Chapter 23

The remainder of the journey to Cair Andros was uneventful, to Lothíriel's relief. As promised Evandor, Gaelen and Elfhelm rotated their attendance about the Princess, sometimes riding beside her, other times riding one ahead one behind. For his part Baranor kept a noticeable distance, mostly riding at the front with Captain Verondil. When they paused for breaks he would find his way over to offer her something to eat or drink but otherwise gave her trio of guards a wide berth. Evandor and Gaelen maintained a polite if not aloof demeanor when Baranor was present. Elfhelm was unabashedly contemptuous, though he avoided complete disregard. Lothíriel couldn't blame him – out of the confines of the city Baranor's presence was increasingly haughty and vainglorious.

Evenings were spent fireside with her companions, joined at times by the handful of nobility in the group. Baranor did ingratiate himself the second night, sitting with them for supper but keeping a respectful distance from the Princess. He seemed to assess opportunities to catch her without the trio but was unable to do so. Even bathroom breaks were carefully planned to avoid him, with Elfhelm taking it upon himself to be ever cognizant of Baranor's location when Lothíriel was away from the group.

The Princess found both comfort and companionship with her three guards, each sharing more with her as the journey progressed. Her time with Evandor was spent reminiscing of Dol Amroth, trading tales of growing up by the sea – each missing their home. Lothíriel was familiar enough with Evandor from Amrothos that they had a few shared memories. But she became more appreciative of his experience and reflection as they spoke, gaining a deeper understanding of his life in the small city without the privilege of being the Prince's child.

Gaelen provided her with similar tales, though his rank was above Evandor's and thus lived a different lifestyle. But she came to know of the challenges and misfortunes foreign to a woman of her rank from both men. She compared this to her experience as a healer, aware that she was able to interact with folk throughout the social stratus while in the pursuit of her craft. But her conversations with Gaelen and Evandor gave a different perspective on their day to day lives and Lothíriel found herself shocked by the lack of understanding she had about the realities they faced.

By the end of the third day they were at their destination, the sound of the Anduin's waters breaking brightly on the rocks heard before the island came into view. Dusk settled overhead as the party halted at the river's edge to behold Cair Andros stretching out before them. The moorings on the eastern edge held boats, some of which were being unloaded as they arrived. Despite the hum of the river foaming against the rocks at the 'prow' of the island the waters were calm between the shores.

Verondil informed the party they would be able to cross while mounted, provided the horses were quiet. He hailed soldiers on the island and preparations were made to traverse the Anduin. Neither Lothíriel nor her horse were strangers to water crossings, but several mounts appeared less than enthused to enter the river, snorting and refusing to walk toward the bank. They began to group the riders by pairing an uneasy horse with a relaxed one to encourage a smooth transition. Evandor and Lothíriel petitioned to assist in crossing several times to ensure no horses would startle and throw their rider.

Guiding her chestnut into the river, Lothíriel offered an encouraging smile to the young squire whose rouncey was tossing his head uneasily. She moved ahead of him a few steps and loosely held one side of his reins near the bit, urging her gelding further. The water had not yet turned to spring, the cold biting at her beneath the clothes as they moved into the Anduin. Beside her Evandor was escorting another skeptical horse. The Princess soothed her companion's horse with quiet words as she used her seat and legs to guide her own mount toward the opposite shore. Verondil had picked a fine spot to cross, the water only reaching her hips at its deepest and allowing the horses to still pick their way along the riverbed. Once they were near enough to the island she gave the boy control of his mount, who was emboldened by the nearness of land.

Thrice did Lothíriel make the trek from shore to shore, her palfrey providing quiet and calm to the others as they forged the river. Elfhelm and Gaelen's horses also assisted, though Gaelen's mare was not pleased with this turn of events and stayed rooted on Cair Andros once she'd crossed. Lothíriel and the chestnut emerged for their fourth and final trip across, awaiting Verondil's direction to be paired with the final riders. Disappointment settled in her heart when Baranor's gelding was instructed to her side, his expression relieved if not slightly smug. Evandor had already started into the water ahead of her and the other two were safely installed on the island. With a resolute sigh, Lothíriel positioned her horse a step ahead of Baranor's gelding, barely offering him a nod.

"Ready?" she queried with a glance back at him.

"Yes, my Lady," he replied congenially. Again she urged her horse forward, grasping the leather of Baranor's reins loosely enough to guide the courser into the river. To her surprise he followed obediently, stepping into the water without resistance. As they moved into the crossing she cast a frown over her shoulder at the man.

"He seems well conditioned to cross water," she observed as the water rose to their thighs. Baranor shrugged and encouraged the horse forward until they were beside one another, Lothíriel's hand releasing the reins.

"He's had his fair share of rivers."

"Why did you wait until the last to come across, then?"

