Chapter 29

It was well past midmorning when Lothíriel opened her eyes, the content of her dreams and enduring fatigue weighing heavy, such that she might remain in bed forever if given the opportunity. Sleep had been plagued by memory and nightmares, though she could not recall waking from them. She lay on the thin mattress staring at the vaulted alabaster ceiling, her head swimming with thoughts of the day prior. Apathy and resentment lingered in the corners of her mind, despite the urging of duty and expectation attempting to rouse her to get dressed and move on with the day. Eventually the need for something to soothe her dry throat was enough to stir the Princess. Swinging her legs to the edge of the bed she practically dragged her body vertical, a quiet throbbing in her head giving her a moment's pause.

Eventually Lothíriel got up and went about her morning activities, noting a newly filled pitcher had been left on the table near the entrance of her room. She cleansed her face with the fresh water and wiped her teeth with the linen cloth soaked in marjoram water, returning it to its small basin to steep again. Dressing felt arduous, fastening the soft jumps over the chemise to afford a bit of modesty before pulling the walnut-colored gown over her head. Her arms were sore and made simple tasks uncomfortable, so she unpinned the plait and left it braided down her back, lacking the energy to re-plait and fashion it into a coronet again. Once finished she sat down, feeling utterly exhausted and ready to return to bed.

It occurred to her, then, that she wasn't sure what to do with her day. Elladan, Elrohir and Éomer had appropriated the responsibility of her plight, brought it to even more men and she had not been apprised on the plan yet. When was her father expected to return? What would happen to Baranor? Should she continue her day as though none of this had occurred? The latter question was answered in short order when Fian appeared at the entrance of her tent, likely informed of her waking by the rustling and moving about.

"My Lady," he called quietly. When she permitted him entry he joined her with a quick bow. "The King of Rohan asked that you meet him in main tent once you awoke. Shall I send for him?"

"Yes," she answered dully, a small if not unenthused smile offered to the man. He bowed and disappeared.

Lothíriel sat in silence, staring at the opposite wall as she felt a stir of anger in her breast. It crept across and laid over her heart like a dragon covering its horde. As much as she wanted to parse through the feeling to uncover the reason it felt better to let it brood and grow. By the time she was alerted to the King's arrival the dragon had enveloped her thoughts and settled itself firmly in her ribcage, such that her expression was darkened as she followed Fian to the main chamber.

"The Lady Lothíriel," Fian announced before bowing. Éomer looked as tired as Lothíriel felt and she offhandedly wondered if he had slept. Though he was dressed in a dark tunic his sword was secured to the belt and he wore bracers and greaves; perpetually ready, it seemed, to go to battle. He smiled at her, which she returned to the barest extent. His visage shifted to concern, those brows at once furrowing over his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," she answered, gaining a measure of composure enough to quiet the dragon. "What news do you bring?"

"Oh," his surprise at the formality of her tone and comportment was brief before he too adopted courtly disposition. "We await the return of your father. It was decided Baranor will be apprehended when they arrive and the Prince shall be appraised of the situation at which point further decisions will be rendered."

Situation. The word made the dragon grumble as she looked away from the King and nodded.

"That is good."

"My Lady," Éomer began, expression uneasy, "you seem… different."

"I am not," she assured him with a cool gaze, chin raised slightly. "Thank you for the tidings, my Lord."

They stood in what would have been an awkward silence had the Princess' visage not been one of carefully constructed aloofness as she surveyed the King. Éomer was no stranger to fitting this role but concern was evident in those hazel eyes watching her carefully. After a moment his expression broke and he reached into the pocket of his trousers, procuring a tiny pot as he spoke.

"Here." He extended the earthenware container, small enough that it fit in the palm of her hand. She recognized the item at once, detachment breaking in her gaze as her eyes darted up to him.

"Thank you," she answered, receiving the balm with an immediate half smile, which he returned. She was ready to remark on his thoughtfulness when he spoke first.

