Chapter 18

"You've never had pipeweed?!" Merry's incredulous tone was punctuated by wide eyes and quick shake of his head, the tawny curls quivering. Lothíriel could only tilt her own head with a half shrug as the Hobbit made a tsk sound.

"I couldn't even tell you what it is."

"A shame, if I may say so."

"It wouldn't be appropriate anyhow. Smoking is a man's wont," she explained as Merry shook his head again, settling back into his chair and looking out over the balcony to the dark fields beyond. They sat together outside his room as the last tendrils of light disappeared. The twilight swathed them in a navy-violet haze, the stars above twinkling. Had their hearts not been so full of tension it might have felt peaceful.

"Our ladies of the Shire are fond of the smoke," he put in with a glance her direction. "There's nothing like a pipe awaiting you after a long day. Give me Old Toby and an ale – I'd be a mighty-pleased Hobbit, I would. Though spring evenings such as this call for Southern Star."

"What is it?" the healer inquired before taking a sip of her tea. The dark braid fell over her shoulder as she cradled the cup and enjoyed its warmth. They'd been sitting together for the better part of an hour, sometimes chatting other times sitting in comfortable silence.

"Couldn't rightly tell you the name of the plant," Merry conceded as he shifted in his chair. "Pipeweed's all I've ever known it as, aside from the varieties. It's a leafy thing, as you might expect. It has flowers but I can't recall the color. White or yellow? And it's got a nice smell, as my nose recalls."

As Lothíriel listened her gaze was drawn reflexively to the eastern horizon. Though she heard the Hobbit as he continued describing the plant she found her thoughts were far from their topic. So had the days gone, all within the city putting their focus on tasks to keep the hours moving. The evenings, however, were spent in quiet and careful contemplation. It seemed no one wished to speak their thoughts aloud, though they were all thinking the same.

"My Lady?"

"I'm sorry," she smiled at him apologetically as he waved his hand. "I'm afraid my mind drifted."

"It's alright," he replied amiably, though his voice sobered. "It's been days without news. I do not know when we'd even know of the outcome, but I fear each day brings us closer to that which we dread."

"Indeed. They should be reaching the Black Gate soon. Another day or so, if my father predicted correctly. Although it depends on speed of the Host and how long they've lingered in Ithilien."

"If I know Aragorn he's pushed on with as little delay as can be managed."

"I am still in awe of his return. That is, that he is our King."

"You and I together," Merry answered with a grin. "But there's no better man for the job, I wager. Besides your cousin."

"True enough. But he'd reject it," she murmured before adding: "He wants only a quiet life. It would be a burden upon his shoulders, though he would bear it nobly."

"Will he stay on in the city if Aragorn is crowned?"

Lothíriel pondered this for a moment while taking another sip of her tea, the liquid warming the tension in her insides as she swallowed. She paused before answering, willing her muscles to relax.

"I do not know. Perhaps. He would be Steward still, should the King depart for a time."

"He ought ask the Lady Éowyn to stay with him."

"Had he?"

"Aye! He's clearly besotted with her. He's spent the last several days at her side in the gardens. And he gets that far-off look in his eyes when he isn't with her. Best take her by his side and call it done."

"It's not that simple," the Princess replied with a smile.

"Why not? Does she not fancy him?"

"Oh, I suspect she harbors the most tender of feelings for him. But she may be promised to a lord of Rohan."

"I doubt that."

"All the same, there are expectations of both within their countries. They would be well matched, but it may not be their fate."

"That's bollocks." Lothíriel's grey gaze caught the Hobbit's disdainful snort as she chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"What of you, Lady Lothíriel. Are you promised to someone?"

The woman dropped her gaze, the blue blanket on her lap suddenly fascinating. Silence hung between them until Merry looked at her, his expression abashed if not a touch curious.

"I didn't mean to pry, my Lady."

"I am not promised," she answered with a light smile. "The growing threat of Mordor saw to delaying any betrothal, though I've been of age for some time. To be truthful I spent many years considering myself an early devotee of the Maidens of Mercy, but I was –"

"Forgive me," he interrupted, his attention now solely upon her, brows drawn. "Maidens of Mercy?"

