"Hér biþ þæt we healdað þá wyrta - netele, salfige, and þýmian."
Lothíriel trailed behind the older healer through the different rooms and hallways, her words only an intelligible blur of sounds that didn't make any sense to her. She tried to stay calm and apathetic by nodding mechanically and imagining she was somewhere else, somewhere she would not be bored out of her mind, but despite her best efforts, there were moments where she barely managed not to scream out loud, grab one of the pots she was being shown over and over, and smash it on someone's head.
It had been a week since their arrival in Edoras – one long and excruciating week. She soon found out that almost none of the people she met spoke Westron; there was not one among the healers that would understand what she was trying to say and so, after a few hopeful hours on the first day, she gave up. However, it seemed the women in the healing quarters of Edoras paid it no heed; they just kept showing her around and explaining everything in Rohirric, as if it didn't bother them one bit that she didn't understand a single word.
Why should I understand anyway? she thought bitterly. I have been invited here to teach them, surely they can't expect me to do that without at least a proper interpreter?
"I'm not daft, Torhild," Lothíriel interrupted the healer. "I remember this cupboard and all these stupid pots, you have shown them to me a thousand times. I have nightmares about them at night."
Torhild just regarded her for a second and then returned back to babbling on and on, as if she never heard her speak. Lothíriel found it helped a bit to jab at the healer once in a while; to say mean things out loud that she would normally never dare utter if she knew she would be understood. Somehow it felt good to let off some steam this way, slowly and gradually, and she reassured herself that it was in everyone's best interest. If she let out all the pent up frustration at once, it would not be pretty.
She had been trying to speak to someone in charge to sort out this misunderstanding, but it seemed an impossible feat. Lady Éowyn had left Edoras the day after their celebratory welcome to coordinate the transport of building material and food supplies to the Westfold, which was hit hardest by Orc and Wildmen attacks during the War, on behalf of the King. King Éomer himself kept busy in the capital: whenever she caught a glimpse of him, he was out and about in the city and his halls, always in deep discussion with what she assumed to be various lords, captains and merchants. Not only was he too busy, everyone else seemed to be in a frenzy ever since their return to Rohan – she didn't seem to be able to get a hold of anyone who could help her, or at least understand her. Lothíriel thought maybe it was her long suppressed princessy manners that somehow bubbled up to the surface after years of being locked away deep down, but surely this was no way to treat a guest?
"Excuse me, I have to go," she said to Torhild as she was about to open the door to yet another herb cabinet and turned on her heel to leave. See how you like to be ignored, she thought bitterly.
She didn't see the King in the common hall, so she decided to try his private study – maybe she was lucky. There were two soldiers guarding the door.
"I need to see the King," she said resolutely.
The guards looked her up and down with raised eyebrows, then muttered something in Rohirric.
"The King?" she tried again. "Éomer-cyning?"
They muttered something again and although Lothíriel didn't understand the words, it was clear to her that they didn't want to let her see him.
"Listen," she said, trying to keep her cool. "I have been here stranded in this wretched country for one whole week and no one has even bothered to-"
Suddenly the door flung open and the King of Rohan stuck out his head from beyond the heavy wood-and-iron frame. He blurted something out harshly before he noticed her. Lothíriel realized with a tiny sliver of shame that she must have failed miserably at keeping her voice down.
"Méav?" the King seemed surprised to see her. "Is something the matter?"
"Yes, your grace. I'm sorry to disturb you but I need to talk to you urgently," she replied, trying not to lose the resolution from her voice.
He sighed. "Alright then, come in."
Lothíriel gave the guards at the door a fleeting angry look as she stepped into the King's study. After one week of suffering she was too riled up to heed the proper decorum of a private audience with the King and as soon as the heavy doors shut behind her, she blurted out first: "Your grace, I was never told when I was offered to come here that the healers, among others, don't speak Westron. I cannot work with them or teach them anything unless we understand each other. I tried to find someone to help me but it seems impossible, and the healers are not even trying to communicate with me efficiently." She finished, took a deep breath and looked at him in expectation.
The King groaned, rubbed his face and took a few paces toward his window. As he stood in the sunlight pouring into the room, Lothíriel suddenly noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the tired look in them. She looked around the sunny room for the first time and realized he must be hard at work – his desk was full of different maps, parchments and opened books carelessly scattered about. A breakfast tray was left untouched on the small table next to his fireplace.
"What exactly were you expecting then, coming to the Riddermark?"
The cold way he snapped at her took all the wind out of Lothíriel's sails. He was busy, sure, but she did not expect she would be blamed for anything in this conversation, quite the opposite.
"But you have invited me-"
"Yes, my sister has invited you to the Riddermark. I assume you have agreed to come here knowing full well what to expect. Surely you didn't make such a decision on a whim?" he asked, his voice sharp.
Excuse me? Lothíriel couldn't believe her ears. So all this was her fault for agreeing to come here and help out his people?