"How do you feel today?"

"Well enough." The aloofness returned as she moved away from him to set the salve on the table.

"This will be taken care of," he repeated his reassurance from last night as Lothíriel looked at him, expression trained in politesse. The dragon curled its tail, and she felt the heat of ire rising in her chest, though she tried to tamper it.

"That is good."

"What else you would have me do?"

Éomer was more perceptive of her mood than she'd given him credit for, though it felt ridiculous that she should have to spell it out for him. Averting her gaze she rotated to the side, unsure whether she could hide her frustration. She looked down at her hands, which had come together before her, fingers interlacing.

"Given the situation I suspect you've done everything you can."

"Tell me what more you need – I will do it."

"Agency," she whispered, unbidden. He stepped toward her and she could sense what he would say before the words came out.

"I couldn't hear y –"

"Liberty to make a decision," she snapped, though her tone remained controlled as she beheld his stunned face. Then the dragon stretched, its tail flicking against her heart and its fire heating her tongue as the words came tumbling forth. "Sovereignty in this situation that has been handed over to men. I do not wish to sit by and let others speak for me."

"Lothíriel, we did not mean to treat you so. Baranor has committed a serious offense and we –"

"Didn't think to involve me in the resolution? Didn't imagine that I would have thoughts or concerns about the outcome of his behavior?" She turned to face him now, the dragon of wrath stretching its wings. "Am I expected to wait here until you've decided what's to be done so I can nod my head and say, 'thank you, my Lords'?"

"No," Éomer answered, irritation saturating his voice and expression as he held her gaze with a frown. "But you were hardly in the position to be making any decisions last night."

"Then I am confined to chambers, wringing my hands and waiting for someone else to determine his fate? My own?"

"What would you have me do?" The King of Rohan's voice was quiet but no less confrontational. Lothíriel's visage matched his as she squared her shoulders and tilted her chin.

"Grant me a seat at this table you've assembled without my consent. You and the sons of Elrond departed last night to take counsel with Mithrandir. Who else was involved? Gimli? The Hobbits? Perhaps the horses?"

"Lothíriel –"

"I don't want your easement to assuage my tender feelings, Éomer."

"Baranor's conduct must face penalty and the enforcement of that penalty is the responsibility of men."

"Why so?" Éomer released a frustrated grunt and broke their gaze, looking away as he shook his head.

"I do not know how Dol Amroth handles such indiscretion but I have never heard of a council of women bearing the obligation of managing these charges."

"Considering women are often the victims perhaps there should be."

"Mearas' manes, woman!" He hissed with a glance to her. While he was clearly exasperated she detected a softening in his posture, though she could not discern if there was a touch of respect or mere exhaustion of the topic. His response did soothe the dragon residing in her chest, its fire extinguished. Though unwilling to depart it tucked itself away, curling lithely amongst her organs, awaiting the opportunity to ascend.

"You asked what I needed – I have told you. Do not leave me here waiting for news as though I am not wholly affected by whatever the lords decide." A short silence followed as the King faced her once more, releasing a sigh before speaking.

"If that is what you wish of me… I will do so. But this may be out of both our hands when Aragorn returns."

"Indeed," she agreed with a slightly milder tone, "but I do not want to be the last to know." Éomer nodded once and the remaining tension between them dissolved. Hazel eyes caught her as he shifted his stance, the hint of a grin on his lips.

"Do you speak to the Prince in this manner?" grey eyes met his as she tilted her head, his tone more curious than accusing.

"If he gives me cause to do so," she answered cautiously. "Though I confess I am more likely to temper my words before my father."

"No temperance before a King, though, hm?"

"I'm afraid I have no excuse," Lothíriel conceded with an embarrassed furrow of her brows. Éomer smiled slightly, his posture relaxing further.

"For a moment I could've sworn I was having words with Éowyn."

"Then surely you are used to criticism."

"Yes, though I did not expect it from you."

