Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 8 |
| Chapter Eight |
| The next day Éowyn gave him the unwelcome news that Lothíriel had left Minas Tirith to visit South Ithilien with Faramir. His hastily scribbled missive told her that this had been the reason he had missed the evening at Lord Tellion’s and warned her there had been an almighty row between Prince Imrahil and Lord Aragorn. Faramir shared Imrahil’s concerns that it was still too dangerous and had demanded he was allowed to accompany his cousin. ‘But why does Lothíriel need to go to South Ithilien when the region has not yet been cleared of enemy fighters?’ Éomer asked incredulously. ‘I don’t know,’ his sister answered, ‘but Faramir argued against it. It was at Lord Aragorn’s insistence. It seems Lord Aragorn has sent his kin from the North as her protectors, as well as Faramir and a large contingent of elite riders. No one is to know that she is with them. Her mother’s family were very prominent in the region apparently, more than perhaps we realised?’ ------------------------------------------------------------------- It was a great relief to them both when a week later Éowyn finally received a missive from Faramir that they were back safely. It had arrived late in the evening the day before the Feast in honour of the arrival of the new Dwarf King Under the Mountain, Thorin III, and the new King of Dale, Bard II. It was to be the first formal gathering in what would be two weeks of festivities around Aragorn’s coronation as King. The next day was a whirlwind of activity. Éomer had spotted Lothíriel from afar earlier that afternoon as he was walking between meetings at the Citadel. He would have gone over to greet her, but she was deep in discussion with Gimli, another dwarf he assumed to have been from King Thorin’s party and a young, very handsome man he did not recognise. The man’s attention to her had somewhat disturbed him and he tried to banish the unworthy sentiments it had caused from his mind. He was not by nature a jealous man and the surge of feeling he had experienced seeing him with her had confused him. She was a very beautiful woman and despite what she said about being unworthy for a marriage of status, she would not be wanting of suitors, a thought he found strangely unnerving. It was still light as Éomer and Éowyn made their way up to the Citadel, which was beginning to fill with dwarves, men and a few elves. Lord Elrond was in Lothlórien with his daughter and her grandmother, Lady Galadriel, but his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir had recently arrived in Minas Tirith. Legolas’s father, King Thranduil, was expected in the next few days and some of his party had come ahead of him. Éomer and Éowyn entered the bustling Citadel and together they went looking for Faramir and Lothíriel. The Feast would be held in both the Great Hall and the adjacent Throne Room. The two large halls overlooked the gardens where most of the guests were gathering but they could not see either quarry. Both Lothíriel and Faramir were much taller than most Gondorians and Rohirrim yet with the elves and Aragorn’s relatives, the Dúnedain of the North, for once it was not proving as easy to spot them. They did, however, find Prince Imrahil at the bottom of the steps to the garden, together with his youngest son Amrothos, and they descended to greet them. Éomer had the greatest respect for Imrahil despite his reservations of the family’s treatment of Lothíriel. It was Imrahil who had ridden out to save Éomer when he had launched a ferocious but ill-advised attack on the Pelennor Fields when he thought Éowyn had died. He had found it difficult and uncomfortable reconciling Imrahil the warrior Prince and friend with Imrahil the father. Imrahil was obviously pleased to see them and greeted them both warmly. A sudden change of mood in the garden distracted Amrothos from his greeting and he stepped back with a startled look on his face, one which had moved to admiration by the time both Éomer and Éowyn turned around to see who had caused the stir. It was Faramir and Lothíriel, standing majestically arm in arm at the top of the steps. She was almost unrecognisable. Her chestnut curls had been swept up into a style that none had seen before but was bound to be copied by every fashionable woman in Gondor. The curls appeared to cascade casually around the top of her head, revealing her perfectly shaped shoulders and plunging neckline. It was a daring, but not indiscreet pale-yellow dress and showed off her feminine form to its best advantage. Éomer had audibly drawn breath when he saw her, and the tightness of the dress made him involuntarily recall the beauty of what he had seen that day by the rock pool in the forest. He could not take his eyes off her as they descended. Faramir almost hesitated to come over when he realised that they were beside Imrahil and Amrothos, but Lothíriel elegantly steered him towards their party, knowing her cousin wanted to be with Éowyn. Greetings were made politely, if a little strained. Éomer deduced that they probably had not met since the fateful night of her departure from her father’s house. ‘Lothíriel, would you walk with me?’ her father asked her. She bowed her acceptance and linked her arm through her father’s. ‘So, are you going to tell me that I am dressed inappropriately?’ Éomer just overheard her say combatively as they passed him. Imrahil pulled up short and looked at his daughter saying, ‘No child, I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked.’ ‘Child?