Chapter 4
The procession continued throughout the day, taking another two breaks before dusk. The heat was bearable with a cool breeze sweeping across the plains, but it was slow going and the summer was hot. Though Lothíriel was no stranger to long days in the saddle she had never been a party to such a large group with so many attendants. Indeed, the entirety of King Elessar's court was at hand and there would be no pushing the beasts to save time. She spent the remainder of the day with the Hobbits and her kin. The road was narrower here and would, per Faramir, open substantially once they were past the Drúadan Forest, allowing the party to ride more freely.
The signal to halt for the evening was given by horn, a collective sigh seemingly to release in unison as the wagons began to break from the line and file themselves accordingly. They were in sight of the beacon hill, Amon Dîn, already shadowy against the breadth of the mountains beyond, though still ahead some miles. The camp lay waiting for them, tents erected and a small contingency of servants moving to greet the travelers. Upon dismounting folk dispersed to their assigned locations, the Princess and her brother led to the camp of Dol Amroth with efficiency. It was similar in set up to Cormallen, though far more temporary in its construction. Thin rugs had been laid and lamps hung a careful distance from the linen tent walls. A narrow living room with two smaller tents flanking it contained only a table with four chairs and a small Dol Amroth pennant on the northern wall.
"Will you prefer a room to yourself?" Imrahil asked after greeting his children, grey eyes finding his daughter as he removed the riding gloves. "There are two beds in one tent, the other has a single."
"You take the single, Ada," she answered, unfastening the green riding habit as her brother sat in the chair. "Amrothos is not so poor a chamber-mate if he keeps his drinking to a minimum."
"I'm not sure I'll have a chance," the man quipped while accepting a plate of cheese and bread from a servant. "I can't imagine we'll be treated to a Linher vintage or summer ales on the road."
"You might be surprised," their father answered. "This is the funeral procession of a King, escorted by two kings, Elves and the Ring-bearer. If there was e'er a time for fine libations this would be it. And I've heard they barely made a dent in the casks from Dale during the wedding."
"Oh!"
"Do not make me regret rooming with you," his sister remarked with a frown as Amrothos made for the exit, plate in hand. He offered only a smirk and wink before departing.
"If he's a problem you'll alert me?"
"Yes, Ada. But verily I am glad to see him this cheerful."
"As am I. He wears a smile so easily now you'd not know he was the most serious of you lot."
"No," she agreed, pulling the riding habit off and sitting in the chair her brother vacated. "Do you think he… that is, do you suppose someone is the object of his happiness?"
"I can't say for certain," Imrahil replied, his voice quieting. Her head tilted at his tone and unexpected change in expression, but he swiftly shrugged. "Amrothos has ever been guarded about such things. His joyfulness could very well be a result of something innocuous."
"Perhaps it's the new beard."
Her father chuckled and sat beside her to begin unlacing his boots, dismissing the servant that moved to assist him with a shake of his head. Lothíriel held the folded habit in her lap, the linen of her brown trousers a welcomed relief from the thickness of the riding garment. The entrance of their tent was pinned open to allow air flow, but the heat had decidedly settled in the narrow space. It would be a balmy night.
"Will you change for supper?" Imrahil inquired while removing the dark jerkin to reveal a blue tabard embroidered with the swan before pulling on a pair of deerskin ankle boots.
"I suppose I ought to," she answered, lifting the habit away to display a short chemise and stays beneath the thin surcoat.
"Your clothes are in the bedchamber by now," her father remarked as he aligned the leather belt on his waist and casually avoided her eyes as he buckled it. "I've had a few gowns made for you, but they are with my luggage."
"Father?" dark brows rose as the woman regarded him. He met her gaze and smiled.
"You are partial to these split skirts and unadorned dresses. But we are entering into a new age and there will be cause to dress your station. I do not disparage your garments, dearheart," he countered her hurt expression smoothly, the smile still present. "You are my daughter and represent Dol Amroth. You must wear clothes befitting those roles."