Lothíriel made no reply, instead distracting herself with the salve left on the table. Opening the lid she inhaled the scent of lemon and subtle chamomile from the pot, applying a fingertip's worth on the cut. She dabbed it gently, the abrasion slightly swollen and tender against the light pressure. But there mere scent of the balm was soothing and she inhaled deeply. Returning the lid she looked back to find the King studying her as she spoke.

"I appreciate you bringing this. I shall return it to the healer's tent today when I resume work."

"No need," he replied with a slight wave of his hand. "As it stands I suspect your attention will be needed elsewhere. Your father and his company are due soon."

"Baranor with them."

"Yes. Have you given thought to seeing him again?" Lothíriel froze and looked at the King as he followed the question up quickly. "Your intention to be a part of the counsel means you'll be facing him. Unless you do not wish to be present for their return."

"No," she answered with a frown. "I will be there." She caught the shadow of a smile from Éomer as he nodded.

"I was on my way to meet with Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf when your fellow caught me. Will you join me?"

"Yes." Lothíriel canted her head and smoothed the front her dress. "Give me a moment to collect myself."

"Of course."

She excused herself to her chamber, releasing a heavy sigh once they were parted. By all rights she should've been hungry at this point, judging it was at least midday. But anxiety quelled her appetite, the realization of her quarrel with Éomer setting in. She was not, in fact, prepared to face Baranor again. But neither could she renege on her adamant insistence of joining the lords.

Casting an appraising glance at her reflection the Princess frowned. She looked more worn than was acceptable. She hastily wound the dark braid into a bun and pinned it, though wisps soon escaped and coiled around her face. Smoothing as much of the hair as she could the woman then pinched her cheeks to bring some color to her wan complexion. If she was to face the bastard she would do so looking as stately as possible. She fastened the gold belt at her waist and tightened the laces on the boots. Were she home she would don a silver circlet denoting her status as daughter of the Prince but she was without such mantles of nobility at Cormallen.

She returned to Éomer with a nod of her head and they departed. He walked silently beside her, navigating the way to the tent of the Elven twins. Though anxiety chewed a hole in her stomach she was grateful the King was at her side. They arrived with formal salutations, mild curiosity written on the brothers' fair features. Mithrandir was seated at the narrow table in the chamber, though he raised to give her a bow, which she returned.

"My Lady," he greeted with a warm smile. If he was surprised by her presence he did not show it, indicating with an open palm to the chair beside him. She accepted as Elrohir brought her a goblet of wine. Éomer remained standing on the opposite side of the table with Elladan.

"Lady Lothíriel will join us as we await the Prince," Éomer explained with a glance her direction. "She would know the arrangements made regarding the Lord Baranor."

"Apprehending him is the first order," Elladan put in.

"Do you expect that will be difficult?" she asked, brows raised at his tone.

"No, though I cannot imagine what he has said to the Prince to give his tale credence."

"I doubt Prince Imrahil would take his words without speculation," Elrohir replied sagely, sitting opposite Gandalf. "But this is a matter for Estel. We will detain this Lord Baranor and await the King of Gondor."

"Do you expect, my Lady, that he will defend his actions?" Mithrandir shifted in his seat to gaze at her.

"It seems within his character," she answered slowly, pausing to consider the question further. "But I know not much about him, I fear. If some pact was made regarding Lord Húrin's stewardship of the city then he will expect it is honored."

"If – and I do mean if – there was an oath given," Elrohir put in, dark eyes locking upon hers. "He has surely renounced it with his behavior."

His words and reassuring tone did much to comfort her as the others provided nods of agreement. While it was probably not so straightforward, she felt the tug hope for the first time since Baranor spoke to her yesterday.

"What should be the punishment for such an act?" Elladan queried to no one in particular.

"It would be to Aragorn's advantage to make an example of the fellow," Mithrandir commented. "His kingship, barely in its infancy, would benefit from a firm ruling."

