Chapter 13
Lothíriel's awakening was far from glorious, the darkness beyond the narrow window suggesting it was still night. Pulling herself from the cot the woman had but a moment of peace before the memories of the prior day flooded back; her father, the pronouncement of war against Mordor and her interaction with Éomer. To say her decision to give the King of Rohan such a ridiculous nickname haunted her would be an understatement. The more she pondered it the less she was convinced it was as wise as it felt in the moment. She was caught off guard at his innocent almost bashful question and she'd been rigorous in the maintenance of a veil of anonymity, at least around anyone who didn't already know her identity. So committed to the goal of obscurity she blurted out the Sindarin moniker her brothers hadn't called her for at least a decade without thought.
"You halfwit," she muttered to herself as she tied the apron on, circled and pinned her hair in a low chignon.
The rest of her shift the night before was consumed with preparing the men who were able-bodied to ride with the Host and assisting the Warden in determining who was better off abed. Surprisingly Éowyn remained asleep for the entirety of her shift and she did not see her brother after their meeting. So consuming were her duties that she hadn't had the opportunity to spare it a thought then. But now, after sleep and time, it became the focus of her reflections. By Gondorian court standards the very interaction and its privacy would be scandalous, let alone the content of their discussion. And yet, Lothíriel couldn't help but smile in the confines of her chamber at the memory of his relief when she agreed to his request.
Departing the room she was greeted with an emptied healing ward, reminiscent of the call to arms from the siege. She took a few breaths in the solitude of the corridor, preparing her heart for the fear she knew would arise as she bid farewell to her family. Realizing it was shortly before dawn rather than true night as she surmised the woman felt a surge of panic. Had they already left? No. The march would start just after dawn. Catching Ioreth in the hallway between bays, Lothíriel requested a brief recess from her rounds to leave the House of Healing, which was granted with a knowing smile.
Since her arrival Lothíriel had not much ventured beyond the sixth level of the city and certainly not to the lower levels. Observing the destruction of the conflict up close was a strange experience, her thoughts jumping unbidden to what her brothers', father's and Halgeir's experiences must've been and the abject terror of war. She made her way down to the long line of stables on the second level, finding the stalls of the Swan Knights' horses quickly, despite the commotion of grooms, soldiers and servants. The flurry of activity was tense with anticipation, the expression on the men's faces grim and determined.
"There you are, little swan." Turning in the aisle she found herself face to face with Amrothos, saddle in his arms and a bridle slung over one armored shoulder. She smiled as he fell in step with her, evading others as they walked to his horse's stall. "We were worried you'd sleep through our departure."
"Good morrow," she replied as they halted, accepting the bridle as he hefted the saddle to rest on the ledge of the half door. "Although it hardly feels good knowing you are leaving. Perhaps I should've remained asleep."
"One could hardly blame you." Amrothos regarded her kindly before opening the door and greeting his grey mare. Lothíriel watched the brother closest to her in age as he stroked the horse's face, greeting her in Sindarin. Of the siblings he bore the closest resemblance to their mother, the only one of the four with her sky-blue eyes. In his armor of Dol Amroth he struck a dashing figure, the silver of his plates flashing as they caught the torch light. It made her sad to think he did not have a sweetheart waiting for him. But then, she figured, it might make this leave-taking all the more difficult.
"Loth? Oy? Mithelphe?" Shaking her head with raised brows, she leveled her gaze realizing he was waiting for her to hand the saddle to him, both Amrothos and the mare regarding her with expectant stares.
"Yes," she hoisted the tack on her forearm, the length of the saddle exceeding her arm and steadied by her other hand. She passed it over to her brother as he adjusted the saddle pad before gently setting it on the horse's back, making it look no heavier than a towel. He glanced back at her as he worked and she knew some form of chastisement or decree was on its way.
"It is Father's wish that you do not stay in Minas Tirith if we fail in this." His voice was quiet but authoritative. Of all her siblings Amrothos was the most dictatorial with her, likely owing to her being the only one he could truly boss about with any influence.
"I've heard about the mountain pass to the north, which seems to be the preferred exit for the men of the city. And the Rohirrim."
"That may be," he replied as he slowly and gently pulled the girth up to buckle it to the saddle strap. "But Father would have you turn to the coast. There are men from Dol Amroth who remain and will escort you home."
"Amrothos, if this does not succeed there may not be a home."
"Perhaps but you will certainly not be safe here. It is too close to Mordor." He approached her with a solemn expression. "Finding passage to safety is our concern for you."
"I know. And if the Host of the West is defeated, I give you my oath that I will leave Minas Tirith."
"Father said -"
"Hail, Lord Amrothos!"
Both siblings turned to see a pair of Elven warriors outside the stall, helmets under their arms as they bowed before them. Returning the bow Imrahil's children then departed the stall to stand before the Elves, who Lothíriel realized were twins.
"Len suilon," Amrothos greeted them with a hand to his heart. "May I present my sister, Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Sister, the sons of Elrond of Rivendell have come to aid the Men of the West."
