"Finally, it's finished," Lothíriel exclaimed with a wide smile as she looked down at the desk in front of her with satisfaction. The map of the human body with descriptions of all its parts in Rohirric that she had started shortly after she came to the Mark was complete at last. She felt a certain amount of pride as she looked down at her work – it took her hours upon hours to get the drawings just right and to make sure the Rohirric translations truly matched what was depicted.
Of course, she wouldn't be able to do it without the help of Torhild and the other healers, and Lady Éowyn most of all, since her own Rohirric skills still lacked a great amount of vocabulary and fluency. Despite being taught all manner of different languages during her upbringing as a Princess, she never quite developed the feeling for it, leaving her teachers frustrated and her father disappointed. Recently, she found that her inability to grasp a foreign language had nothing to do with her subconscious rebellion against her father and everything he wanted her to become, as she previously thought. She had to admit now that she was simply very bad at it.
It didn't help that Torhild continued to make her say everything in Rohirric and ignored her completely if she didn't, utterly disregarding even Lothíriel's attempts at non-verbal communication. Now, when she looked up at the woman standing next to her, she saw Torhild purse her lips as she heard the words uttered in Westron and heard her repeat the familiar phrase for the hundredth time: "Spræc on urre spræce, Méav." Speak in our language, Méav.
Lothíriel sighed and repeated slowly, pondering every word before it left her mouth: "Endebyrdlic, hit is gefullend."
"Endebyrdlice, hit is fullendod," Torhild corrected her patiently.
Lothíriel wondered about the magical source of this woman's seemingly unlimited patience. She remembered even the most desired teachers in all of Gondor storming out of her study in frustration at hearing her making the same mistakes over and over, but Torhild seemed completely unaffected by this and just patiently kept correcting every wrong word and phrase she uttered. In a way, Lothíriel was grateful, but she knew her attempts would eventually be in vain. She knew she didn't come to Rohan to stay, but at the same time, she didn't have the heart to tell Torhild that despite her good intentions, by the time she had left the Mark again she would probably remember even less of the language than she did this very moment.
Before Lothíriel could repeat the corrected phrase after Torhild, as she had grown used to doing, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. She heard strange commotion coming from beyond it, and voices she didn't recognize. Before either of them could make a move to go see what was the matter, the door flew wide open, hitting the nearest bookshelf to its right and rattling its contents. Lord Deorwine was standing in the doorway, his eyes trailing around the room before they stopped at Lothíriel. At first, his demeanor reminded her of the way he burst into the room in which his late wife was giving birth. She stood up instinctively, ready to protect herself any way she knew how; she expected him to charge her like a bull again, or to draw his sword. Instead, he just entered the room without a word and threw two opened envelopes on the desk in front of her. "Read them."
Lothíriel eyed him cautiously, unsure what to make of this grand entrance. He seemed different than his usual drunk and loud self; she couldn't detect any signs of ale affecting him at all. He just stood quietly and observed her, unmoving, his sword hand relaxed behind his back. Lothíriel cast a quick glance at Torhild, who had positioned herself between her and Lord Deorwine, as if to protect her from any incoming attack. Warily, she reached out her hand and grabbed one of the envelopes from the desk, noticing, to her dismay, that it bore the familiar swan wax seal of Dol Amroth.
She skimmed over the contents, skipping the usual formalities, until her eyes reached a sentence that made her stomach tighten so hard she thought she might get sick. There is not now, and there never has been, a healer named Méav trained or in service here. Signed, head healer Sirael of the healing houses of Dol Amroth. Lothíriel kept staring at the letter, reading the sentence over and over, scared to lift up her eyes and face the reality of what was happening.
"Read the other one," Lord Deorwine prompted her impatiently, grabbing the second letter himself and shoving it in Lothíriel's hand.
She reluctantly acquiesced and pulled out the other piece of paper. This time, she didn't need to reach the signature to know who it had been from – she immediately recognized the familiar handwriting of the old, kind Warden of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. This letter was an even shorter reply to something Lord Deorwine must have asked him, simply stating that a healer named Méav was in service there for a little over three years, since January of the year 3016 of the Third Age, before she was dispatched to Rohan.
"I was right all along," Lord Deorwine hissed at her and snatched the letter from her hand. "The King and his henchmen can intimidate me and try to convince me of your innocence all they want. Now I have proof that you are responsible for my wife's death."