…’ More was said but Amrothos had interrupted his eavesdropping with a frustrated, ‘Oh here we go again, Father never learns…’ as father and daughter walked out of hearing. Fortuitously their strained encounter was interrupted by the rapid approach of Gimli. Bows were exchanged and an urgent message was evidently passed between them as Lothíriel quickly disengaged from her father and followed Gimli to the Great Hall of Feasts, with Imrahil striding off purposefully in the opposite direction. Intrigued, Éomer made his excuses to Amrothos and went in pursuit of Lothíriel. A row was brewing in the Great Hall. The dwarves were all sitting on a long table on one side of the room and the elves on the opposite side with an equally long table of Gondorians and Dúnedain in the middle, all male representatives of their kind, unless there were female dwarves present, which Éomer conceded, he would not know how to determine. Legolas was trying to mediate between all three factions, but the atmosphere was becoming heated. Lothíriel whispered something to Gimli and then to one of the Dúnedain, who nodded, and she approached the elf at the centre of the row and asked him if he would play for her if she sang him a tune. The dwarf who had been shouting at the elf looked furiously at her, but she turned to Gimli, nodded and she started to sing. It was an Elvish song but nothing like the usual slow, haunting variety that so infuriated the dwarves. She had a silken voice that slipped powerfully over the notes without seeming to strain. It was a beautiful melody. The dwarves led by Gimli started to hum, and they began a low rumbling song of their own, which matched Lothíriel’s tune in harmony. The man to whom she had spoken began his own song, an old Númenórean song and she joined his song providing a different pitch and chime. Some of the other men of the Dúnedain joined in. Picking up the instrument that the elf had been playing, she offered it to the elf and returned to the Elven song, matching it to the two songs now filling the air. The joy of this harmonious mixture of songs could be heard in the garden and drew all the other guests to the Great Hall. Lothíriel’s voice was heard clearly as she wove the three songs together. Belatedly understanding the Elven tune she wished him to play, the elf began to strum his lyre in accompaniment. It was a moment of great beauty, with all listeners finding something joyful in the combination of the melodies. The Dúnedain’s song ended first, Lothíriel gestured to the elf to slow and end his playing and on his last note, the dwarves ended their low humming. Lothíriel spoke loudly in Westron, the language understood by every race on Middle-earth, so all could hear. ’Remember what you have achieved together – a victory none of us could have made alone. We are not so different. If we fall into squabbling about petty things now, and we fall back into the habits of old, we dishonour all those who died so we could live in peaceful times. Do not squander this.’ King Thorin, who had arrived in the Hall with Aragorn, King Bard and Imrahil halfway through the song, went up to her and took her hand, which she clasped gratefully as chatter started up all round them. ‘I have asked that you be on my table tonight, Lassie, I hope that is acceptable? Shall we leave these idiots to it?’ he said. She smiled down at the dwarf with what Éomer took to be fondness and he began to fear that she might fulfil her desire to head northwards rather than stay with her cousin in Ithilien. He recognised King Thorin as the dwarf he had seen her speaking to earlier, which meant the handsome man with them must be King Bard. He felt an uncharacteristic nervousness and went in search of Éowyn. He found her just outside with Faramir and Amrothos. Amrothos addressed him first. ‘That was Lothíriel singing, wasn’t it? She has always had the most exquisite voice. Father has the same. I’m afraid none of the rest of us inherited that gift. I have not heard her sing since…. Well, for a long while. Why was she singing, Éomer?’ he asked. ‘It seems there had been a disagreement between the elves and the dwarves as to the musical entertainment for the feast and insults had been traded. I am guessing that your father was sent by Gimli to fetch Aragorn and Kings Thorin and Bard, but Lothíriel was an inspirational choice for him to have made. I hadn’t realised they were such good friends,’ Éomer said bemused. ‘You do know that she is fluent in Dwarvish, don’t you?’ Amrothos was able to elucidate, ‘And I don’t mean in just one dialect. She’s fluent in about fifteen languages, well at least in reading. She has this phenomenal memory. She reads a book and she can recite from memory from any page. We used to play a game when we were little that I would choose a book randomly from the Library and see if she’d already read it, which she usually had, and then I would select a page and ask her to recite it for me. She never got a word wrong. It used to infuriate Erchirion.’ ‘Did you know she spoke Dwarvish?’ Éowyn asked Faramir. ‘I am aware of Lothíriel’s great gift for languages, yes,’ he said warily. ‘She even speaks Haradrim, although why she would want to have learned it after what they did to her….’ Amrothos had interjected without thinking and trailed off when he realised the implication of what he was saying. Faramir glared at Amrothos, who stuttered ‘Yes, well, it just was a strange choice… Sorry.’ Faramir raised his eyes in frustration at his cousin’s decided lack of tact and empathy. ------------------------------------------------------------------- They made their way into the Throne Room to find Lothíriel already merrily ensconced between King Thorin and King Bard on their shared table. King Éomer headed a table for his senior Riders with Éowyn at his side; Faramir, Imrahil and his sons had their own table of Gondorian captains, and the elves with the sons of Elrond at their head formed the fourth. The eight survivors of the Fellowship of the Ring sat together in a row on the King-elect’s table, facing all the others. As the feast progressed, the noise coming from the table of King Thorin and King Bard overwhelmed all other tables. The general joviality was seeping through the room and Lothíriel’s tinkling laughter was infectious. At one point, King Thorin was laughing so hard he almost fell off his seat and only the deftness of Lothíriel’s touch saved his dignity. Through the discreet services of his sister, Éomer had earlier ascertained from Faramir that King Bard had a wife he loved back in Dale. Even while despising himself for having needed that reassurance, his eyes strayed constantly to their table somewhat enviously. Yet such was his heightened sensitivity, he soon realised he was not alone. The singer from the Dúnedain Lothíriel had asked to join her song was standing at the entrance between the Great Hall and the Throne Room and was openly watching her, smiling at her gaiety. The man caught him looking at him and nodded in a friendly way. Éomer was getting frustrated with himself that he was not feeling more friendly himself. He looked over to Imrahil, who was staring at his daughter as though she was unknown to him, some fascinating creature of a world unseen. Éomer’s eyes strayed over to Aragorn. Merry was standing beside him, asking him something. Aragorn laughed loudly, stood up and said to his companions, ‘Well then, let’s all go and join the party!’ Gimli roared ‘Yes!’ Legolas looked down at his friend and grinned. He stood up with him to follow Merry and Pippin who had already bounded down the steps towards Lothíriel’s table. Merry promptly inserted himself between her and King Thorin and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind but you all look as if you not having nearly enough fun and needed our help’, he said cheekily as Pippin positioned himself between her and King Bard. Gimli strode over to sit opposite King Thorin shoving aside two older dwarves who were none too happy about it as Legolas stood behind him in amusement. While Mithrandir and Aragorn made their way to join the elves, Faramir had risen to ask Sam and Frodo to join him, which they did gladly. ‘It seems that the Knight of the Tower Guard does not want to join his companions in arms so I was rather hoping you would make up for his slight!’ he said to them jokingly. Frodo laughed, ‘Yes indeed. Pippin will always put fun over duty, but we are both very happy to perform his duties for him!’ Aragorn had, however, not stayed with the elves but had joined the man who was still standing at the entrance to the Hall. Éomer noticed them both coming towards his table and made to stand on Aragorn’s approach as it was clear he was coming to introduce the man to both him and Éowyn. ‘Éomer, let me introduce you to my kin from the North, Eradan. And my Lady Éowyn who will soon be formally betrothed to Lord Faramir.’ ‘It is an honour to finally meet the Heroes of the Pelennor and the Slayer of the Witch-king,’ he said bowing graciously. ‘I have recently come from South Ithilien, my Lady. It has the potential to become a truly beautiful land. I wish you both well. I should return to my own table or they will be wondering what has become of me. Please excuse me until the next time we meet.’ He spoke with a charming manner but Éomer judged that he would be a fearsome fighter. So Eradan was one of the Dúnedain guards to have accompanied Lothíriel to South Ithilien, he surmised. He saw one of the servants pass Lothíriel a message, which she read and tucked away in her pouch. She made her excuses to her companions, to their groans and admonishments that she must return to them soon and she left for the gardens. Éomer was itching to go after her but knew that his responsibilities lay in his role as head of his table. Resisting the urge to order one of his men to follow her, his sense of irritation at his irrationality only increased. His sister laid her hand on his arm and said calmly, ‘She’s probably been called to the House of Healing or to a difficult birth. She is the person everyone turns to here when there is the slightest problem.’ Éomer looked at his sister in frustration at himself and asked her, ‘Is it really that obvious?’ ‘Éomer, look around you,’ she said, ‘everyone is wondering where she has gone. The joy has gone out of the room.’ Éomer looked around him and he realised she was right. He observed his friend Imrahil, looking strained, his eyes flicking to the door through which she had left. Her brothers too looked less at ease. King Thorin and King Dale’s table had lost its boisterousness. Gimli and the hobbits had stayed seated at their table, but Legolas had drifted over to the table where Mithrandir and Aragorn were in deep conversation with the elves. Éomer observed that even Aragorn was watching the door she had taken to the gardens. The Feast had taken on an atmosphere of expectant tension, only no one really knew why. Her presence seemed to dominate in its absence. So, when she finally re-emerged through the same door she had left through, a sense of relief went through the room. Éomer was not pleased to see that she was escorted by Eradan and they went straight towards Aragorn. She just smiled at him, seeming to imply something positive to him, which he imperceptibly acknowledged as she passed to the side of his table back to sit between Merry and Pippin. Eradan, however, went to speak to Aragorn. Éomer noted that Imrahil too had been paying attention and gave Faramir a decidedly questioning look, which Faramir pointedly ignored. As the Feast was beginning to wind down and different parties were beginning to mingle, Éomer went to Faramir to ask him if he would escort Éowyn home for him. Faramir was surprised but only too delighted to spend more time with his future wife. Éomer went in search of Imrahil and found him deep in thought on his own in a secluded small arbour in the garden, sitting on a parapet overlooking the Pelennor. ‘Tell me, Éomer, when should you stop trying to protect your child?’ he said acknowledging Éomer’s presence. ‘I have no children, Imrahil, so I cannot answer that,’ he replied, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. ‘Neither can I,’ Imrahil said despondently. ‘She will always be my child, even though she is now a woman. I failed to protect her when she most needed me and now I have no right to even try, she will not let me near her.’ He sighed and indicated to Éomer to sit on the bench opposite him if he wished. ‘She was always so different, so patently special. She was so precocious, her mother and I always worried about how she would be received by others. It wasn’t just how much she could remember, she remembered everything, but it was how much she understood. She overwhelmed her brothers, even though she was so much younger. Elphir became underconfident and Erchirion deeply resentful. Amrothos was always the more carefree and ambivalent; he dealt with her largely by ignoring her. Though he loved her dearly, Boromir didn’t have the intellect to appreciate her, only Faramir was able to keep up with her. She adored him, she still does.’ Éomer looked at his friend in great sympathy. He understood how painful this was for him and felt privileged to be so entrusted with his private memories. ‘She had no friends her own age, how could she?’ Imrahil continued, ‘She could beat Denethor at Faradin by the time she was five. He loathed her. She didn’t mean to, but she humiliated him every time we visited, because he would demand that she performed seemingly impossible tricks, like some pet dog, only she would always succeed in doing the impossible. Amahlia hated our visits here. It is not well known, even within our family, but Denethor had asked my wife to marry him, before she met me of course, and he never forgave Amahlia for rejecting him. I can see that now. I had thought better of him, but now I realise how bitter he had become. I have begun to appreciate that I was too generous in believing he was just grieving the loss of his wife, my elder sister, Finduilas. Amahlia had always refused to discuss what had happened between them, but I have become more aware of the damage he did to Lothíriel’s reputation now that she is here, and I now suspect something more sinister was happening. I feel like a fog is lifting from me and my daughter is lost to me just at the moment I can see her most clearly.’ Imrahil breathed deeply, still staring into the night sky. Éomer was moved with compassion for this great man he was proud to call friend. There were almost forty years between them, yet Númenórean and Elven as he was, Imrahil was in his prime. Éomer had lost his own father when he was but eleven years old, a loss he still felt keenly, despite the strong bond he had developed with his uncle King Théoden and his beloved older cousin Théodred, Théoden’s only child. It had hurt Éomer to have thought badly of Imrahil in the tragic story of what had befallen his wife and daughter and it pained him to see their estrangement. ‘I believe all who meet her, cannot help but care deeply for her, Imrahil. She has a gift of laughter that is rare…’ Éomer trailed off, not sure how to continue. Imrahil sighed. ‘She has always had a most enchanting personality for those who enjoyed her gifts as opposed to resenting them. Her mother and I were only too aware that while she inspired great love and devotion, she also inspired deep hatred in others. I am worried though, Éomer. There is something very important afoot from which I am being excluded. I cannot get a word on it from Faramir, even though I know he knows and he himself has reservations. At what point do I have to let her go? Faramir has done a better job of protecting her than I ever did, I must trust him, but it is hard to accept my own failings.’ Éomer thought long about how to respond. He felt honoured that Imrahil had felt able to confide in him with such an open display of raw emotion. ‘Perhaps you should place more of your trust in her, difficult though it is when your first instinct is always to protect.’ ------------------------------------------------------------------- The Túrëlilt was upon them. This was the second formal celebration in the series of festivities planned around the coronation and unlike the Great Feast, this was open to all the upper echelons of Minas Tirith society. King Thranduil had finally arrived with a force of his most senior Elven lords to rival those from Rivendell, although Lord Elrond himself would not arrive in Minas Tirith until the middle of the following month when he would bring the future Queen, his daughter Arwen, for her wedding to Aragorn. Ravaged by war as the city of Minas Tirith had been, Dol Amroth had been quick to supply the city with fresh produce and goods from its rich lands. Few, even within Dol Amroth, knew to whom they really owed their thanks for this richesse and it somewhat embarrassed Imrahil that he was lauded by the nobles of Gondor wherever he went, especially as the vilification of his daughter was still so pervasive. He had sought the counsel of Aragorn as to what he could do to alleviate her situation, yet his future King’s reassurance that he acutely aware of the matter and was actively attempting to redress it served only to raise more questions in Imrahil’s mind than answer. Imrahil’s sense of unease intensified; he felt trapped in a spider’s web, clawing his way through to his daughter who remained ever beyond his reach. However much it pleased him to see his daughter at last becoming the lady her status demanded, he was distrustful of her sudden transformation from resolute tomboy to exquisite courtier. He could but hope that it was possibly the presence of his friend Éomer that was responsible for the change in her. Faramir had confided in him Éowyn’s belief that her brother was most smitten, and Éomer’s attraction to her had been obvious from that first dinner. His worry for his daughter abated somewhat at the prospect of such a match, despite the challenges he knew Éomer would need to overcome. It was with this mixture of hope and concern that Imrahil watched his daughter’s entrance to the festivities with his nephew which was causing quite a commotion. At the Feast only the top commanders of Gondor had been present, few of whom were active in their persecution of the Lady of Dol Amroth out of respect and amity towards her father who had fought so valiantly beside them for many years. However, this occasion was open to all the most influential families of Gondor and they had very different feelings towards his daughter. Faramir and Lothíriel both held themselves proudly as if to challenge anyone to comment ill. She was resplendent in a dark magenta coloured dress of light weight material fashioned into an unusual design, revealing her toned elegant arms hidden only by soft chiffon floating from her almost bare shoulders. Tight to the waist and to her slender hips, it then trellised to the floor and shimmered as she moved. Her long chestnut tresses had been swept up again in a style unseen in Gondor. Aragorn himself came over to greet them, his appreciation of her beauty evident in his manner. Only exceptionally naïve onlookers would mistake this clear indication of her acceptance at the highest level of society. Despite much snide whispering, the Gondorian nobility was paying attention. Imrahil made to go over to greet his daughter but Kings Bard and Thorin were the quicker to reach her. Faramir duly left her with them and went to find Éowyn who had been watching their entrance with Éomer. Éomer stood rooted to the spot, unable to move so intense had his physical reaction been on seeing her. ‘Well, that went according to plan,’ Faramir said happily after he had greeted them both appropriately. ‘The look on Lady Hannedriel’s face was most satisfying,’ he said with an amused smile. ‘How so?’ Éomer enquired mystified as to why that particular lady was significant. ‘She is the vilest witch in the city. Her mother hailed from a noble family in Minas Tirith, but her grandfather had been somewhat feckless and gambled away what was left of their estates and fortune. Her mother had been forced to marry well beneath her to a newly very wealthy merchant, Hannestor, Hannedriel’s generally forgotten tradesman father. He was universally disliked in Minas Tirith, but he had been rich enough to have his only daughter ensnare an impoverished and weak-willed aristocratic husband and pay for their grandiose townhouse just below the Amrothian residence. She was quite a beauty in her day admittedly, with as sour a disposition as her beauty was renowned. Her brother’s daughter, Amedlan, is married to Lothíriel’s middle brother. Surprising seeing how Hannedriel’s family has been the most vicious slanderers against Lothíriel, and her mother Amahlia before that. They were the greatest supporters of my father if that gives you some idea of the depth of their dislike. She has ruled high society here for the last twenty years at least and few have dared go against her. But I have hope that without my father to back her, she will be forced to stop this vindictive campaign she has waged against Imrahil’s family,’ he enlightened Éomer. ‘And you had best be warned, Éomer,’ he added playfully, ‘she has you well in her sights. You have so far avoided being embroiled in the intrigues of the aristocratic marriage market, but she has two daughters in search of a husband, as do many of the grandes dames of Minas Tirith and you, my friend, are the biggest catch here – now that I am taken of course!’ he added laughing and looking down at Éowyn adoringly. She looked up equally enamoured and teased, ‘You will have to stop that as it is not yet official, and you are therefore still very much on the market.’ Faramir rolled his eyes in mock horror at the thought, while Éomer grunted his intense displeasure. His eyes gravitated unconsciously back to Lothíriel, who was being introduced to the newly arrived Elven King Thranduil. He chose to ignore the queasiness their meeting caused him. While an Elven maiden might in exceptional circumstances marry a mortal man, there was no record of this happening in reverse. He was frustrated with himself and with a curt nod to Faramir, took his sister’s arm from him to escort her to their shared table. ------------------------------------------------------------------- For the Feast, Lothíriel had been sat inbetween Kings Thorin and Bard but for the Túrëlilt, the celebration of the victory over Sauron, she was seated next to King Thranduil and opposite the sons of Elrond. Éomer wondered if he would ever have the honour of a seat at her side. He was beginning to believe that the status of the King of Rohan, Hero of the Pelennor, was not so high in the estimation of the future King of Arnor and Gondor. His confidence was beginning to falter. He had no lack of introductions to many beautiful ladies of the court who were intent on flattery and guile but as the dancing was about to commence, he made sure he was in a far corner, protected by fellow Rohirrim who judged their King well in fending off the many eager women who had wandered close so they could be the first he asked to dance. Imrahil came to join him, which was some comfort. He at least had perfected the art of avoiding the unwanted attention of court ladies, to which he confessed as he opened their conversation. ‘I see you have worked out a superb tactical retreat for the occasion, Éomer, surrounded by loyal troops to protect you. I have learned over the years to pretend that I am deaf, which given my height and advanced age I can get away with.’ Éomer looked at his friend in great amusement. ‘Advanced age?’ he snorted. ‘Lothíriel has been teaching the dwarves and the hobbits the dances, only I suspect they will be quite different dances from those all here know….’ Imrahil continued in some trepidation. ‘I could think of no safer place to seek refuge than with you. I admit, I am somewhat nervous,’ he said. ‘How so?’ Éomer enquired. ‘I know my daughter slightly better than you. I don’t believe you have met her friend Galador.’ Éomer grimaced a smile. ‘Ah, I see you have…’ Imrahil added sounding a little cautious as to how to proceed. ‘Understandably Lothíriel feels most comfortable with men, who, shall we say, are no threat to her… Please don’t mistake me, Galador is a very sweet-natured boy and utterly devoted to Lothi. Without him, I think we would have truly lost her and I, for my part, consider him one of the family. But he is a little, how shall I put this, flamboyant. Her dress and her hair, while ravishing, will most certainly have been created by him and I therefore am somewhat anxious about what they may have concocted together for the dances. I am not sure that the nobles of Minas Tirith are going to approve….’ He said somewhat apprehensively. His concern appeared to be justified when Lothíriel swept on to the dance floor with Merry, regarded with great amusement by all observers, not many kindly in their features. Merry had a look of great determination in his face, as well as excitement. Making it clear that they were very happy with each other’s company and needed no others to intrude, the two men moved closer to watch the unfolding drama in the centre of the room. Merry and Lothíriel’s dance kept loosely to the format of the other dancers but with the huge disparity in height, they had made some unorthodox adjustments, which entailed Lothíriel arching backwards to maintain grip with Merry’s hands when twirling, Lothíriel jumping into a full spin instead of being picked up by Merry by the waist as with the other dancers and linking hands with him skipping forward with her knees imperceptibly bent and unwinding to her full height in a quite breath-taking twist. As she was incredibly agile and flexible, the overall effect was elegant, but her clear enjoyment of the dance as well as Merry’s lifted the mood of the room and they both danced seemingly without a care as to what anyone else thought of them. Aragorn was clapping his hands along to their dance, his eyes sparkling his appreciation. The dwarves were cheering along with the other hobbits and as the dance ended, Gimli lined himself up next to partner her. While Gimli might have lacked Merry’s grace and enthusiasm, Gimli had strength and he had no problem lifting Lothíriel up for any of the moves, which she had again adapted. As Gimli was more of a stomper, she had arranged her moves where she mainly danced around him while he provided a steady hand. The effect was distinctly eye-catching. Éomer was mesmerised, even Imrahil had breathed a sigh of relief and was beginning to look hopeful. Imrahil recognised the next dance to be played and made towards his daughter, as she had ended the last dance quite close to them, but she was intercepted by Legolas. This caused a strong undercurrent of murmuring. Elves never danced with those of the race of Men, but given who was to become their Queen, the more intelligent of the nobility understood the signal. They had also noted the favour the new King and his closest companions were showing the much-maligned Lady of Dol Amroth, however much they felt she was flaunting herself and demonstrating her disrespect of them. Whereas the dances with Merry and Gimli had been exuberant, the dance with Legolas was slower paced. Lothíriel and Legolas glided across the floor, matched in grace and elegance. She had been the centre of attention with her two previous partners but for very different reasons than now. No one there doubted the Elven blood in the House of Dol Amroth as she reflected the presence of her partner. They both glowed. Éomer was not the only man, nor elf, in the Hall to look in wonder. The nagging doubt in Éomer’s gut raged