"Mae lovannen, my Lords," she stated as the brothers smiled. Although it was not her first interaction with Elves the woman was transfixed by their noble visages and regal bearings. These were the sons of royalty.
"Mae g'ovannen, Lady Lothíriel," one replied with a small bow. "I confess I did not expect to find a lady, much less the daughter of Prince Imrahil, in the city. I am Elrohir and this, my brother, Elladan."
"She is a healer in the city and has instrumental in the care of the men." Lothíriel cast her gaze to Amrothos, surprise written on her features at his compliment, which he ignored. "Though I dearly wish she were far from peril."
"That is our wish as well," Elladan put in with a kind smile. "You'll forgive our intrusion. We'd hoped to take counsel with your Lord Father but it seems it is time for family."
"We take our leave," added his brother. "Amrothos, let us find you in the company of the Prince when your farewells are concluded. My Lady." The twins bowed again as the siblings returned the sentiment with formal valedictions issued. Once they were alone again Lothíriel turned to her brother.
"Instrumental, hm?"
"I pray it does not go to your head," he muttered as he looked over her head and beckoning someone over. "Father and Erchirion approach."
Indeed, amidst the din the tall Prince and his son moved through the assembly toward them, both with solemn expressions. Stepping back into his mare's stall, Amrothos held the half door for his siblings and father and closed it for a measure of privacy once they were inside. For her part the grey mare paid them no mind, nibbling at the remnants of hay as the family crowded into her stall.
"Daughter," Imrahil held his arms open for Lothíriel, encircling her once she was within and gently holding her. "This parting holds much sorrow," he murmured as she rested her cheek against his pauldroned shoulder.
"I delayed it long enough, coming with you to Minas Tirith," she answered quietly as she stepped away.
"Is that why you insisted on joining?" Erchirion put in with a familiar grin as she moved to hug him. "Just to put off farewells. Well, dear sister, we are met with the day at last."
"A dark day," she agreed, arms around his neck. "Why does this one feel so much more certain than our parting before the battle of the city?"
"Because it is." Amrothos' voice was grim as they turned to look at him. "I know you hold the King returned in lofty esteem, Father. I do not dishonor your faith in him. It is… Well, I ought spare our sister these evil thoughts."
"You are not alone in them," Lothíriel assured him as she pulled him into an embrace. "We are none of us blind to the prospect of victory. You three least of all."
"We love you, little swan," Amrothos murmured tightening his grip on her before releasing.
"And I love you. Dearly," she whispered before falling silent. They stood together, her hands grasping her brothers' as she looked to their father.
"We gladly embark on this leave-taking with your love, Daughter. Let not your hope wane and shed no tears for us. If we are not to return remember us in the lament of the harp."
"Farewell, Ada," she murmured, tears welling in her eyes as she met their gazes, each glassy pools of unspoken sorrow. They gave her one final hug and she departed the stall, turning down the aisle and walking away swiftly.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from weeping amid the bustle around her as men moved to fetch horses and get soldiers mounted. She traversed the wide aisles of the barn, the mounts of Dol Amroth giving way to Gondorian steeds and finally to the horses of Rohan. This was not the direction she'd come from and, turning around, gathered she had to backtrack to leave the immense barn.
Annoyed with her absentmindedness Lothíriel frowned, wanting to return to the House of Healing and focus on her work. The labyrinth of Minas Tirith's stable did her no favors as she crossed into a nearly empty aisle, the horses and riders already moved out to begin the procession. Pausing to cross her arms and worry a fingernail the woman realized she did not wish to watch them leave the city, the very thought a painful knot in her stomach.
"Lady Mithelphe?"
Lothíriel looked up from her thoughts, the concerned and slightly surprised visage of King Éomer greeting her. Her dark brows rose as she dropped her arms and offered him a quick curtsey. He held his sword's scabbard in one hand, the adorned helmet under his other arm. He was dressed for war, much the same as he'd been when she beheld him at Éowyn's side, though his armor was now clean. His hair was brushed, and a small portion was tied away from his face.
"My Lord King," she answered, eyes glancing around instinctively. "I'm… I am lost."
"Indeed," he replied guardedly. "You are a fair distance from the Healing Houses."
Grey eyes caught his sharply, but she found no derision in his gaze. Her expression softened as she nodded.
"So I am. I'll not delay you further," she moved to depart with a respective glance toward the exit of the aisle behind him. If she could just see herself out without having to answer why she was in stables it would be better. For both of them.
"It is a welcomed delay," he answered, interrupting her exodus. "Has Éowyn awoken?"
"She hadn't when I left."
"Good. The Warden ensured me the tonic would keep her abed for some time. It is my hope to be well and away before she stirs."
"You would not want to share farewells?" Despite wanting to make a quick escape Lothíriel could not help but wonder aloud, grey eyes catching him in a shocked stare. He watched her for a moment before shaking his head, shifting the helmet under his arm.
"I much desire to bid her thus but I fear she would be too cross or adamant to join us that it would sour any leave-taking."
"She'll not be pleased either way."
"No, my Lady. She will not."
"Shall I bear your goodbye to her?"