Excuse me, what? That was not the inference Lothíriel had expected him to draw. For a moment, she was sure he would reveal that he knew her true identity, but she quickly realized there was nothing actually in the letters to hint at it, unless he knew details about her history or the Princess of Dol Amroth's disappearance, which few people were privy to. He did come dangerously close, though. Too close.
"What proof, my lord?" Lothíriel asked cautiously, not knowing quite where he was going with this.
"Proof that you lack experience and should never have been in charge of my wife," he spat out.
"I have enough experience, I assure you," Lothíriel protested, trying to stifle any offense that may have manifested in her voice. "Your wife and babe were sadly beyond saving, my lord."
He scoffed and shook his head. "Beyond saving after you have plunged a knife in her belly!" he almost shouted now.
Lothíriel cast an imploring glance at Torhild; she needed all the support she could get. Torhild thankfully understood her silent plea and backed her up in her native tongue, explaining once again that all that they were trying to do was save his child, not the opposite. Lord Deorwine raised his palm in her face and crudely cut her off. "Save your excuses for the King. This matter will be settled in his court."
"You want to put me on trial?" Lothíriel asked in disbelief.
"I want to bring you to justice, yes," he stared at her, nostrils flaring. "You will come with me now, to request audience with Lady Éowyn in the King's absence."
"I will do no such thing," Lothíriel objected. "If Lady Éowyn sees it fit to send guards for me after she has heard your plea, she may well do so, but you don't have that authority."
Lord Deorwine scoffed at her words. "I beg to disagree."
Torhild let out a loud yelp as he slowly pulled his sword out of its scabbard and casually pointed it in Lothíriel's direction, as if it was no more than a toothpick. She immediately regretted her cocky words; a cold fright stroked its fingers up and down her spine. You should have known better than to provoke him, she mentally cursed herself. He must have gone mad. In the split second that followed, she quickly evaluated her choices, but seeing as there was no one else there save for other vulnerable women, she simply nodded her assent.
"After you," Lord Deorwine motioned towards the door with his blade.
Lothíriel slowly made her way out of the cramped study, giving Torhild a quick petrified glance as she passed her by. They made their way through the courtyard of the healing quarters in silence, until they reached the large gate that opened into the busy main street leading uphill, all the way towards Meduseld. At first, the people of Edoras didn't notice the strange sight, too immersed in their daily tasks to pay heed to everything that was happening in the bustling crowd of people. They only walked a few paces, however, and Lothíriel began to hear surprised gasps and a low murmur here and there. With each further step, more and more eyes turned in their direction, yet no one made a move to help her. Lothíriel could swear she felt the tip of his sword pressing between her shoulder blades. She walked stiffly, like a living corpse, actively forcing her body into every consecutive step towards the large wooden building looming above her, praying he doesn't change his mind and simply lop her head off from behind to save everyone the trouble of a formal trial.
"Hey!" she heard a shout from far away, but couldn't even bring herself to turn her head and look where it came from, for fear of driving the sword into her back with any wrong movement. "Hey!" the voice resonated again, now much closer; Lothíriel braved to move at least her eyes towards the sound, and to her great relief, saw Uffe emerge from behind some other spectators in the crowd.
"Lower your sword at once, my lord," he glared at Lord Deorwine, his hand clutching the hilt of his own weapon.
"I am simply making sure she doesn't try and make her escape before she can face the King's justice," Lord Deorwine explained, his sword hand not budging an inch.
Uffe seemed taken aback by his words for a brief moment, but immediately recovered and objected: "You have no right to bring her to justice at your sword's point without the King's leave."
"The King is not here," Lord Deorwine argued coolly. "Now let us pass."
"No," Uffe stood his ground, placing a protective hand on Lothíriel's shoulder. She still couldn't bring herself to move; she was infinitely grateful for his interference, but whether the situation would end with a sword fight or not was still anyone's guess. Thankfully, Uffe had chosen the appeasing approach instead, and continued in a softer tone: "None of this is necessary, my lord. Let me help you accompany Méav to Meduseld. She will comply, right, Méav?"
"I will," Lothíriel replied shakily, unsure whether she was even heard over the murmur of the crowd that had gathered around them.
