Chapter 12
Lothíriel shadowed the boy to the entrance of the final level of Minas Tirith, where he gave word to the guard. From there she was escorted by a silent Guard of the Citadel to the throne room she'd departed over a week ago when they arrived at the city, this time following him within. The architecture and white marble were not unlike the halls in Dol Amroth, though this one eclipsed it in size and majesty.
Their footsteps echoed quietly as she was permitted entrance down the wide aisle, the statues of kings flanking her as she walked. Stopping short of the platform, the guard bowed to her and retreated, leaving her in the seemingly empty Hall of the Kings. The seat of the sovereign sat empty, as did that of the Steward, instead a small table set off to the side of the dais with three chairs tucked in. Clasping her hands behind her back, Lothíriel turned to study the seat of the Steward, wondering how her cousin might appear sitting at the feet of their king.
"Lothíriel," she turned toward the sound coming from the transept just beyond the abandoned table, her father closing the gap between them. He too looked freshly bathed and dressed, lightly armored and outfitted in a tunic with the white tree emblazoned on the chest. He bore the smaller sigil of Dol Amroth upon his vambraces and, aside from the tunic, was dressed in the manner of the coastal city. His hair, peppered with grey, was smoothed away from his face and secured at his neck, a departure from his normally loose shoulder length style. His beard, still mostly dark, had been trimmed and kept short against his strong jawline. Grey eyes beheld her with a warm smile as she greeted him and accepted an embrace.
"Ada," she replied, feeling comfortable with a colloquial greeting as it appeared they were alone. Pulling away and stepping back she regarded him with a grin as she gave a quick curtsy. "Lord of Minas Tirith."
"As obligation requires," he answered, gesturing to the table and pulling a chair for her to sit. He followed suit and rested his arm on the table. "It is good to see you, Daughter. You look well."
"I am. It has been a harrowing several days. Glory on the battlefield has not been without many losses, as you must know well."
"Indeed," his low smooth voice agreed, watching her as he settled back against the chair. "Your skills are welcomed in the Houses of Healing I suspect. Alas that we are not concluded in our victory."
"You expect another siege?"
"Not that we will permit the enemy time for. No, it has been long discussed amongst the Commanders of the West what we are to do." He paused, regarding her carefully as she waited, brows raised gently. "Forgive me, Daughter. To behold you now, in the prime of your talent and passion in your work… your mother, whose memory lingers undaunted in my heart… you honor her legacy."
Lothíriel stared at him, surprise visible upon her face as she took in his observation. Her heart swelled in the following moments, a blush rushing up her neck and warming her cheeks as her father smiled, sorrow and joy saturated in his strong features.
"You do me a great tribute," she murmured as he canted his head. "I have always endeavored to do well by you and her."
"You have never faltered in that, dear one."
"Thank you," Lothíriel shared Imrahil's smile and knew at once; this moment in the serenity and solitude of the Kings' Hall of Minas Tirith with her beloved father would be remembered for the rest of her days. But she could not remain too long in the delight of their company, aware once more that he'd been sharing tidings. "You were telling me of the assembly of the Commanders of the West – what has been decided?"
"Ah, Lothíriel," Imrahil chuckled, leaning forward to grasp her hand upon the table. "Had you been born a man you might have joined us. No doubt you'd provide shrewder counsel than some in attendance. But yes," his voice lowered as he sighed. "The host of the West will march upon the Dark Lord's lands and, in our might and strength of will, we will turn his gaze."
"Father…" Lothíriel was rendered speechless for a moment, eyes widening as Imrahil raised his gaze to meet her. "What chance is there of victory?"
"A Hobbit-size chance, as I am told," he replied with a wry smile. When she did not return it he squeezed her hand. "Those wiser than either of us are in agreement, including our King, the heir of Elendil."
"I do not doubt his wisdom, for he has fulfilled at least one prophecy in these walls in healing a number of our wounded." The Prince of Dol Amroth did not appear surprised by her statement, nodding in agreement as he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "But is it not… are we to lose so many in this campaign?"
