halls. "
Feeling his incessant stare, Lothíriel turned to look at her brother. His face was still unreadable. Like their father, he was stern and wise. She knew that there was something on his mind, so she quietly waited for him to speak.
"The reason why he is here... Unbeknownst to even him, Éomer King's sister joined their cavalry," he said, slowly, "Lady Éowyn, she slew the Witch-King of Angmar in an effort to save her uncle. Though she defeated him, she was wounded severely. Théoden King gave his last breath while being held by his nephew. When Éomer came upon her after that, he succumbed to reckless abandon, thinking his sister dead. She was supposed to be in Edoras, you see."
She pressed her hands against her mouth and glanced at the window in an attempt to reconcile the story with the person.
"Fortunately, our father realized that she was alive, close to death, however. And she is now in recovery in the wing whence Éomer King probably came."
"The Valar be praised, what a relief!"
"Yes, praised be." He replied softly and fell quiet, still staring at her.
He then took two steps towards her and gently gripped her shoulders to look her deeply in the eyes.
Finally, she could see that he was both troubled and exasperated. "Lothíriel. You should have left for Dol Amroth weeks ago –"
"Elphir!"
"Listen to me. As you are still here, you must stay hidden. I cannot guarantee your safety here."
"You cannot guarantee my safety anywhere, Elphir. It is the end of times."
"Nay, not yet. Dol Amroth needed you to rule in our stead."
"Siloril is doing fine there. I could not bear the thought of being far away from you and Amrothos, Erchirion and Ada."
"And we are worried because you are here."
Lothíriel pressed her lips together, frustrated at her brother's inability to understand her. "Here I am of use, Elphir. More than I could be back home."
He shook his head, in his own turn weary of his sister's obstinacy.
"It is as it is, Lothíriel."
"Indeed."
"Just stay in these quarters unless it becomes dire. Sir Feruion will guard over you and if necessary, take you elsewhere."
She nodded. "I understand, I shall stay hidden."
"And do not approach Éomer King."
She stared at him in disbelief. "You do not trust him?"
"I trust him with my life," replied the man fervently, "we all do. He is beyond valiant and loyal."
"Then what harm is there if I do approach him?"
"It is because you might be put into the sight of any spies of the Enemy."
Lothiriel struggled to understand the underlying meaning and her face showed it.
Her brother sighed deeply. "Ada was supposed to have this talk with you, but I can act in his stead, I think."
He sat down and had her sit next to her.
"In case Ada and I do not return to you... If… when you and Éomer King survive this war, then it is our father's hope that you two are betrothed. For the sake of Rohan and Gondor."
"I see." Lothiriel felt her heart stutter in panic at the prospect of such a daunting union. Being a Queen to a foreign nation.
Yet it made sense.
As a Princess of Dol Amroth, she was raised for leadership. This was her purpose.
Or it used to be.
The future was shrouded in uncertainty, and she could not think too far ahead yet.
"I suppose Ada does not want us to act prematurely in such matters."
He patted her hand, almost in a father-like fashion. "You are wise, dear sister."
"Thank you, Elphir. I am grateful that you do not keep me in the dark." She smiled softly at him and kissed both his cheeks. "I do love you."
"And I love you." A thin smile cracked at his lips. His sister saw a hint of sadness creep through. It was the looming Shadow ever present in the eyes and minds of the Men of the West.
She stood up, wishing to do something to dispel the anxious mood that had settled upon them like a thick blanket on an airless summer night. Quickly she placed the pitcher of water in one of his hands and the package with the rest of the items in the other.
"Elphir, could you please tend to him in my stead? "
He obliged and allowed himself to be ushered through the door. Lingering though, he gazed once more on his sister and he quietly spoke: "We are in desperate times, Lothíriel. We will go to battle once more soon. We... do not know who will return to you, if anyone does at all. Keep its burden light, do not soften your heart for him or anyone else new yet."
They shared a look, and she murmured her agreement.
After closing the door, she peered out of the window to look at her brother and the horse-lord.
Elphir helped Éomer freshen himself up. Then her brother filled the cup with water and placed the pitcher next to the King on the stone bench. With a pat on the King's shoulder, he took his leave of him and went to meet his father.
Lothíriel watched Éomer unwrap and eat the bread. When he was done, he finished the water and placed the cup and the pitcher neatly back on the bench on top of the wrapper.
Then he stood and he cleared his throat. With a start, Lothíriel realized that Éomer was staring expectantly at her window.
Did he know that she had been watching him? Was he waiting for her to show herself?
She adjusted her clothes and quickly veiled the lower half of her face with the hem of her head covering. Then she moved into his line of sight.
At once, his hazel-green eyes met her grey ones, and she felt her stomach swoop.
In a deep, clear voice, he said in Westron, "Thank you for your care, milady."
A slight tremor passed through her body. Lothíriel was not able to speak and only bowed her head to him.
He too inclined his head and then he went back, she assumed, to where his sister was resting.
She took a minute to stop staring where he once stood.