"Yes, Ada," she replied, dropping her gaze with a forced smile. He took a step toward her, reaching a hand out, which she took from her seated position.
"Think not that I seek to restrain you from being the woman you are. The sister and daughter. The healer. Let us only add to that."
"I shall try."
"Thank you."
TTTT
Dinner was relaxed despite the illustrious guests, the long tables arranged without pomp and circumstance. Unlike Cormallen there was no head table or dais, though the Kings and Elven nobility were seated together and there was a clear distinction between the classes. Evandor and Gaelen would not have sat so near to Lothíriel in a formal hall but they were remitted to tables that denoted their station nonetheless. After supper folk milled about chatting and playing games, the dinner tables repurposed for dice and cards. Lothíriel was invited to sit with Elrond and his children as the minstrels played nearby.
"Have you yet met my daughter?" the Lord of Imladris inquired as Princess curtseyed low to him. She raised her gaze and found the Queen of Gondor had come to stand beside him, her bright eyes taking the woman in. Lothíriel bowed again.
"I have not," she replied as the Queen dipped her head in welcome.
"Your evening arrival impeded our earlier meeting."
"Regretfully," Lothíriel agreed, accepting a glass of wine and the seat indicated by Elrond. The Queen's gown shimmered in the low light its hue a subtle gold, contrasting her dark hair, worn loose. The grey gown of the Princess was noticeably simple in comparison and Lothíriel was deigned to admit she should have requested to wear a dress her father had made for her.
"You attended the men at Field of Cormallen I am told," the Elf intoned with a smile.
"Yes, my Queen."
"She served as a healer there and in the city," Elrond put in, his daughter's expression changing slightly with elegant surprise.
"Daughter of a Prince and a healer? You are a rarity, Lady Lothíriel."
"Perhaps more a thorn in the sides of my father and brothers," the woman replied with a slight smile, which was shared by the Elves.
The Queen then excused herself to rejoin her husband, leaving Lothíriel with Lord Elrond. As they spoke at length about their craft the Princess could not help but occasionally search for Éomer when she did not think she would be noticed. For his part the Elven lord seemed unbothered, and they spoke until a bell was rung to indicate beds were prepared.
Lothíriel found her way to the tent, disappointed she'd only spied Éomer from a distance throughout the evening. Imrahil was already abed, his small room closed off and the candle doused. Her shared tent was empty, Amrothos no doubt enjoying himself with Evandor and the others at the nearby fire, their laughter filling the air above the soft music of the minstrels. The woman considered making an appearance but the small, raised pallet with its plush pillows looked far too inviting. She would join their merrymaking another night, she decided, as she readied herself for sleep.
TTTT
A dreadful noise froze her at once, panic settling in as she sucked in a tremulous breath. It was deafening, this sound, reverberating around her and moving through stone walls as though they were no more than fabric. Fear clung to her skin like sweat as she moved through the rows of patients, their misery unavoidable. The echoes of war replaced the screech that nearly destroyed her hearing as the woman tried to focus on her task. In her hands were bandages and a knife and she was moving at a great pace between the pallets.
There!
She flew to his side, golden-red curls catching the flickering light as she knelt beside him. His face was ruined, nearly slashed in twain as he writhed away from her. She supported his arm as his body arched up with another wave of pain, a scream emanating from his broken lungs.
"Halgeir," she whispered, trying to steady him. Where was the Warden to assist her? The man looked at her with glassy eyes before turning his head away. When he turned back, she was confronted with Erchirion, his empty eye socket weeping blood as he struggled to recognize her.
"I can't see," he whimpered, reaching for her. Pulling away with a jolt Lothíriel's shook her head. Where was Halgeir? Erchirion's face seemed to splinter like a sheet of ice broken upon the ground, dark hair turning tawny brown as his face contorted. The empty socket remained but it was Merry staring at her, mournfully.