"I wish it were not so," he replied somberly. "I have advised a regiment remain to defend the city, which was accepted. Though I encouraged your brothers to stay among the captains of Minas Tirith they have pledge fealty to the King and will ride with him into battle."
"And you, Ada? Are you not the acting Steward?"
"Yes," Imrahil answered patiently. "Only until your cousin is well enough to assume his rightful role. And I am also in the service of our King, Lothíriel. You were moved by duty to attend the suffering of soldiers. So too am I to follow my liege; to whatever end."
"I understand."
"I would not rob you of your remaining parent and brothers if I did not have hope. Hope in our King. In Mithrandir. In something bigger than all of us." He leaned forward and brought the back of her hand to his lips, kissing it and setting it down once more. "I do not deny this feels a fool's errand. But we may yet be triumphant fools."
"Your impervious optimism has given faith to the men of Dol Amroth and now Minas Tirith. Who am I to doubt it."
"We stand at the apex of change in the Third Age," he commented as he stood, Lothíriel following. "I pray greatness will prevail. We can but do our part at the altar of virtue, though we may have misgivings and sorrow." He pulled her in for a hug, holding her for a moment as he spoke again, his quiet voice comforting as blanket against the cold. "You have served Dol Amroth and Gondor with honor, Daughter. I do not wish to leave you. But I would have you know… none could prouder than I."
"May the Valar bless and protect you," she whispered, a tear escaping the corner of her left eye as they parted. She brushed it away with her shoulder as they detached and offered a brave smile. Imrahil took her hand once again and covered it with his own.
"We depart the city tomorrow with the host of the King. Will you see us away?"
"Of course, Father. I will find you and my muindyr at the stables on the morrow."
He bowed to her and she responded in kind before departing, leaving the Prince of Dol Amroth in the empty throne room, a melancholy if not haunted expression on his strong features.
TTTT
It was well past sundown when she returned to the House of Healing, making a straight path to Éowyn's chambers to check on her. It occurred to Lothíriel that the Lady of Rohan may not have been told of the departure of the host the next day – or perhaps she had and expected to join them. Determining her response would depend on what Éowyn knew. She made her way down the empty corridor, only a few yards from the Lady's room when it opened, light spilling into the vestibule as the King of Rohan departed, closing the door quietly. He caught sight of Lothíriel and motioned for quiet. The woman paused as he approached her, bowing quickly in his presence.
"Good evening, my Lord," she greeted him, careful to keep her voice low as he'd indicated. His expression was, as usual, disquieted but he appeared particularly disconcerted tonight.
"Hail, mistress," he replied with a quick glance over his shoulder, as if checking to see if Éowyn had followed him out, before returning his gaze to the dark-haired woman. "Might I trouble you for a word?"
"As you wish," she answered with a slight raise of her brows.
She indicated they step away from the hallway into a parlor off the eastern wall, the room lit by a single sconce. Shadows crept along the carpeted floor and wall, the tall archway to the terrace overlooking the Pelennor fields bathed in moonlight that only just touched the room. There were two chairs and a chaise joined by two tables and a stone bench on the narrow balcony. It was meant as a drawing room to rest or entertain company but with the city so depleted in citizens these rooms stood empty for most of Lothíriel's occupation. The King appeared uncomfortable in their seclusion and cleared his throat as she waited, hands clasped behind her back.
"I do not wish to keep you from your tasks," he began watching her sharply, arms crossed. For all his apprehension he did not avoid her gaze.
"I am not so overburdened I cannot spare you this moment." The horselord made an affirming noise but still appeared unsure so she continued. "I have heard the Host of the West will be departing before long."
"Yes," he replied, brows hitched with mild surprise. "It seems you hear these things before most, mistress."
"I possess a keen attention for such information, my Lord."