"Yes, the female order of She Who Weeps. Do you not have such associations in the Shire?"

"Not that I've ever heard of."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed it was pervasive across the land. It is a fellowship of women devoted to the acts of compassion and quiet contemplation."

"Are they healers?"

"Some are, though in most towns and cities healers are their own order. The Maidens of Mercy see to supporting those in mourning. They wash and prepare the dead and sing the songs of passing. In the days of old they were established within the realms of Men to provide counsel and compassion. Maidens of Mercy take no husbands and bear no children, though I think the order will accept women who have done both as long as they cast away their prior lives."

"You wanted this life for yourself?" Lothíriel caught his gaze, surprised by the disbelief in his voice. Merry blushed and followed up with: "You're the daughter of a Prince. Would you not have a fine life before you?"

"Yes," she answered with a smile, smoothing the blanket across her lap as her cheeks warmed as well. "I suppose I always fancied myself capable of making decisions about my future. Not that I would join the order to oppose my father. But I first saw the Maidens at work as a girl and I was so enthralled by their presence and bearings I was convinced it was my future."

"And now?"

"Now… I see I was naïve." The woman looked away, voice dropping as she continued, watching the eastern sky. "I understand my role as the Prince's daughter and a lady of Dol Amroth. If, by some grace, the Host of the West is triumphant alliances will take precedence. Securing the fiefdoms of Gondor will be more than ceremonial, especially when the King is installed."

"I confess I don't understand all the politicking among Men," Merry answered with a grin as she looked at him. "But I suspect you would make a fine Maiden of Mercy. Or Lady of some great house of Men."

"Thank you," Lothíriel returned his grin as they fell into silence. Although she felt comfortable enough in the Hobbit's presence to share such personal information she found it left a sour taste in her mouth. It had been some time since she was confronted by the reality of her situation and she didn't much like the reintroduction, though she could hardly blame Merry's curiosity.

"It is well to know you are not promised." Dark brows rose as her companion spoke again; curiosity written on her face. Merry glanced at her with a frown that seemed displaced on his otherwise jolly face. "I've seen that Lord's son poke about for the last few days, inserting himself like a dog begging for scraps. But I am unversed in the courting practices of Gondor and so kept my thoughts to myself. 'Til now, I reckon."

"Ah yes. Him. He is persistent, isn't he?"

"Intolerably so. But if he is not acting in accordance with the decorum you deserve, I'd be the first to have words with him."

"That is noble of you, my friend," Lothíriel replied followed by a slow shake of her head. "But he isn't worth the breath. Bothersome, yes. But doesn't merit intervention."

"That may be well enough now. But if it should change, my Lady, please do not think twice to tell me. I'd let him have it and put him right."

"I have no doubt. Thank you, Merry."

They sat in easy silence until it was time for her to depart, both feeling the weight of exhaustion and rising fear of the unknown.

TTTT

"I feel it in my bones," Ioreth muttered, more to herself than Lothíriel as they moved around the storeroom collecting items. She'd been in a strange disposition since first they greeted one another earlier in the day. The Lady of Dol Amroth glanced sidelong at the older woman whose expression was drawn and eyes anxious.

"Let us take your shift to ease your thoughts," the younger woman put in as Ioreth glanced sharply at her before allaying.

"Nonsense, my girl," she waved a hand before setting a jar of herbs onto the shelf. "There's nothing for it. Just a sense. And it'll be a sore day that I let a feeling stop me from my craft."

Lothíriel said nothing but nodded. It would've been near impossible to keep Ioreth of Lossarnach from her tasks if she was not amenable to a break. And the grey-eyed healer didn't have the energy to argue. Her mind had been burdened since her discussion with Merry the night before but she was clearly not alone, a stranger pallor hanging over the city. It felt as though they were on the edge, though none could rightly say when they ought to receive news.

The healers went about their business noting a shift in the minds of the soldiers they tended, some leaning toward unsettled, others sinking into quiet mourning. For her part, Lothíriel fell firmly between the two emotions, vacillating as the day waned. She'd briefly saw to Éowyn but the woman had spent her day, as she had for the past five, with Faramir. As relieved as she was for the pair to find comfort and strength in one another Lothíriel couldn't deny the sting of envy when she caught sight of them in the garden or walking the walls.