Lord Deorwine scoffed. "And why should I heed your words, Lord Uffe? You are hardly impartial."
"Because Méav came here at the invitation of our King's own sister and is an honored guest of the Riddermark," Uffe proclaimed confidently. "When the King presides over your trial, don't you think he will take into consideration the way you are treating her now?"
At this, Lord Deorwine seemed to waver a little. Lothíriel stopped feeling the prickly tip of his sword between her shoulder blades. "Put down your sword, my lord, and I will take Méav by the arm and personally escort her to Meduseld, upon my word as a fellow Rohir," Uffe said gravely, his jaw stiff with expectation.
After a brief moment of silence, she could hear Lord Deorwine's sword slide back into its scabbard. "Fine. Let's go," he mumbled angrily.
Lothíriel took a few strained breaths as her muscles relaxed and her body became less rigid again, allowing her to finally fill her lungs to their desired capacity. She felt as though her knees would give out any moment, so she gratefully accepted Uffe's outstretched arm. She managed to mouth a silent 'thank you' to her savior before they set out to continue their short journey uphill, trying to ignore the curious glances they were attracting along the way.
The Golden Hall was surprisingly empty that time of day, an untended fire flickering and slowly dying in the central hearth. Two guards had been dispatched to summon Lady Éowyn, and while they were all waiting in silence, Lothíriel's fright-induced brain fog finally cleared and she began to realize just how much trouble she was actually in. She wasn't worried about the unfortunate childbirth incident, to be sure – she knew she was in the right, and had witnesses to prove it. Lord Deorwine's letters were a feeble attempt to discredit her abilities and would not persevere in the face of eyewitness accounts and the support she knew she had in this matter, be it from Uffe, Lady Éowyn, or even the King himself.
What she found much more troubling was the thought of where such a formal trial could lead her. She could swear she had recounted to the King and his sister how she had studied the healing arts from the Haradrim woman in Dol Amroth. Or had she? With so many lies told, it was starting to be difficult to keep track. She likely did, though; it was a story she had shared with people many times over the years, all true except for the minuscule detail of doing it in secret as Imrahil's daughter, and not as part of any formal training as Méav the healer. Now, Lord Deorwine was in possession of a letter that clearly contradicted her story. Questions about this discrepancy would inevitably arise and…What explanation could you possibly give them?
Lothíriel observed Lord Deorwine as he was pacing up and down the length of a long wooden table closest to them. Of all the things she imagined he might do to her in retaliation for his loss, physical harm included, she never even fathomed he would be the one to bring about the downfall of all that she had worked towards for so many years. And you don't even realize it, my lord, she thought scornfully.
Swift footsteps echoed throughout the otherwise silent hall as Lady Éowyn made her way towards them, followed by the two guards that had been tasked to fetch her. She looked over the three of them with a furrowed brow. "You have requested to speak with me, Lord Deorwine?"
"I have come to request the King's justice in a trial, my lady," Lord Deorwine stepped forward confidently.
"A trial?"
"I wish to defend my claim that this woman-" he pointed his finger at Lothíriel as he spat out those words; "- is responsible for the death of my wife and child."
"Hasn't this matter been settled already, my lord?" Lady Éowyn sighed. Lothíriel was sure she tried hard not to roll her eyes. "The King was of the opinion that Méav was innocent of any wrongdoing."
"The King was not privy to information I have received recently. About the healer's qualifications."
He handed her the letters he had been clutching in his left hand this whole time. Lady Éowyn looked at the crumpled envelopes doubtfully, yet she reluctantly took them and started reading the letters contained therein. Lothíriel watched her intently, bracing herself for the worst. Lady Éowyn's eyebrows contracted slightly for a second, and once she finished reading the short messages, she handed them back to Lord Deorwine and said: "What is your insinuation, my lord?"
"That this woman was never trained as a proper healer," he explained. "These letters prove it."
Lady Éowyn mulled over his words for a while. "Are you sure this is proof enough? I'm sure there is a good explanation for everything." Then she turned to Lothíriel and added: "Right, Méav?"
Lothíriel wanted to open her mouth and say something, but her mind drew a complete blank. What excuse could she possibly find that would sound plausible at this point? She had trained there under a different name? The head healer's written records were simply wrong and she misremembered? All nonsense, she knew. The web of lies she had tangled herself into was becoming too tight to navigate.
