Chapter 3

Three hours had elapsed since the arrival of Southern Fiefs' troops in the city yet it felt like an age. Lothíriel kept busy assisting the Warden and Ioreth in stocking bandages, herbs and instruments of healing, the supply seemingly endless compared to the stores in Dol Amroth. It was in this moment, arms full of linens that her brother found her in the inner courtyard, pausing to take heed of the darkening sky.

Erchirion emerged from the doorway of the interior garden with the hope of finding his sister diligent in her tasks and thus without a moment to receive the news he came to bear. Disappointment flashed across his face when he beheld the Princess in her moment of rest. Even in the plain garb of a Gondorian healer she was the very likeness of their lineage, the Elven blood in their veins strong in the children of Imrahil – her most of all. Pressing his lips together the middle son of the Prince released a sigh through his nostrils and closed the distance between them as his sister turned to see him, grey eyes alight with recognition.

"If you've come to pester me I haven't the time, Chir," she began, shifting the bedsheets in her arms. Her next words dissolved before she could lend them a voice, the expression on her brother's face arresting further amusement. "What is it?"

"Loth," he intoned as he indicated to a stone bench beneath the wide windows. Against her better judgement the Princess allowed him to guide her to the seat, brows furrowed as she waited. "Our Lord Uncle has been largely absent since our arrival. We have learned the nature of his… condition."

"Out with it, Erchirion. What has happened?"

"Boromir has died."

She was at a loss for words, gaze cast down as her visage bore the passage of shock to sorrow. Erchirion shifted his weight on the stone beside her as he gave her time to process the news.

"When?"

"A fortnight, perhaps. I am not sure," he conceded, placing a hand on her knee as she lifted her gaze, eyes wet with unshed tears. "Denethor is stricken in grief and takes little council. From anyone, it seems."

"And Faramir?"

"He has been afoot with his Rangers in Ithilien. I cannot imagine he knows yet."

"I question if I want to know what happened."

"It is not known to me," Erchirion replied with a squeeze to her knee. "Father wanted to ensure you heard from us before anyone else of his passing."

"Elphir will mourn his loss the hardest," Lothíriel surmised with a shaky sigh. Boromir was twenty years her senior and she knew little of the man beyond their occasional interactions through the years. She'd always considered him a member of the older generation, far from the raucous clamor of youth she shared with her brothers and even Faramir.

"Aye. His death already influences our fates, for Denethor retreats to his private chambers and will scarce look upon Father."

"It does not help that Father is so alike in visage to his sister."

"No, it doesn't. Which is a valuable reminder for you to keep your distance. Of all of us you bear the closest resemblance to Finduilas."

"Poor Faramir," Lothíriel murmured at length.

Erchirion said nothing and they sat in doleful silence, barely aware of the quiet bustle in the halls beyond. Although she knew it would be unwise to linger despite her grief the Princess found it difficult to motivate herself to resume her tasks with the burden of this loss. Before she could remark on the need to continue her work Imrahil's middle son craned his neck to look at the tall narrow windows behind them.

"Is it not unsettling how dark it has become?"

"Hmm?" Lothíriel was moved from her reverie by this unexpected deviation in conversation, following her brother's gaze to the sky. Standing and setting the laundered cloths on the bench the woman tilted her head, bemusement matching Erchirion. The siblings quit the courtyard and moved to the narrow northeastern balcony, watching the blackening sky.

"This is no darkness of night," Erchirion murmured, expression troubled, forearms resting on the balcony as he leaned forward.

"Sorcery of Mordor?" Lothíriel queried with a glance his way. Torches and candles began illuminating the levels of the city below them, creating a warm light amidst the gloom. It was clear more troops had arrived to serve the city, the movement both inside and outside the city punctuated by the firelight and sounds of men and beast.

"I reckon," he replied with a frown.

He was nearly ten years her elder but at times appeared no more than a lad playacting as a soldier. There were softer lines to his face than his brothers and the hint of a boyish smirk lurking just under the surface. Lothíriel had to remind herself he was not only a Swan Knight of their father's elite company but a man near thirty.

"It is not my place to challenge Father." He murmured, eyes cast downward as he leaned against his arms, hands interlocked. Lothíriel pivoted her body to watch him, awaiting the likely chastisement or admonishment. Her brother paused a beat too long, the woman tilting her head with furrowed brows ready to prod him on before he continued.

"You have proven your worth as a healer in Dol Amroth and Uinen knows those skills will be needed in the coming days. But I cannot pretend the outcome of this war is known. To any of us."

"I understand."

"No, Lothíriel, you don't." She stared at him, startled by his retort. It was usually Elphir who fortified his advisement with sharpness. Hearing it from Erchirion felt out of place and disquieting. He stood up straight and placed his hands on the balcony's marble edge, intentionally avoiding her gaze.

"If the city falls you must flee. Faramir and Boromir oft spoke of the secret passage cut into the sixth or seventh level leading through the mountain. I will discover its location and bear it to you." He finally looked at her, a sheen of sorrow reflected in his grey eyes. "You cannot remain here if we aren't able to hold the gate."

Now it was Lothíriel's turn to drop her gaze, feeling the immenseness of his anguish in having her present in Minas Tirith. The sharpness of regret caught in her lungs as she drew a breath, realizing it wasn't the over-protectiveness of older brothers discouraging her from joining. They (or Erchirion at least) feared not only the outcome of the battle in Minas Tirith but the consequence for Lothíriel, who was no longer safe in Dol Amroth. Swallowing the remorse, the Princess pulled her brother close. He embraced her at once as she released a sigh.

"You have my word," she whispered, to which he nodded once. Releasing one another the siblings turned back to the shadowed sky, their expressions mirrored. The inky darkness spreading from Mordor bled across the sky, extracting even the illumination of the stars, absorbing light with malice. Turning his face from the dismal sight, Erchirion placed a brief hand on her shoulder.

"There is a chamber for you in the Citadel – Father saw to it once you departed."

"I have a room and cot here," she answered, eliciting a raised brow from the man. "I should probably familiarize myself with these arrangements while it is quiet and I might be afforded respite."

"The Lady of Dol Amroth sleeping on a pallet. Elphir will not believe it."

"Then you'll have to vouch that such strangeness came to pass."

"I can manage that. Right then. I must return to Father. One of us will call on you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Sleep well on your peasant's bed, little swan."