"For the pleasure of your company, my Lady. I've hardly had a chance to converse with you. Your guards are so protective this was my only opportunity."

Lothíriel regarded him with disdain as their horses pushed against the current unaided. She adjusted her expression to mildness to avoid Baranor catching on to her irritation. No longer focused on the task of coaxing an anxious horse she felt the cold of the water and damp clothes more fully, especially as the chill of night took hold.

"You must be freezing, Lady Lothíriel. Crossing the river… what, three or four times now?"

"Nothing a fire and dry clothes cannot remedy, Lord Baranor."

"I hope your other garments are not soaked. Though I have a spare cloak fastened high on the saddle," he patted behind him to the pack sitting just rear of the cantle, which did appear dry.

"I have more clothes, thank you."

Baranor nodded in response, his horse stepping gingerly to the side, such that their knees touched. Lothíriel ignored this, focusing on the opposite shoreline. Gaelen and Elfhelm were staring at them, the latter's expression thunderous as he sat rigidly in the saddle, glaring at Baranor. Gaelen's visage was unreadable at their distance but he positioned himself to be immediately at their side once they reached the island.

Evandor also snuck a peek over his shoulder but his eyes found hers first. She canted her head a touch to indicate she was alright, which he returned before focusing on his task. The ride somehow felt longer this final time, her own horse fatigued from so many crossings, lagging behind Baranor's slightly. To her annoyance the man slowed his mount to stay with her, careful of the three horses behind them – the last of their party.

"I expect we'll have more opportunity to enjoy one another's company when we arrive," he commented affably. Lothíriel glanced at him with a puzzled expression, trying to keep her teeth from chattering against the cold. The Lord continued anyway: "You'll not need the constant attendance of your guards, ever so dedicated have they been until now."

"Perhaps," she murmured, hoping a noncommittal answer would satisfy him.

"And I should think your Lord Father would like to hear of his daughter's fine accomplishments."

"And you will share these accomplishments with him?"

"Why wouldn't I? I've had the opportunity to observe you firsthand! And it will mean more hearing from a man of his peerage."

The Princess said nothing to this, wishing she could urge her gelding faster to get away from the man. He was watching her as they neared the shore, his gaze trailing down her torso to her legs where the fabric clung to her skin. Gaelen urged his mare partially into the water – against her wishes – to join them, reaching for Lothíriel's reins to guide her tired horse from the river.

"Lord Baranor," he murmured with a nod of his head. To his credit the other man responded in kind before addressing the woman.

"Thank you for your assistance with the crossing, my Lady. It was appreciated."

She gave a half smile as Baranor rode away, passing Elfhelm without a glance. The Captain kept his gaze level until the other man was well onto the island before looking at Gaelen and Lothíriel, who was patting her horse's neck.

"He's a leech," Elfhelm remarked before dismounting. She didn't have the energy to respond, instead depositing the rest of the reins into his hand and pausing to wring out her cloak. Evandor joined them as well, dismounting and shivering once.

"It's a warm spring but it seems the Anduin hasn't received the missive."

"Nor will she for a few months," Gaelen replied, offering Lothíriel his arm. She accepted it, her boots squelching in the pebbled sand as they moved toward the fortifications hidden behind the tree line. They were joined by the soldiers manning Cair Andros, a warm oversized cloak set upon to her shoulders and a torch provided to light the way.

The narrow island was abuzz with activity, horses being untacked and rubbed down with towels, folk moving barrels and provisions from the boats and still others leading the newly arrived company into the island's heart. Smoke from various fires lifted into the night sky, darkness shrouding the landscape of the island. It was difficult to make out the other side of the river where the camp of Cormallen lay but her heart quickened at the thought of being so close.

After some moments she was safely installed in a barrack type building, a small room afforded to her and her bag from the wain deposited in the corner. A bed, table and chair were all that fit in the confines but it was homely enough. Lothíriel dropped the heavy cloak on the bed and peeled the cold wet garments off. Shivering with only the light from the torch in its sconce on the wall, she shoved the single spare pair of stockings she'd brought onto cold clammy feet and wiggled into the other pair of britches.

Squeezing the remaining water from the garments she laid them over the chair. The stays and short chemise were damp but tolerable. She donned a dark green tunic and laced it up with trembling fingers. Sitting on the narrow bed Lothíriel took a breath, flexing her cold hands and toes alternately. Her boots were too wet to put back on but she felt silly in her sock-covered feet. A growling stomach roused her from the bed and she slung the loaned cloak back over her shoulders, its heavy mass enveloping her like a funeral shroud, and went to door of her little room, hoping to find the hallway empty. Instead, she beheld Evandor resting against the wall opposite her door. He'd changed his trousers but still wore the soggy boots and shirt.

"You ought to change into dry clothes," she remarked as he looked toward her with a grin.