Before she had a chance to respond, however, Lord Deorwine jumped in angrily: "She will only poison your mind with more lies to sway your favor. I wish this matter to be settled in the King's court upon his return, my lady."
"As you have a right to, my lord," Lady Éowyn acquiesced, flashing an apologetic look at Lothíriel. "The King is already on his way and shall return to Edoras in a few days' time. We will settle this then."
"And what of her in the meantime?" Lord Deorwine cast Lothíriel an icy stare. "What if she tries to flee justice?"
"I will not, my lord," Lothíriel found her voice again, taking offense at his words.
He scoffed and shook his head. "And why should I believe you?"
"My lord," Lady Éowyn interjected. "Surely you are not suggesting that we put Méav in the dungeon to await the King's return."
"I am suggesting that, my lady."
The dungeon? Lothíriel froze in horror at the thought. Surely they can't do that unless my guilt has been proven beyond doubt?
"My lord-" Lady Éowyn tried to protest, but he cut her off.
"With all due respect, my lady, it is written in our law that a nobleman has the right to request a commoner that has done him great harm to be imprisoned while awaiting trial at the King's court, unless I am mistaken."
I am a princess, not a commoner! Lothíriel suddenly felt like shouting out loud, but she stopped herself just in time. It would not help her situation, and besides, using the title she had willingly abandoned like that would be the peak of hypocrisy.
Lady Éowyn eyed him in silence for a while, but then nodded resignedly. Lothíriel tried to capture her gaze with a desperate plea, but the Lady didn't meet her eyes. Instead, she motioned the two guardsmen that had been waiting off to the side to get her, but before they crossed over to where she had been standing, Uffe positioned himself between them, shoving Lothíriel behind his back.
"Wait," he put his hand out to stop them. "Allow me to hold Méav in custody in my family's hall, at least. Not the dungeon."
They all eyed him doubtfully. "You are welcome to dispatch your own guardsmen to watch her door at all times, my lady," he added in an attempt to avoid the suspicion of his proposal having the aim of aiding Lothíriel's escape in some form or another.
"That is a concession I can make," Lady Éowyn nodded.
"But, my lady-"
This time, she cut off Lord Deorwine with a determined look in her eyes. "I said, that is a concession I can make."
Lord Deorwine eyed her indignantly. Lothíriel half-expected him to draw his sword again, but thankfully, he only scoffed and nodded after a brief pause.
Lothíriel couldn't quite comprehend the reality of what was happening. She let the two guards grab her by the arms and lead her out of the Golden Hall like a wooden marionette operated by two puppeteers. She felt as though she had been swept by a large tidal wave in the ocean, helplessly floating according to the will of the sea; the will of her destiny.
ooOOoo
Lothíriel was sitting at the window sill of her jail cell the next morning, observing the buzz of the street below. Not a jail cell, to be fair. She wasn't locked up in the damp cold dungeon underground; instead, she was given a rather nice room on the second floor of Uffe's Edoras estate. It gave her little comfort, however; she was confined in it against her will nonetheless, unable to flee whatever fate awaited her once the King had returned from his journey. She didn't sleep a wink last night, her brain desperately trying to come up with a plan of escape, or at least with a believable story to disprove Lord Deorwine's claims, but it proved to be an impossible feat. Her lies had finally caught up with her and forced her into a corner there was no running away from.
A sudden knock on her door made her flinch and jump up from the soft cushion she had put on the window sill to sit on. The door was opened by one of the guards stationed outside, and in strutted Lady Éowyn, followed closely by Uffe. Lothíriel hadn't had a chance to talk to either of them since she had been led away from the Golden Hall like a prisoner the day before, and now stood frozen to the spot, not having the faintest clue what to expect or do.
"Méav," Lady Éowyn greeted her curtly, not betraying any hint of her thoughts.
"My lady. Uffe," Lothíriel greeted back, feeling as small as a child in detention. Uffe gave her a small half-smile in return.
The three of them eyed each other in silence for a while, before the ever direct Lady Éowyn spoke up in her usual straight-to-the-point manner: "We came here to hear your side of the story, Méav, before this matter is judged by the King."