"Aye. Well as you've already heard the tidings I would speak to you on the matter of my sister." He paused, Lothíriel nodding for him to continue as he dropped his arms. "She will be much affronted not to be roused and permitted leave to join. She has been asleep most of the evening and, I hope, will continue to rest throughout the night. I have left a letter for her detailing my requests."
"Requests?"
"In the event we fall, I have given Éowyn instruction to depart the city with all haste. There is said a path through the mountain and out to the Great West Road. She shall take those who will follow her lead but she is to leave Minas Tirith without a backward glance."
Lothíriel watched him clearly choosing his words with care and speaking quietly. They stood a respectful distance from one another, the King hovering near the door. It struck her as odd that he would relay this information to her if he wrote it in his missive. But he'd fallen silent so she nodded obediently.
"I will ensure she sees the letter -"
"You must go with her." Grey eyes caught his as his voice became soft, almost insistent.
"My Lord?"
"If we cannot defeat the enemy, darkness will sweep across the land. Minas Tirith will be first among the triumphs of the Dark Lord. My sister will take the mountain path and from there return to our people in Rohan. You… must go with her, mistress."
"I will attend her as long as she is here," Lothíriel replied with a frown, "but I am of Gondor. I cannot leave -"
"Please." It came forth nearly a whisper, hazel eyes softening as they implored her. "I would go to this doom without reservation knowing my sister will be safe. And you." He looked away for a moment before leveling his gaze once more, stepping toward her. "She will bear you to Rohan ere the servants of Sauron descend upon Gondor. Under Éowyn's direction and the remaining lords of the Riddermark I am confident you will survive." His words were almost beseeching as Lothíriel struggled to understand the motive, confusion evident on her face. What concern was her life to him – especially if she was but a simple healer?
"You honor me with this request, my Lord," she replied with care, adjusting her hands before her and twining the hem of the grey dress about her fingers as her gaze dropped to the floor at her feet. "If a defeat comes to pass I will… I will go with the Lady." She raised her eyes to his. "You have my word."
Relief softened his handsome features and Lothíriel felt an unseen tug to wrap her arms around him, which took all her willpower to deny and remain rooted to the carpet. It would be outrageous to embrace a king, regardless of her true title or his curious concern for her safety. The King of Rohan released his breath and looked at the ground, as if searching for his next words.
"Thank you. I am indebted to you for your kindness and care with my sister."
"It is our occupation," she answered. "When you return I – we will care for you as well."
"I should hope for such a return." Lothíriel smiled, which he returned, though his was troubled by the great burden of grief and responsibility she recognized in her father. "Might I…" he met her gaze and felt her breath catch in her throat before he continued. "May I know your name?"
"Mithelphe."
The King tilted his head, as if repeating it silently. At this point she might have divulged enough for him to be suspicious of her heritage, if not openly confront her. If he was skeptical he gave no indication, canting his head appreciatively. Upon a moment of reflection Lothíriel felt foolish providing him her childhood nickname but the impulsiveness was owed to her astonishment that he even asked. And it still felt improper to give him her true name and answer the inevitable questions.
"I shall look for you upon my arrival, Lady Mithelphe. Or go to my grave knowing you have departed this city and remain in the keeping of my people."
"I will await your return, my Lord," she returned, not bothering to comment on the thought of him perishing.
"Éomer," he put in with another small smile. "At least in the privacy of this room."
She ducked her head, unable to resist returning his smile as he gave her a brief bow. When the King rose up the solemn expression had returned, their moment of mirth feeling more intimate than any touch or promise made. The impropriety of the whole interaction was absurd but they were facing near certain doom. What did it matter if she assured such things to ease his mind when she knew the likelihood of success was slim? Perhaps she should have embraced him when desire bade her so. He moved to leave, casting a final look at her, which she met and held. Éomer hesitated barely a breath before opening the door and departing into the corridor, leaving Lothíriel in the small room with only her pounding heart for company.
A/N: Sindarin translation – muindyr (brothers), Mithelphe (mith – grey, elph – swan)