"I can't go home," he lamented. "I can't go home."
Lothíriel reached for him, kneeling again at his side as she tried to comfort him. No sound came from her, despite the air leaving her lungs. Her heart wrenched as the Hobbit pulled his hands from his middle, covered in blood as he looked from them to her.
"You can't save us," he whispered to her as she held his hands, slick and slipping away from her grasp. He dipped his head in response to the pain, curling in and coming back to look at her.
But it was not Merry.
It was the face of death – nay – the face of Éowyn but her skin was withered against her skull, long blonde hair like rivers flowing about her skeletal frame. Her mouth moved but no words came forth as she laid back on the pallet, staring at the Princess. Blood pooled beneath her emaciated body as she stared at Lothíriel with vacant eyes, her thin lips whispering silently.
"Éowyn!" Lothíriel called to her, terrified that a touch would disintegrate the shieldmaiden like dust. Her heart beat erratically as another deafening shriek cut through the din, causing her to shut her eyes against its malice. When she opened them she was sitting upright in the thin bed holding her breath. It was not a violent awakening, her chest burning as she remembered to breathe, eyes adjusting to the poor light. Her faculties returned as she blinked, registering the tent and her brother's soft snores to her left.
Slipping from the bed Lothíriel grasped for the closest outer garment she could reach – the riding habit – to don over the shift and sleeping stays. Shrugging her arms into the stiff material the woman forced slow breaths, feeling stifled in the narrow tent. Her skin was warm and her brow was damp. Once she'd fastened the buttons she exited the tent, the night air cooling her clammy flesh. Her attention was drawn by the dim embers of a nearby fire. There were an array of bedrolls and slumbering bodies lying beneath the stars and it was bright enough for her to pick her way from the tent to the benches circled about the fire. Sitting with a thud the woman finally gave herself a moment to consider the dream that lingered at the edge of her mind.
"My Lady?" came the soft voice she recognized as Evandor's before his shape came into view. He moved from the shadows to sit on the bench opposite her, expression concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," she answered with a nod. She did not trust herself to speak yet of the dream, instead putting the focus on him. "Night watch?"
"Aye."
"Is that necessary?"
"Probably not," he conceded with a shrug. "Most of our bodies are so conditioned for it that we're up anyway."
"Is it just you?"
"No," came another voice to their right. Shifting her position, Lothíriel watched Éomer come into the firelight with a polite nod to her, a hand casually resting on his sword hilt. "I was just about to relieve him."
"The King of Rohan would relieve a knight?" she inquired with raised brows as Evandor smiled and stood, bowing to the pair.
"Don't need to tell me twice. M'lord and lady."
"Titles have little importance when it comes to night watch," Éomer continued as Evandor departed. He sat on the bench nearest to her, though still a respectful distance. He stared at her with poorly hidden curiosity. "What brings you out to the fireside?"
"Sleep that did not allow me rest," she replied, settling her hands in her lap.
"I am familiar with this breed of sleep. It comes with irksome and dire dreams."
"The most unpleasant of sorts."
"I fear I do not know a warrior who is not plagued with such sleep. What dreams would wake a Princess?"
"Perhaps the same that keep a warrior awake."
Éomer regarded her then with raised brows that quickly furrowed. She could not tell if he was displeased by her answer but she felt the lingering sting of offense from his question. Soothing her ire the woman turned her attention to the fire.
"My dreams have not always been so dark. But since the siege of Minas Tirith I am afflicted by them, sometimes for nights on end."
"Dreams of the siege?" he asked, his tone gentler and more interested than before, which allowed her to relax her indignation, if only slightly.
"Yes, at times. But mostly memories of death and agony. Of our inability to salvage the lives we were there to save. They cannot be so different from your own, if indeed you have them."
"I do."