"The decision wasn't entirely mine to be made, your Majesty," she responded and made sure the contempt in her voice was easily audible. "Nevertheless, I assumed I was invited here as a guest of your Majesty and your lady sister, so forgive me if I expected to be treated as such."
He didn't say anything and only eyed her with disbelief on his face. Had she gone too far? She was not a royal anymore to be able to speak to him in such a manner. Lothíriel couldn't believe she let herself get carried away like that. The King may actually have her punished for her impudence. Stupid fool.
"You are forgetting yourself, Méav," he retorted coolly. Lothíriel had never felt so embarrassed; shameful as it was, she couldn't bare his gaze any longer and dropped her eyes on the ground. "I have enough on my plate as it is," he continued, pointing at his desk. "I trust you can find a solution yourself."
His facial expression and the tone of his voice meant only one thing – the conversation was over. And Lothíriel sure was glad for it.
"As you wish, your grace," she replied hastily, took a deep curtsy and left the room as quickly as she could, while trying not to give the impression of a shamed foe escaping a lost battle.
ooOOoo
"Lothíriel, wait up!"
She heard her brother's shouts coming from behind her but never bothered to turn around. If she did, he would surely catch up with her and that would be the end of it – so instead she increased her pace and pressed on laboriously, beads of sweat popping up on her forehead. The hill wasn't quite steep enough for it to be called a climb, but still the narrow footpath overgrown with patches of dried grass here and there was very tricky in places, threatening a rock slide down towards the wild waves of the sea with every further step. Lothíriel held on to anything she could find sticking out from the slope above her, from dried up roots to the occasional branch of pine trees scattered across the hill.
When she was about half way up, she let her eyes stray off the path and onto the glorious view that opened up before her. They were really high up now, higher even than the tallest turrets of her father's castle which she was watching from what seemed like miles away. This is what birds must feel like all the time, she thought as she admired the bright red roof tiles of the houses down below and the never-ending blue of the sea stretching beyond, as far as the eye could see.
All of a sudden, she felt her right foot slip on the loose stones and break the fragile balance of her body. For a split moment, she saw herself flying down towards those beautiful tiled roofs, free as a bird, but with no wings to hold her afloat.
But just then, a strong arm gripped her around her waist and pulled her to its owner.
"Lothíriel!" her brother exclaimed in a loud whisper which had probably been meant as a shout, but he was too out of breath to produce the necessary volume. "You're going to kill yourself, you fool!"
After he caught his breath again, he added: "You know you're not supposed to go anywhere alone."
"Don't be such a bore, Amrothos," Lothíriel said with feigned confidence, although her near fall left her with her heart pounding in her chest like crazy. "I just wanted to see the view from above."
"You know you were only allowed to go this far because I'm watching you, and I can't do that if you just run off like that! If father knew about this he would be furious," Amrothos said with a frown. "It's very reckless of you – you're a princess, not a mountain climber."
"You sound just like him."
"I do not!"
They both fell silent and watched each other wearily in a sort of half staring, half frowning contest. After just a few seconds of this silly stand-off, Lothíriel saw the corners of Amrothos' mouth involuntarily twitch up in a grin.
"Alright, maybe I do – just a little bit," he admitted.
"Just a little bit," Lothíriel nodded with a chuckle. "Please Amrothos, I really just want to see the ruins up there," she pointed to the rundown walls that were protruding from a cover of pine trees a few feet above them. "Father need never find out."
Amrothos sighed and nodded. "Fine, but I'm coming with you. And if you fall and break your leg, I didn't have anything to do with it."
"Nothing will happen, you killjoy! Let's go," Lothíriel said excitedly and turned to continue their ascent, carefully and slowly considering each step this time.
"Father will have my head for this," she heard her brother mutter behind her.
Lothíriel wondered where the long-forgotten memory came from all of a sudden. Perhaps the children she saw playing outside through her window made her subconsciously reach into the oblivion of her own childhood memories and pull out one of the happy ones, scarce as they were. She remembered now how ecstatic she had been that day, looking down on Dol Amroth from way up above, surprised at just how small it looked from the bird's eye perspective, despite encompassing her entire world when she was down there. How come she had ever forgotten such a pleasant memory?
Her youngest brother Amrothos was the only one she ever truly considered, and loved, as family. He was the only one who treated her like a person, not just a royal princess subject to the will of others but never her own; the only one who often referred to her by her own name, which she happened to like a lot, instead of the typically stern and threatening 'daughter' or 'little sister'. Whenever she exited her solar in the morning and saw Amrothos waiting down the hall for her – an unmistakable sign he was asked to chaperone her that day – her spirits were immediately lifted and she knew she would enjoy every minute of it, rare as it was.
And yet, the duty he felt towards their family had been too strong, much stronger than the bond between a brother and a sister who had been shown their entire lives that they were valued differently in their father's eyes. Their fun-filled days and little childhood transgressions always remained a strictly guarded secret; in the presence of their father Amrothos hardly exchanged a few glances with his little sister. In a way, Lothíriel understood – he was third in line to Imrahil's crown and would most probably never see the day when he would sit on the throne of Dol Amroth, and their father always made sure Amrothos was aware of that fact. He had to try twice as hard as their other two brothers to impress father, although Lothíriel never quite fathomed why he even tried.