Tucking the feeling away she kept herself busy, even finding the inevitable presence of Baranor a decent distraction. He'd kept his distance directly after she tended to his lacerated arm but somehow found a way to see her daily, even if it was passing each other in the halls. But for each encounter with him Lothíriel observed the offhand presence of Merry, Elfhelm or her cousin. She wasn't sure how correlated those two interactions were but she was grateful for their company.

"My Lady!" Lothíriel's attention snapped to Ioreth whose eyes were wide. It was only then the younger woman felt a rumble beneath her feet. Unbidden, panic rose in her chest as her thoughts flew to the siege. Although it was a different sensation she couldn't help but wonder if the city was under attack again. Following Ioreth from the storeroom Lothíriel tried to calm her breathing and evoke logic, the stones beneath and surrounding her quavering again. The pair were joined by others, healers, guards and patients alike, as they crowded the wall overlooking the fields and mountains beyond.

At first the horizon remained unchanged and it felt as though the crowd was holding their breath as one. Then, as though initiated by an unseen hand, the ever-present dark clouds around Mordor broke, light pouring through, evident even at their distance. A surge of brightness sparked amidst the darkness, far enough off that they could not tell the source. Lothíriel felt bodies press against her as all sought to better discern the eastern sky. The rumbling of the earth resumed as though some great beast beneath the ground was moving. She didn't dare to hope as the luminosity continued to stream through the shadows of the Dark Lord's land, like knives of light stabbing through the very firmament.

"Béma bless us," a warrior of Rohan cried beside her as others added their voices and exclamations. Although she heard their exuberant shouts she was terrified to believe it. Could it be? Had the King and his Host been victorious? Had the Hobbit completed his impossible task? It felt foolish to at once trust this strange vision but others around her were cheering and reacting as though it were certain.

Pulling away from the crowd Lothíriel staggered from the walls into the House of Healing. Patients bound to their beds were crying out, begging for news and being given tidings of the luminous break in shadow across Mordor. Even as she heard it recounted the woman was reluctant to trust it. She found herself in a hallway alone, leaning against the wall as tears overflowed her eyes. Her heart was both full and aching as she wept, heaving shoulders and strangled breaths unbecoming of her station. She wasn't sure why she cried but it was both unbidden and overpowering.

Drawing the back of her hand to her mouth to slow her breathing and control the sobs Lothíriel closed her eyes. The hem was sodden by her tears and she wiped her nose with the sleeve in a most indelicate manner. Finally, she was able to regain command of her faculties as she straightened her spine. Grateful to experience this in privacy, the Lady of Dol Amroth wiped her cheeks and chin to remove excess tears and pursed her lips. She would not be the only one to have such a reaction but she did her best to compose her person before returning to hall.

The hours that passed seemed to do so in a daze, the fear and silence lifted like a veil from Minas Tirith. Songs and joy seemed to overflow the city and the hearts of the men therein. Lothíriel continued her work with patients, observing that even the most dejected were buoyed by the apparent victory. She too felt a pull to gladness, though she didn't quite trust it. And lingering beneath the elation was fear, forbidding her from reveling in the joy. Her thoughts passed to her father and brothers, agony and concern for their survival superseding relief. So too did her worry turn to Éomer in a similar fashion, though she wouldn't admit it to a soul.

It wasn't until a great Eagle descended upon the White City to herald the official words of triumph did Lothíriel allow herself to believe her joy. She watched his magnificent form arise from the second level where the Lords of the city had assembled to hear his tidings, held captive by the Eagle's mighty shape and otherworldly appearance. Exhaling a breath that felt like she had been holding since first arriving in Minas Tirith, the woman closed her eyes. The sounds of music and celebration washed over her as she smiled. She dared to believe the threat was ended, though she couldn't discern what that meant for her future, or even that of Arda.

But the darkness was gone.

A/N: Maidens of Mercy: a take on nuns or Silent Sisters (from ASOIAF). Although she wasn't name dropped directly I imagine them adherent to the Valar, Nienna.