They sat in silence for a moment, Lothíriel unsure if she should maintain a sense of resentment at his ignorance. Surely he must remember that she witnessed enough trauma to last an age. But then, perhaps he didn't remember. Perhaps he'd shut those memories away as Erchirion had, unable or unwilling to speak of them. As if they'd never happened at all. She chanced a glance at him but he was looking at the fire, expression troubled. She made ready to change the subject but he spoke first.
"Forgive me, my Lady," he murmured, hazel eyes trained on the fire. "I should not have implied you were not subjected to the horrors of war. They vex my sister. Why would it be any different for you?" he paused before continuing, casting his gaze sidelong to her. "Do you wish to speak of the dream that awoke you tonight?"
"No," she answered. "But I am glad for the distraction."
"I can't imagine we'll have too many opportunities like this," he commented, tone changing as he sat up straight. They were close enough to speak quietly, though not entirely out of earshot of the occupied bedrolls. "It seems you are more popular than I am on this journey."
"I doubt that," she replied wryly. "You are the cornerstone of the entire progress."
"Alas, you are correct. Though I wish it weren't so."
"Your uncle will hold an honor that few Kings have ever had, a funeral attended by both Men and Elves. Not to mention Hobbits and a Dwarf."
"And he is worthy of such an attendance. But… were it up to me I should like the crowd to disperse after his internment."
"You'd be crowned all on your lonesome?"
Éomer looked at her then, surprise fading once he saw her grin. He canted his head as the hint of a smile appeared on his lips. She titled her head and waited for his response, hoping he would take to her gentle teasing.
"If I had it my way I'd be crowned by my horse in his stall and be done with it."
"It would be fitting for Horselord. Crowned by his steed amidst the hay and dust. It'd certainly add credence to the rumors of the Horselords."
"Rumors?"
"That you value your horses above all others."
"Oh! I thought you meant… other rumors."
Was that discomfiture in his tone? She gazed at him with a bemused expression, weighing whether to entertain, embarrass or anger the King of Rohan with the uncouth speculation about the Horselord being horse-fuckers. She decided against it when he seemed to adjust his position uncomfortably. Perhaps her teasing had soured the moment.
"I should try my hand at sleeping," she announced after another moment of silence. Éomer stood with her, appearing torn between two thoughts.
"Of course." The man extended his hand in the direction of the tents, stepping toward her with the implication that she would start walking. But she stood still for a moment, his nearness rooting her. They locked eyes and she was nearly overcome by the urge to touch him. Swallowing the impulse, she felt his hand on her upper arm, a consequence of her pause. Éomer ran his fingers across the fabric of the riding habit, pressing gently to contact the skin beneath. She wanted to lean into his hand, draw herself closer that he might wrap his arms around her completely.
The firelight illuminated half of his face, the other cast in shadow as they stared at each other. It felt like hours but likely spanned only a few seconds before he dropped his hand, a grimace passing across his features briefly. Breaking eye contact the man drew his gaze to the tents beyond.
"May I walk to your camp?" he inquired, the strain in his voice clipping his words.
"Yes, thank you," she murmured, looking away from him and doing the thing she should've done in the beginning and walking toward her family's tent.
He walked beside her, close enough to be an escort but not so close that they would brush against one another. They came to the entry where a Swan Knight stood. He gave the pair a quick nod of the head, stepping to the side. Éomer reached for her hand and she assumed he would kiss it. When he instead covered his other hand over hers, she met his gaze.
"I hope your dreams are more pleasant, my Lady. I am no stranger to reliving the misery of battle. If I could take it from you I would."
"Thank you, my Lord," she whispered, the warmth from his hands spreading up her arm. "It does my heart well to know I am not alone in this consequence of war."
Éomer looked as though he wanted to say something else but offered a small smile instead. He removed the hand covering hers and lifted the back of her hand to his lips as he bent forward to kiss it. He straightened and Lothíriel beheld the kingly visage once more, candidness and warmth replaced with decorum as he initiated a farewell and she bowed her head.
"Goodnight, Lady Lothíriel."