"I have no concern on that account," Éomer announced, standing beside Elladan with his arms crossed. "Neither Aragorn nor Imrahil are men who let such evil deeds transpire with impunity."

The flap of the tent opened as the King of Rohan finished his statement, a Gondorian soldier entering with a bow.

"My Lords and Lady, the Prince's company arrives."

Lothíriel and Elrohir stood at once, Mithrandir looking up at them for a moment before rising as well. Éomer caught the woman's gaze as the twins also shared a look. After a moment of silence the White Wizard glanced between the four before speaking.

"Shall we not meet the Prince?"

Following his lead, they quitted the tent and stood in a line at the impromptu road bisecting the camp. The sounds and sight of Imrahil's small faction already making way down the center quickened her heartbeat. They rode two and three abreast, her father at the head. Beside him was Amrothos with a drawn expression. They bore down upon the thoroughfare, the twins' tent among the final ones before the King's. Lothíriel felt the color leave her face as the soldiers riding behind the Prince came into view. The line was lengthy, the number of his coterie in the twenties and she could not discern anyone besides her kin yet. She felt Éomer's arm against hers as he shifted his stance. Pressing her lips together she took a quiet breath through her nose, hoping to appear as dignified as she intended despite the quailing of her heart.

As they came closer she inadvertently sucked in a breath, the faces of the men becoming more distinguishable. A hand immediately encircled her hand and wrist, hidden from view by their bodies, and Éomer gave her a gentle squeeze. The pressure and warm touch brought her back to her senses, her muscles tensing immediately before relaxing. Her fingers curled toward his hand, not quite holding it, but acknowledging his gesture. It lasted only a breath and he released her, still standing close to her as they waited.

Imrahil's expression as he closed the gap was both apprehensive and perplexed. He halted and dismounted, Amrothos following suit. Behind him was Evandor, who appeared uneasy, looking first at Lothíriel before turning to survey the men behind him.

"My Lords," the Prince greeted the group, his horse shadowing his footsteps as he held the reins in one hand and approached them. Grey eyes found Lothíriel with unabashed curiosity and concern. "Daughter."

"Well met, Father," she greeted with a curtsey, her voice hollow.

"Hail, Prince Imrahil," Mithrandir took charge then, with a practiced smile. "Welcome back. We have much to discuss."

"What is it?" Amrothos questioned tensely, looking first to Gandalf before settling on Éomer as he came up beside his father. Lothíriel could not look directly at him, instead dropping her gaze with a polite bow.

"Let us come inside," Elladan announced, indicating to the tent. A stable lad came to take the Lords' horses, leading them away as the rest of the company dismounted and seemed to go about their respective business.

"First," came Éomer's polite yet sharp voice. "Where is the Lord Baranor?"

Although still behind the Prince and his son Evandor's gaze found Lothíriel's at once, realization settling on his expression as she felt him stare at her lip. Brows furrowed as he whipped around, murmuring something to man beside him. Amrothos must have heard this, glancing at Evandor before approaching Lothíriel.

"Will you not speak plainly?" this question was directed at Éomer but Amrothos was looking at his sister.

"Fetch Lord Baranor," came the Prince's authoritative order, which Evandor accepted with a nod. He began backtracking through the party that remained, moving from man to man. Imrahil settled an astute gaze on his daughter before nodding to Elladan. "By your leave, Lord Elladan."

The small group re-entered the tent, Imrahil and Amrothos joining them. Lothíriel felt weighed down by boulders as she moved inside, unable to look her kinsmen in the eye. She repeated silent mantras to herself to bolster the threadbare confidence she had left but all she felt was small and fearful. Though he did not stand right at her side she observed Éomer positioning himself near her as they circled the table, the silence heavy.

"May we speak openly here?" the Prince began, dark brows raised expectantly over eyes the color of storm clouds.

"Whilst we await the Lord Baranor we will apprise you of the tidings," Elrohir began before looking at Lothíriel. "Will you grant me leave to share this, my Lady?"