The sudden memory brought forward a rare wave of painful nostalgia that took Lothíriel by surprise. She breathed in deeply and swallowed the lump that was pushing its way out of her throat. These moments came over her once in a while, whenever she allowed her mind to travel that far back, and she did the same thing she always did when she needed a bit of reassurance – she groped under the far foot of her bed for the small satchel which contained the few mementos from her past life that she had dared to keep. She loosened the knot on the string and stuck her hand inside, her fingers trailing along the familiar shape of the seashell she had kept as a token of her beloved coast, and the thin golden chain she had received as a gift on her fifteenth birthday. Finally, her fingers found and pulled out the small piece of parchment, carefully folded and yellowed from use.
Dearest Lothíriel,
Even if you think that no one would, I will always miss my little sister. Take careout there.
Your loving brother, A.
A solitary tear dropped on the worn paper and Lothíriel wiped it off quickly, hoping the ink would not be ruined. The note was simple enough and yet it meant the world to her. She considered getting rid of it at first and almost threw it into the waters of the Anduin on her way to Minas Tirith, but dismissed the thought just in time. Ever since then, she had kept it close to her, a last remnant of a family and life she had left behind. She was sure Amrothos had not really suspected her plans to run away after that horrible marriage proposal, and probably just wanted to give her words of encouragement before she departed for the home of her soon-to-be husband. After all, she took every possible precaution to be as inconspicuous as possible, even though she never exactly hid her anger and contempt of father and her newly betrothed. Then again, it's not like father ever paid any real attention to me, she thought. And so one night after dinner, just a few days before she turned her back on Dol Amroth for good, Amrothos walked her back to her solar and handed her an envelope sealed in red wax, the white feathered insignia of their house sitting comfortably in its center.
"Just open this whenever you feel alone, Lothíriel," he said gravely, placed an unusual fleeting kiss on her knuckles and quickly left.
And she did, as soon as she boarded the ship that was to take her away and shut the door to her cabin tightly behind her. She has taken it out many times since, and simple though it was, the short note always lifted her spirits.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sudden sound made her jump up in her chair. Lothíriel quickly folded the note and put it back in its hiding place under her bed before she shouted: "Come in!"
"Good morning, Méav," Lady Éowyn exclaimed cheerily as she popped her head around the door. "When will you be ready? I thought I might accompany you to the healing quarters today."
"It would be an honor, my lady," Lothíriel said with a measure of surprise. Was her uncomfortable conversation with the King fruitful after all?
As soon as she got dressed, they made their way towards the healing quarters of Edoras, just a short walk away from the healers' chambers, across a narrow courtyard encompassing their very own herb garden.
"I'm sorry to hear that you have been experiencing a language barrier of sorts, Méav," Lady Éowyn blurted out as soon as the door to Lothíriel's chamber was shut behind them.
"Oh, well, a little bit, yes," Lothíriel admitted reluctantly. She wondered how much of their recent conversation the King actually shared with his sister.
"It never even occurred to me that our healers don't speak the common tongue," she continued, smiling apologetically. "I should have found someone to take care of you before I left for the Westfold. I hope your first week here wasn't too frustrating?"
Someone to take care of me? Is this how the King has understood my request for an interpreter? she wondered, slightly annoyed by the thought. She knew Lady Éowyn meant well, but it seemed her plea for someone to help her out had been grossly misread.
"There is no need for you to worry, my lady. I am actually doing just fine on my own," Lothíriel said with a reassuring smile, trying to convey as much politeness as she could muster in her words. She couldn't quite find it in her heart to blame Lady Éowyn, who had only ever been nice and friendly to her, quite unlike her royal brother. "It's just that it is impossible to teach your healers anything if we can't understand each other."
"Yes, yes, of course," Lady Éowyn nodded. "Well, anyway, now I'm here to help so let's get down to work, shall we?"
It was the first time Lothíriel felt they were making progress – the healers had to explain everything they already did the past week once again, but this time Lady Éowyn had translated their words and Lothíriel finally had a chance to understand what the healers of Edoras stored in their cupboards, among other things.
At the same time, she realized how much work was ahead of her. The skills of the Rohirric healers were not too bad in terms of being able to sew a wound or use different herbs to treat fevers and such, but they lacked the detailed knowledge of the inner workings of the human body that Gondor had already started to discover. However, she was pleased to see that now that they finally understood each other, the healers seemed to be rather keen on learning and were asking many questions.
To Lothíriel's surprise, even the seemingly boring and repetitive Torhild turned out to be quite quick-witted and in fact very experienced in the healing arts. In hindsight, Lothíriel felt bad that she been calling her mean names to her face.
Here's hoping it won't turn out later on that she understood Westron all along, Lothíriel prayed, embarrassed.