Chapter 2

"Here, my Lady, allow me," Ioreth of Lossarnach quipped, giving Lothíriel no opportunity to decline as she took hold of the laces at the Princess' back. The newly donned kirtle that replaced Lothíriel's riding habit was slate grey and rough against her skin, the laces made from an unpliable waxy leather that did not lend itself to being fastened behind the wearer.

"It's an inconvenience, I grant you, having these tied in the back." She tightened the stiff sinew causing Lothíriel to square her shoulders and straighten her back against the tension. "But it'll save you frustration when you are tending to patients to not have loops and knots in your way. I'll fasten them tight as I can, my Lady. And what fortune we found one long enough for you. Have you some Elven heritage? I've set your apron and hood there on the table. You'll excuse me to finish inventory. Find me and I'll give you a tour. Brief, no doubt. But it'll suffice. I'm off!"

Lothíriel was not certain Ioreth drew new breath from start to finish. As quickly as she'd met the Princess, so too did she dash from the room, speaking as she went. Their introduction was a regaling of Ioreth's flight to the city when it became clear Healers were needed and her insistence that her forty-some years of experience would out match any "lad apprentice" in the Citadel. Ioreth was of the opinion her skills were equal only to the Warden himself, though she let it be known to Lothíriel that her talents might well surpass him. "But let us not damage his delicate sense of achievement."

For all her verbosity Lothíriel was relieved to have another woman in residence. It was hard enough to convince her brothers and father to accompany their party. To know she was not the only female would lend to their begrudging acceptance of this undertaking.

The room was unnervingly quiet after the cacophony of Ioreth, and a sense of dread nestled in her heart as she unpinned the braid from her head. Although she was eager to acquaint herself with the various rooms and locations in the House of Healing, the Princess found herself carefully re-braiding her hair, removing errant debris from the nearly a fortnight on the road as she patiently wound the dark strands into a plait.

There had been no question in her mind she would serve her calling as a Healer here at the epicenter of the conflict. Dol Amroth would send their seven hundred men, led by Imrahil and two of her three brothers, to support Minas Tirth – of that there was no doubt. When she'd pointed out there were few places in Middle Earth that were safe, her brothers were silent, though they'd made their feelings on the matter well known. But Lothíriel would not be quieted by reproachful glares from her siblings. Her fingers threaded through waves of obsidian hair, the rhythm soothing her as she recalled the conversation that solidified her path to Minas Tirith.

TTTT

"Have you not instilled in us from childhood that we are stewards of duty, Father?"

"I have certainly tried," Imrahil replied as they walked down the aisle in the stables of Dol Amroth. Around them was a flurry of activity as the city prepared for an impending assault from the sea. The Corsairs of Umbar would undoubtedly harry the coast and assist the Dark Lord in his war theater across the continent.

"Then permit me join you. I am skilled enough to be useful in Minas Tirith," she maintained as her Father cast a sidelong glance in her direction. She paused in her determination to look at him in turn, catching the shadow of a smile pulling at his lips.

"Amrothos believes you will be just as effective here, tending to our city."

"Amrothos believes I am still ten," Lothíriel muttered with an unbidden eyeroll as she set her expression in resolve. "Dol Amroth will not face the worst of it, Father. We will recover, I am sure. Minas Tirith needs support. Your own sister's husband has called for our aid."

"Yes," he agreed quietly as they halted before his horse's stall. She held his gaze, conviction in her request giving him pause before responding. "I sometimes wonder if I haven't raised four sons instead of three."

Lothíriel swallowed a derisive response, instead clasping her hands behind her back as she awaited his judgment. With a sigh of acceptance, the Prince of Dol Amroth rested his arm on the half door of the stall, regarding her for a moment more.

"We are at war, Lothíriel," he began with careful words and a measured tone. "You will see the utter undoing of men before you. And you will not be able to save all who come for aid – a certainty that damages the strongest of minds. I cannot protect you from this, neither can your brothers. I cannot even pledge you own safety in the White City."

"I accept this risk."

"I know you do," he replied softly with a raised hand, settling her before he continued. "And I know your heart, Daughter. I suspect you would find a way to join our dispatch whether I gave you leave or not. And for that reason, and the certainty of your oath to duty, I would have you join us. Where we might at least protect you on the road and see you safely secured in House of Healing."