The woman nodded mutely, unable to trust her voice. The Elf flashed her a calm smile before retelling the prior day's events. Imrahil absorbed the information with a stoic visage but Amrothos reacted to each word with growing ire, his lips pressed thin as his brows drew together in anger. Disbelief played across his features to compete with the rising fury. Though he was circumspect in his recitation Elrohir looked mildly discomfited as he concluded, his gaze moving from the men of Dol Amroth to the Princess.

"This is unacceptable," Amrothos proclaimed harshly, looking then to his father. "I long suspected his foul purpose. Evandor warned of him as well."

"There are two tales to unravel," the Prince answered with a measured tone. "But first, I would speak to my daughter."

"No," Lothíriel found herself saying, raising her gaze to him with an expression of resolve. "I know what you will ask. I am alright. I want only to know what is to be done."

"Did Baranor join your party?" Mithrandir asked before Amrothos could speak, cutting in gently before the young man had a chance to respond to his sister.

"Yes," Imrahil replied, still looking at Lothíriel before addressing the White Wizard. "He came late in the evening, seeking my attention, and bearing a letter from Lord Húrin. He came too with assurances about the nature of your feelings toward him."

"Imagined and delusional," Éomer murmured, though he seemed to regret this immediate response, glancing at Lothíriel and tempering his expression. The group was looking at him then so he continued in a more measured tone. "We sought to apprehend him last night but learned he'd left. The Lady suspected he intended to come upon you and distort the truth."

"He was intent that you two held a fondness for one another," the Prince continued, unable – or unwilling – to conceal his distaste now. "I was guarded in my response and made it clear it would need to come from you if that were true. He referred to the letter and called it 'fortuitous' that the agreement made about a marriage for him would align with the mutual attachment felt by Lothíriel and himself."

"A snake!" Amrothos grimaced.

"There is no attachment," the woman stated, the words clear as she held her father's gaze. "Ever has he been a menace. But… it is true, then. You and Lord Húrin came to your arrangement for Minas Tirith by way of a betrothal for Baranor."

"That was a portion of the accord. But never were you mentioned, Lothíriel."

"Baranor does not seem to think so," Éomer put in.

"Or rather, he assumed the Lady was an acceptable prize," Elladan answered, to which Elrohir and Éomer nodded. Amrothos was becoming impatient, rhythmically tapping his boot against the leg of a chair as he crossed his arms, shaking his head.

"He is a bastard," the Prince's son muttered. "I fail to see why we are standing about and not apprehending him."

"He will answer for his behavior," Imrahil replied calmly, though an element of anger was evident in his tone. "Aragorn will preside over his sentence. Until he returns, we will have the Lord confined to await the King's justice."

"Give me leave to secure him myself, Father."

"That will not be necessary. Evandor undertook the task. He will bring Baranor forth."

Amrothos made a disapproving noise but said no more, looking away from the others with a contemptuous scowl. Lothíriel could feel herself shrinking again, the moment of confidence and clarity behind her. Fear awoke the dragon nestled in her stomach, its serpentine body moving along her insides as she frowned. This was not the same feeling she experienced earlier with Éomer, though she recognized the familiar way it slid up to her ribcage, wedging itself between her lungs.

Anger had been replaced with an icy alarm – what if Baranor escaped again? What if he claimed the oath made in the agreement committed her to him? Her mind tried to reason with the dragon, but it was to no avail. She took a shaky breath, turning away from the men to recover her composure. They were speaking in low tones behind her, though she was unable and uninterested in their conversation, focusing instead on breathing and quelling the creature clutching her heart.

Lothíriel felt someone move closer to her. She prepared to compose herself as the tent was entered. All parties turned to behold Evandor flanked by two Swan Knights, the three men breathing heavily, brows slick with sweat from their errand. Once turned she saw it was Éomer who'd approached her, but they were now focused on Evandor as he bowed.

"We have Baranor in custody."