"I would if they weren't wet. I slung my pack too low on Bael's saddle and got my spares soaked."

"Surely you can borrow something?"

"I'll ask. Could say the same to you, though," he indicated with a jerk of his head to her sock feet. She agreed with a nod and pulled the borrowed cloak from her shoulders.

"Here."

"No, my Lady."

"You'll catch a fever between the river and the gloom of night," she argued, pushing the large woolen mantle into his hands. "My spares are dry."

"I can't."

"You can."

"No, my Lady," Evandor paused, Lothíriel frowning at his unusually stubborn response. He handed the cloak back to her before adding: "This is a captain's - perhaps even a lord's cloak. I'm not fit for it. Ill words would be spoken if I went about in it."

A scowl replaced her confusion but she accepted the warm garment back. Again she was confronted by a social expectation she had no experience with – if someone offered her an item of clothing she did not have to consider how her class affected the ability to wear it in public. Sensing her unease Evandor smiled as he led her away from the rooms.

"I'll catch one of the lads in the yard once I've taken you to dinner. There will be unused clothes enough for me, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry," she intoned quietly. He shook his head and offered her a simpering grin reminiscent of Amrothos.

"No need, my Lady. I'll find you a pair of boots while I'm at it."

She was deposited in the feast hall, if indeed one could call it that. It was a long room with several benches and tables where most of her party was seated, enjoying warm food and conversation. She was directed to a shorter table where Elfhelm met and joined her. Baranor also sat at this table but there were other men of the gentry who stood as she approached and he kept his distance, giving her a nod and smile. It felt ridiculous to attend a meal in naught but her stockinged feet but she smiled politely and sat beside the Captain of the Rohirrim. The leader of their company, Verondil, sat opposite and offered her a mug of ale.

"My Lady," he greeted her as she accepted the tankard.

"Thank you, Captain. I'm afraid my shoes were too waterlogged to be passable in a feast hall."

"Understandably," he replied with a quick smile. "It was good of you to aid in the crossing. We can find you a warm pair of boots without delay."

"You are very kind. When, if I might inquire, will we journey to other side?"

"I suspect most will cross in the morning. The horses are not fit for another attempt and I'm sure you might prefer a rest. But I can commission a small boat if you – "

"No, Captain, no need," she assured him with a raised hand and a smile. "A good night's sleep would be lovely. I'll reach the banks of Cormallen with everyone else tomorrow."

"Good timing, I'll wager," Verondil remarked, shifting his gaze between her and Elfhelm. "I am told the King and his men have been afield for some days and return tomorrow or the day after."

"Who goes with him?" Elfhelm inquired between bites, green eyes watching the Gondorian captain.

"I know not. Reports only came to me when we arrived that the King has been absent in pursuit of orcs and Easterlings in the valley. Perhaps scouting at what remains of the Morannon."

Lothíriel wasn't sure how she felt about these tidings. The thought that her father and brothers may not even be at the camp when she arrived tomorrow was disappointing. But she reasoned she was there as much to provide healing as to selfishly see her family. And they would return. She learned Merry had already made the crossing the day his boat moored so she looked forward to seeing him, and hopefully Pippin as well. She was quiet the rest of the meal, thoughts springing ahead to the reunion with her kin. And Éomer. He was not explicitly mentioned among the captains who'd accompanied the King but it seemed unsurprising he would join Elendil's heir.

After dinner she narrowly avoided an exchange with Baranor when Evandor showed up with a pair of sturdy boots from the stables. Excusing herself the woman put the slightly oversized shoes on, lacing them to her calf and flexing her feet. Big, but they would suffice. Gaelen raised his cup to her as she passed him with a nod, Evandor and Elfhelm both escorting her to her room.

"I'll be just yonder," the Horselord stated, nodding to the short end of the hallway where a chair and table sat. Lothíriel's brows rose as she opened the door to her room.

"Surely you needn't keep guard here?"

"I promised the Lord Steward I would see you to the Camp of the King. We are not yet there and I am not convinced you are free from danger. Once you are safely with your kinsmen I will consider my charge completed."

"I am grateful for you both."

TTTT

Her feet in their too-large boots stepped carefully upon the shore, a line of oaks, beech and yew standing between her and the Field of Cormallen. The sound of an active camp was heard beyond and the rushing of the river was at her back. Lothíriel hesitated beside Gaelen as others joined them at the banks. She'd selected a helfdaer the color of worked leather for her first day at Cormallen, its hem grazing the top of the boots as she moved along the shore. The dark blue cloak hung at her shoulders, its hood nearly hiding the curve of a thick braid pinned in a bun to the base of her skull. A boat had ferried her, her trio of guards and several others across the narrow channel as dawn broke along the eastern horizon.

"Are you well, my Lady?" Gaelen regarded her with a furrowed brow, his words quiet as she stared ahead.