Her demeanor seemed kind enough, and Lothíriel appreciated the fact that she came all the way down there to talk to her, but a certain cool distance that she had never felt in the presence of Lady Éowyn didn't escape her attention.
"My side of the story remains the same as before, my lady – that woman was already dead by the time I had tried to at least save the babe," Lothíriel cringed inwardly at her poor attempt to ignore the obvious oliphaunt in the room.
"I'm talking about the fact that the head healer of Dol Amroth doesn't seem to remember you at all," Lady Éowyn spelled it out loud and clear. "I distinctly recall you telling me you have learned the healing arts from a Haradrim woman in the healing houses of Dol Amroth, or am I mistaken?"
This is it, Lothíriel. Your jig is up.
In fact, this came barely as a surprise. During her nighttime analysis and reanalysis of everything that had happened up to that point, she came to the conclusion that Lady Éowyn certainly remembered her mentioning her studies at the healing houses, and only didn't bring it up in front of Lord Deorwine to not further add fuel to the fire. Perhaps it was finally time to let go of the lies and pretense; if anyone at all could be sympathetic to her situation, surely it had to be Lady Éowyn.
Lothíriel took a deep breath to steady her racing heart, unsure whether her vocal cords would even cooperate. "I did study under the Haradrim woman, my lady, only not in any… official capacity," she started off cautiously.
"What do you mean?" Lady Éowyn eyed her suspiciously.
"I will tell you all and I will tell it true, but before that, I implore you to give me a chance to properly explain before you pass your judgment, my lady," Lothíriel asked gravely, hoping the (dare she say it?) friendship they had shared would at least keep the Lady's resentment and anger at bay. Lady Éowyn's features emanated confusion as clearly as they possibly could; she had no idea what was coming. Still, she reluctantly nodded her head.
Like an arrow out of a shoulder, Lothíriel.
"I had to study the healing arts in secret. My father… Prince Imrahil would never allow it otherwise," it took all of her willpower to force her father's name out of her mouth. "If you ask the head healer of Dol Amroth whether Princess Lothíriel was ever sneaking into the healing houses to watch them at their work and write down every minuscule detail in her red notebook, I assure you she will remember that."
Lady Éowyn and Uffe both stared at her dumbfounded, mouths agape and eyes wide. The strange tension in the room felt so thick it could be cut with a sword. Uffe was the first to free himself of his apparent trance. "You are a princess?" he snorted, then laughed. "Is that the best excuse you could come up with, Méav?"
He thinks I'm lying, Lothíriel realized. "It isn't an excuse, Uffe. My name, my true name, is Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."
"Right," he snickered and shook his head. "And I'm the king of-"
Lady Éowyn stopped him mid-sentence by raising her palm at him and shushing loudly. "Do you have any proof of your words?"
Lothíriel had to mull over the question; she had not anticipated being asked for proof. It did make sense, though; how could she expect to be believed right out of the gate after such a bold proclamation? There was only one thing that came to her mind. "If you look under my bed, there is a satchel containing some of my keepsakes from Dol Amroth. One of them is a letter from my brother Amrothos, addressed to me in name, and sealed with our coat of arms. I'm afraid that is all the proof that I have."
Lady Éowyn's brows furrowed, as if she was evaluating the truthfulness of Lothíriel's words. "Uffe," she turned to the young Rohir. "May I ask you to go and confirm the whereabouts of this letter? I will wait with Mé... Princess Lothíriel in the meantime."
Uffe scanned both their faces first, before he nodded his head and disappeared beyond the wooden door without a word. Lady Éowyn kept staring at her with an expression as stiff as if she was a marble statue. Lothíriel couldn't quite read into what she may be thinking, but it was glaringly obvious the feeling of understanding she had hoped for was nowhere to be found.
"Is it really true?"
"It is, my lady. I swear it." Lothíriel tried to convey as much sincerity in her words as she could muster, difficult as it was after all the years of pretense and lies.
Lady Éowyn's face contorted into an angry scowl. "So you have been lying to us this entire time?"
The way she had phrased it sounded so horrible, as if Lothíriel was a malicious impostor deliberately deceiving others for her own gain. Isn't that exactly what you are, though? a rarely heard voice chirped inside her mind, usually carefully stacked away in a deep layer of her conscience. She had always felt justified in her actions, but now that she was faced for the first time with someone close to her that was affected by her act, especially someone that had only ever been honest and open with her, she couldn't help but feel her resolve waver.