"If she'll listen," he murmured with the hint of a smile. When she cautiously returned it he took a step toward her, his volume dropping despite their privacy. "You must forgive me for yesterday eve. It was improper of me to draw you away and speak so freely. And to ask your name like that – it impugns my honor as King."
"Do not think of it so," she answered with a frown.
"I… I do not know if I will… if we will make it through this battle," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, hazel eyes searching her face. Although she should feel uncomfortable by his presence and the nature of their conversation she was caught by his gaze and their closeness. "I suppose I wanted…" he looked to the side before returning to her face, "Forgive me, Lady Mithelphe."
"If we are bearing our confessions," she murmured gently. "Then I will lend you mine and our scales will be balanced. I gave you a false name when first you asked – a pet name from my youth." Éomer watched her, his emotions guarded as he waited. Taking a breath she continued. "I do not wish to be dishonest with you. Not now when we are parted without promise of return. I am Lothíriel. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth is my father." She watched recognition build in his gaze, his lips parted, brows raising. He looked her up and down; the simple spun kirtle, apron and linen cap clearly not lost him.
"You are Imrahil's daughter?"
"Yes."
"But you… how came you to be here in the midst of war?"
"Resolve not unlike your sister's, though only a fraction of courage by comparison."
Éomer then laughed, though sadness was not entirely absent. She stared at him, this reaction entirely unexpected as he shook his head.
"Forgive me, my Lady. Here I thought you were healer, a laborer from the village. You are not only a noble Lady - which makes our meetings all the more improper – but you are kin to a man I greatly respect and admire. This is either a great fortune or a terrible fate."
Lothíriel studied him with a furrowed brow. Of all the reactions laughter was startling considering the subject matter. She wasn't sure if he was scornful or simply aghast. Part of her felt indignant that he would permit the impropriety if he believed her a member of the working class but another was relieved he knew her identity. Deciding it was far too complicated to parse the threads of his response the dark-haired woman gave a brief cant of her head.
"I was wrong to deceive you. I shall take no more of your time. My Lord," she moved away, turning to leave as he quickly laid his helmet and sword down to step toward her.
"My Lady." His hand reached out, encircling hers at the wrist as she spun on the sole of her foot back to him. Their forward momentum brought them closer than either intended, her hand against his chest plate to keep from knocking into him as his other hand came to her upper arm.
"My Lady," he said again, this time his voice a faint whisper as he looked down at her. From this vantage she could appreciate his height; though she was tall among the women of her ilk she had to tilt her head back slightly to make eye contact with him. Rationale told her – nay begged her to untangle herself, bid him adieu and flee from the King of Rohan but his eyes, no longer able to contain his grief and emotion, held her rooted to the stone.
"My Lord - King…"
"Éomer," he corrected softly. He still clasped her wrist, his fingers moving against her skin until he held her hand as a lord should, her fingers perched along the edge of his hand, his thumb against them gently. His touch jolted her heart, its beating like galloping hooves in her ears.
"I must leave soon. I do not know if I will see you again." His voice was quiet, melancholy returning as he raised her hand between them to his chest, his gaze dropping to them. "But if I should return… I would find you."
No words came to her, instead she nodded, their faces still close. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing them to the back of her hand as he closed his eyes. The chaste kiss of a soldier. It felt proper. It felt restrained. The woe of their parting mingled with the grief of the whole venture; she was doomed to watch the men she loved ride to their inevitable ruin. A kiss on the hand was courtly but it had no place here.
Éomer opened his eyes, lowering his hand, releasing hers and taking a step back. It was her turn to advance on him, her arms coming around him despite the bulk of the armor between them. He froze and she could imagine those dark brows drawing curiously over his eyes but the tenseness lasted less than a moment as he wrapped his arms around her in kind. Her hand lay against the back of her head, cheek against his neck as she inhaled the scent of earth, horse and firewood – the selfsame lingering aroma from her bed when he'd slept there days ago. Éomer's hands stayed upon her back, one sliding lower across her waist to pull her closer. She felt his beard against her neck and collarbone as he sighed.
They stood together in the empty aisle, the pale tendrils of dawn filtering through the stall windows as morning broke. The sound of horns peeled from the walls of the city, bringing the pair to their senses. Extracting herself from his arms she caught him quickly streaking his cheek against a pauldron. Averting her eyes to afford him privacy, she adjusted the linen cap and tucked strands of loose hair back into the coronet.
"Be well and keep safe, my Lord Éomer," she murmured as he bent down to fetch his sword and helmet from the ground. "I'll look for your return."
"Thank you for sharing your name with me," he replied as he buckled the great sword of Rohirric Kings to the belt at his waist. "I'll promise to use it in the company of others. But I think I shall know you evermore as Mithelphe, if you can forgive me for it." Lothíriel smiled as he looked at her, prepared to depart and awaiting her departing words.
"Come back to me and I will be Mithelphe if you wish it."
"Farewell, my Lady of Dol Amroth."
A/N:
Sindarin Translation:
Len suilon - I greet you
Mae lovannen - Well met (formal)
Mae g'ovannen - Well met