"Yes. Yet, I don't know… I am caught between what I've wanted for so long… and fear of what lays beyond those trees." Her voice had dropped to a murmur as Gaelen leaned toward her. He took a breath as Elfhelm came to her other side, having heard the tail end of her comment.

"Have heart, Lady Lothíriel," the Horselord commented with a quirk of his lips into a smile. She returned it and followed them up to the bank where soldiers from the Host of the King greeted them. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to Cair Andros she felt relief wash over her. She'd made it.

Initially she planned to wait until the horses were moved across, riding with the group in the later afternoon. But Evandor and Gaelen encouraged her to take the small boat in the morning, joined by Elfhelm and a handful of their company. She adjusted the smaller bag over her shoulder and followed their guides through the trees.

The Field of Cormallen opened up before them, a vast meadow of grasses and wildflowers blooming in the morning sun. Tents, stables and small pavilions gave the appearance of a tiny city; pathways cut through the grass and carefully defined sectors marked by standards and sigils. The main road down the center of the site was wide enough for two or three horses to ride abreast, the smaller lanes bisecting it leading to various camps. She saw the pavilion afforded to the King of Gondor, his standard flying above the pinnacle of the tent.

Men were at work around them, farriers, carpenters, a butcher, weaponsmiths, cooks and other laborers moving about the field as though it were a town. Each seemed to have their own stalls for their craft and it was bustling. It was strange to behold, though Lothíriel imagined this was standard for the court of a King at war to maintain such a functional camp.

The fellow leading their small party pointed to this and that as they went, pausing to gesture to a long shelter off to the side: the medic's tent. Lothíriel wavered between breaking away from the group and installing herself with the healers or remaining for the tour and arriving at the pavilion of Dol Amroth, whose banners she'd seen earlier near the King's. She paused, gazing at the tent as the rest of the company walked on.

TTTT

She pitched the cloth over her shoulder as the sound of horses and trumpets announced the arrival of the King. Joining the other healers leaving the tent, Lothíriel shielded her eyes from the immediate brightness of the day, squinting to locate the source of the commotion. Down the main thoroughfare of the camp rode the heralds of the King, few in number, followed by the standard of the Elendil. Just behind Gondor's sigil was the banner of Rohan, its white horse on a forest green field and golden embroidery shining in the sunlight.

Following the heraldry rode the King of Gondor, uncrowned but mighty in his saddle. He was the selfsame man who'd healed her cousin, Eowyn and Merry, among many others. He was dressed in the attire of royalty, so unlike her first picture of him in the Houses of Healing. But he was immediately recognizable, his eyes sparkling and expression placid as he nodded to the men who greet him with bows and welcomes. Removing the cloth from her shoulder, Lothíriel began wiping the remnants of salve from her hand in case her father called for her to attend the King of Gondor, her gaze upon him as he rode toward his pavilion. But her attention was drawn to the rider who trailed him, now in full view as the standard that shielded him departed.

Eomer's dapple grey trotted several paces behind Aragorn, the Horselord's helm removed as he surveyed the crowd. They locked eyes with a suddenness that caused her heart to beat erratically as she froze, towel still enveloping her hand. He too seemed to pause, sitting the strides of his horse with wide eyes fixed upon her. There was enough distance between them that she couldn't quite identify his expression. Her eyes stayed with him as he regained his wits, dark brows furrowed with confusion and… disbelief? She had the sense to eventually nod her head to him and he was forced to break their gaze as he caught up with the King of Gondor.

The moment, which felt like an age, passed as the rest of the company rode in behind the Kings. She caught sight of the Elven twins, Elrohir and Elladan, bearing the sigil of their house. Turning away from the riders, Lothíriel took a deep breath. This was not how she anticipated seeing Eomer, nor how she wanted him to see her without explanation. Slowly her heart regained an acceptable cadence as she returned to the healer's tent, unsure of her next move. Go at once to the court of the King? Stay in the tent? Await word from her father? She felt paralyzed by indecision and overthinking.

Eventually she chose to remain in the healer's tent – if she was expected to attend the arrival of the Kings she would be summoned. Returning to her prior activity of making a poultice, the woman took the opportunity to collect her thoughts. The tent had emptied to attend the host's arrival and she was cut off from the patients in their cots by a closed flap of canvas serving as a doorway; solitude was welcomed. She set to crushing the herbs in the mortar, breathing in the sharp scent of camphor and kingsfoil that soothed her nerves. The pestle worked methodically as the woman stared ahead of her at the beige wall. The sound of folk returning to their activities barely stirred her as she was left unbothered. When the makeshift entrance opened behind her Lothíriel continued her task, awaiting the order from the fellow healer who'd joined her.

"Lothíriel?"

She halted her work, his voice soft and tentative. Turning to face the Kning