"I only did it to protect myself," she defended herself, as much against her inner voice as against Lady Éowyn. "You said you would allow me to explain."
"And what is there to explain exactly, Princess Lothíriel?" she shook her head with an exasperated sigh, spitting her true name out of her mouth like a poisoned apple. "I've heard the stories. You ran away from the duties that so many of us have to endure, whether we like them or not. Do you deny that?"
"I just wanted a shot at life on my own terms," Lothíriel tried to explain, hearing her own words come out hollow. "I thought you might understand that desire."
"And why is that?" Lady Éowyn spat out indignantly. "I have had to endure my fair share of hardship, believe me, but I never resorted to abandoning my duties."
So far, the conversation wasn't exactly going as she had planned. Maybe she misjudged the situation after all; maybe she should have tried harder to come up with a better lie to support the sky-high pillar of deception she had built over the years. She should have known someone like Lady Éowyn would take offense at the mere fact of being lied to, no matter the substance.
"It was a cowardly way out, I know that," Lothíriel admitted. "But I never had what you did; a loving father-figure, a protective brother."
She felt a pang of jealousy inside her chest, even then. "I was barely even allowed outside of the castle walls, and never outside my solar without a chaperone. I was not even consulted when my father decided to marry me off to a sixty-year old man," she blurted out everything at once, worried she may only have moments to sway Lady Éowyn's opinion, before she wrote her off as a liar and decided to throw her in the dungeon after all. "I was only sixteen."
"Your age is no excuse. You should have known better."
"You want to tell me that the famous shieldmaiden of Rohan has never felt the constraints of the gilded cage that the men in our lives have built around us? That you didn't race into battle against their wishes, to finally fulfill your life's purpose?" Lothíriel was growing frustrated, desperately looking for a chord she could strike that would make the Lady see that though their journeys were vastly different in the details, the principle remained the same – they both hoped for freedom to do as they desired, unconstrained by what others have planned for their lives to be.
"I raced into battle to help save my people, not to abandon them and hide away," Lady Éowyn hissed, seemingly taking offense at the comparison Lothíriel was trying to draw.
"You're right. You have a lot more courage than me, I admit," Lothíriel smiled at her in an attempt to bring their conversation to a less agitated level. "But we can't all be warriors, my lady. I have helped people in my own way, you know that."
Lothíriel's service as a healer was the only thing she had been genuinely proud of her entire life, so she couldn't help but feel slightly offended at Lady Éowyn's insinuations. She might not have slain any orc in battle, much less the Witch-King himself, but surely few women were capable of such a task; maybe only one.
Lady Éowyn looked out of the window and seemed to contemplate her words, her features softening a little as she did so. "I know the sacrifice you and the other healers have made after the siege better than most. The Mark will be forever grateful for the care our warriors were given. And yet, surely you may have done more through your influence as the daughter of Prince Imrahil."
"I never had any influence to speak of," Lothíriel shook her head, relieved to finally see Lady Éowyn at least open to hear her out. "I would have been locked inside our castle's walls, awaiting my fate along with the other women and children. I did so much more as Méav the healer."
After a brief pause, she added: "Besides, one could argue you yourself did your greatest deed on the battlefield as Dernhelm the warrior, not the Lady of Rohan."
Lothíriel anxiously awaited Lady Éowyn's reaction, afraid she may have overstepped some unspoken boundary with her comment. To her relief, the Lady's lips slowly curved up in the faintest of smiles, barely noticeable but definitely there. "Why did you never tell my brother?"
"Your brother?" Lothíriel's throat tightened at the mention of the King.
Lady Éowyn rolled her eyes. "I thought we were finally having an honest conversation, Méav. I mean, Lothíriel," she quickly corrected herself. "My brother talks to me, you know."
Lothíriel eyed her uncertainly. Could the King have told her of their clandestine affair the night before he departed? She felt her insides twist whenever she imagined anyone finding out about that, much less the King's own sister. And now you've thought of him yet again, she mentally cursed herself. She tried to convince herself it was done and over, her fleeting moment of happiness come and gone, and yet he was all she could think about ever since she slipped out of his room in the cover of darkness and left him softly snoring, tangled up in his bed sheets. She could still remember every single detail as if he was with her even now; every touch, every kiss, every muscle. She felt heat rising in her cheeks at the memory of his closeness towering over her and…
"He may not tell me everything, but he tells me enough. I can work out the rest myself," Lady Éowyn interrupted her trail of thought, for which she was grateful.
Fine. No more pretending. It was your idea, after all. "And what do you think would happen if I told him the truth?"
"He may not have left for Minas Tirith utterly miserable because everyone expects him to choose a bride there against his will," Lady Éowyn said as if it was self-explanatory. "And all the while, the perfect match was right under his nose."
Lothíriel couldn't suppress a laugh at her naive words, despite trying her best not to antagonize her any further. "A perfect match only in theory, I'm afraid."
Lady Éowyn shot her a melancholy smile. "I know he truly cares for you, Lothíriel. A lot."
He cares for me?
Her words felt like a painful arrow piercing through Lothíriel's heart. After she had confessed, in her vulnerable state, to being in love with him, he never exactly reciprocated the sentiment; not in words, anyway. Not in a manner that would leave little room for interpretation, and so the next morning, Lothíriel was left wondering what it all actually meant. After much deliberation, she had to content herself with the fact that it didn't matter in the end. She got what she wanted - a fleeting moment of happiness - and he had never committed to any more than that.
But now, hearing that he may actually share her feelings… she wished she had not been told. Getting over him will be so much harder now.
"You know him better than I do. He would not have accepted me so easily if he knew the truth," Lothíriel shook her head sadly. "He would resent me for lying to him for so long, and duty would command him to inform my father of my whereabouts immediately. I would end up right back in that gilded cage I have despised so much."
Lady Éowyn opened her mouth to protest at first, but then immediately closed it again and sighed. "Maybe you're right. Éomer can be quite stubborn. Besides, he…" she hesitated a little before giving Lothíriel an apologetic look. "He wrote me a letter before he departed on his journey back home. It seems he has chosen his future queen in Minas Tirith after all."
A second arrow landed in Lothíriel's heart, bigger and heavier than the first one. It should not have come as a surprise; she had repeated the same mantra in her mind countless times, reminding herself that this was going to happen sooner or later, and yet, she still found herself taken by surprise by Lady Éowyn's revelation. "What happy news," she heard her old self utter the fake formality, forcing a smile.
Now is your chance, Lothíriel.
She had to get away from there, now more than ever. She couldn't bear watching the man she had foolishly fallen in love with betrothed to another, judging her at a trial that would inevitably reveal her true identity and make him hate her, before she was sent back to Dol Amroth disgraced and wretched. Lady Éowyn seemed to be in a forthcoming mood, finally sympathetic to Lothíriel's plight; she decided to take the plunge and ask for the unaskable. It can't get much worse than this, anyway.
"Release me, my lady. Please."
Lady Éowyn eyed her suspiciously. "Release you?"
"Yes," Lothíriel nodded, keeping her eyes focused on her, unwavering. "I can't go back to Dol Amroth. Not after everything."
"I can't betray my brother like that. He needs to know the truth," Lady Éowyn protested.
"You would be doing him a favor, my lady, believe me," Lothíriel pleaded desperately. "You know a formal betrothal can't be so easily broken. He has to marry the future queen he has chosen, and I should remain a distant memory, a healer who has finished her business in the Mark and returned to Gondor, as was always the plan. If he truly cares for me as you say, you would spare him a lot of ache and resentment."
She had to take a deep breath before she added: "You would spare me a lot of suffering, too."
Lothíriel desperately prayed that her brother's happiness was a strong enough force to convince Lady Éowyn to assent, no matter how big the ask. Her eyes were darting around the room, seemingly in deep rumination. Before she had a chance to respond to Lothíriel's request, one of the guards outside opened the wooden door and let in Uffe, who was carrying a little rolled-up piece of parchment in his hand.
"Here it is, my lady," he handed it to her and shot Lothíriel an uncertain look.
Lady Éowyn unrolled the yellowed paper and quickly skimmed over its short content. Then she handed it to Lothíriel, turning her head to Uffe as she did so. "Uffe, I have a big favor to ask of you. Princess Lothíriel will require an escort on her journey back to Minas Tirith."