as his keen eyes surveyed the room: he noticed King Thranduil observing her most attentively; Elrond’s sons watching admiringly; all eyes were on her and his sense of inferiority grew. As the music to the dance was coming to a close, this time Imrahil was not going to let his daughter be claimed by any other and he had left Éomer to ensure his hand was the first to grasp hers at the end of the dance. She had not expected her father there and looked startled as his hand took hers. They held each other in an intense gaze while the music to the next dance began. It was only seeing them both so close together as they swirled around the floor locked in each other’s embrace that Éomer realised just how alike they were. The loss of Imrahil at his side had emboldened some of the Gondorian ladies and before his guard could react, distracted as they had all been by watching Lothíriel’s dance with Legolas, he was surrounded. It would have been too rude of him not to ask one of them to dance, so he asked the least pretty of them all, who seemed so grateful and nervous that he immediately regretted his choice. Her name was Margelith and, intelligent though she seemed, she proved a poor match to his own excellence in dancing. Interesting though his dancing partner may have been, she was not the one he wanted to be with and Éomer found himself too distracted elsewhere to pay her the requisite attention. ------------------------------------------------------------------- A pause in the dancing gave everyone the opportunity to partake of refreshments and the excuse to rid themselves of unwanted partners. Éomer duly did both and went in immediate search of Imrahil and Lothíriel. He saw them both talking to King Thorin and Gimli. Lothíriel was still holding on to her father’s arm, which gave Éomer hope that the rift between them might have begun to heal. Unexpectedly Éowyn grabbed him by the arm from behind and propelled him toward Gelian and Telari who were both sat in an alcove on the side of the room. ‘You must join us, brother. I am learning everything there is to know about what is going on this evening… it is fascinating,’ she enthused as Éomer slid himself in between the two sisters at Éowyn’s instruction, while Éowyn drew up a stool to sit on opposite them. ‘Gelian has just been explaining that there are two factions at court, those who benefitted from Denethor’s rule and those who opposed him,’ she explained to her brother. ‘It is vastly more complex than that as there were those who pretended to favour Denethor but preferred Boromir, and those families such as Lady Unwin and Lord Tellion’s who favoured Faramir and Denethor’s father, Ecthelion, before him. It was in essence Old Gondor versus the upstarts but there seems to have been a lot of blurring. It is so much more complicated than we are used to!’ she explained somewhat breathlessly. ‘Anyway, Lothíriel is causing a lot of trouble. Those favoured by Denethor were the main instigators of the ill will of the city against Lothíriel and her mother before her and they are not at all happy at Aragorn becoming King. Least of all bringing an Elven wife into their city. It seems that Lothíriel’s mother hails from one of the oldest Númenórean families of Gondor, of a line of greater lineage than Denethor and the Stewards and unlike them traces her forebears directly back to Eärnil II and the Kings of old. This is the source of the bad feeling towards her from the less prestigious families. It all begins to make more sense. This has been a battlefield, not a celebration. Gelian believes this is the first time the Denethor faction has understood that their time is over, but they will not go down without a fight, which is why Aragorn is using Lothíriel as a means to show the families that their way of dominating the city is at an end,’ she ended forcefully. ‘But this does not seem fair on Lothíriel, nor Prince Imrahil, to fight Aragorn’s battles by proxy,’ Éomer erupted outraged. ‘I think you will find Lothíriel is more than willing to take on this battle against those who have been so cruel to her, and her mother before her,’ Gelian quickly clarified to pacify him. The music started up again and they watched from their vantage point as King Thorin proudly swished Lothíriel on to the centre of the dance floor. This was going to be a most entertaining dance; few could believe King Thorin would prove a graceful partner. Éomer now cognisant of the underlying tensions in the room observed in the faces of the onlookers those who were hopeful of Lothíriel’s embarrassment and those who were wishing for her success. Éowyn had opened his eyes to the realities of what was going on around him. He had been shocked at his own naivety and almost longed for the simplicity of the battlefield. He had renewed respect and sympathy for Imrahil who had navigated this cesspit of changing loyalties for decades. He had a lot to learn, only he was not sure that he wanted to. Lothíriel’s dance with King Thorin had been once again superbly choreographed to show them both to their respective advantage. Éomer began to understand that none of Lothíriel’s actions that night had been by chance, except perhaps her dance with her father, which she had not expected. Who then had been waiting to take her hand in Imrahil’s stead, he wondered. He had been so focused on Lothíriel that he could not think who had been close enough to lead her out for that dance. Surely it could not have been King Thranduil? Perhaps one of Elrond’s sons? The evening was becoming unbearable for him. He was not at ease with all this trickery and politics. These were games he did not feel comfortable with. Confused by such unfamiliar emotions, he went in search of Imrahil with whom he felt such an instinctive bond. He was a man as straightforward as himself, who also disliked the shallow intrigues of the court. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Lord Delwine had come to rescue him from the bench of gossiping women and accompanied him on his mission to find Imrahil. ‘She is a master strategist, Sire,’ he started. ‘I have learned much tonight. Might I be so bold as to make a suggestion?’ he asked seriously. ‘You are one of my most senior advisors Delwine, this is what I expect you to do,’ Éomer answered testily. ‘You need to ask Lord Aragorn now if he could spare Lady Lothíriel to come to Rohan for six months this year to aid our recovery and advise on how best to develop our trade links with Gondor. I have had a number of private meetings with her since we met at Harlond. Imrahil confessed to me that the new trade route was all her idea and she’s been studying our lands for years with the view to opening trade links. If you don’t act now, she will be lost to us. I am serious, Éomer. We simply cannot afford to lose her to the North. She will do anything for Faramir. If you insist that she comes to us to help Éowyn prepare for her future position as his wife, you may be able to persuade her and Lord Aragorn…’ It seemed so simple a proposal, Éomer was annoyed with himself for not having thought of it. Concurring readily with Delwine’s advice, Éomer went immediately in search of Imrahil and found him with Lord Tellion watching Lothíriel end one of the dances with King Bard, as Aragorn himself came to claim her for the next one. ‘My daughter it seems is only dancing with Kings or Princes tonight,’ Imrahil said as they all admired her comportment. ‘I would gladly dance with her myself, but it seems she is too much in demand,’ Éomer added only partly in jest. Prince Imrahil turning his gaze away from his daughter to his friend. ‘And I believe you would match her well, Éomer. Better than anyone in fact,’ he added pointedly. Unsure how to respond, Éomer hesitated an instant when an unwelcome sight distracted him from his thoughts. Lothíriel’s dance with Aragorn was the last dance of the evening and they were on the far side of the Hall when the music ended. Aragorn made to lead her off the dance floor towards Éowyn and Lord Tellion’s nieces who were still merrily entrenched in their alcove, when they were intercepted by an extremely handsome, blond-haired, clean-shaven Gondorian man, somewhat shorter than Lothíriel but brimming with confidence. The dancing may have been over, but the evening was not. Éomer surmised that the man was already known to her as she readily accepted his hand to walk towards Éowyn’s party and she made the introductions. Éomer bristled. Imrahil looked at his friend with an enigmatic smile. ‘That is Lord Delantir, a most intriguing young man, exactly the sort that Lothíriel is most comfortable with, as I mentioned earlier.’ Éomer looked at him questioningly. ‘Lothíriel has some… interesting friends. I accept them, and value them, because they love her unconditionally and they make her feel safe in a way that I have failed to do. You will never gain her trust unless you accept them in her life.’ Imrahil sighed. ‘If Aragorn can succeed where I could not and Lothíriel feels she can take her rightful place in society, she can have the whole world at her feet if she so desired. But a darkness still lies over her, Éomer, a darkness which I cannot penetrate, and it will take a man of great patience, courage and intelligence to lift it from her and give her the future she deserves,’ he said meaningfully. Intrigued though he was by Imrahil’s caution, Éomer had understood fully about Lord Delantir. He made his excuses to Imrahil and went over to the ladies still seated in the alcove ostensibly to ask his sister when she might be ready to retire, knowing the answer would be to stay up a while longer with her new friends. It was an excellent excuse to become acquainted with Lord Delantir, who seemed an intelligent and most charming man, more easily accepted because he was not interested in Lothíriel in the same way as himself. Éomer was surprised and disappointed therefore, that when Faramir came to join them, Lothíriel took the opportunity of his arrival to extract herself from the party and wander off on her own in the direction of the gardens. ------------------------------------------------------------------- When she did not return as expected, Éomer made the excuse of wanting some fresh air to clear his head to go in search of her. Éowyn was not fooled and neither was Faramir judging from the knowing looks exchanged between the two. Éomer strode purposefully around the gardens, his pace discouraging anyone who might think to waylay him for an unnecessary chat. It was therefore at some speed that he rounded a corner into a secluded arbour and found his quarry in an intimate embrace with Eradan. They both turned around as he approached. Eradan had had his arm around her shoulder, and she was wiping tears from her eyes. Éomer felt as though he had intruded on a lovers’ tryst and he had been punched in the stomach as his punishment. He turned immediately to leave, when Lothíriel cried out to him, ‘Éomer King, please do join us. Tonight has been more of a strain on me than I was expecting and I am in need of my friends, if you would honour me with that title?’ she asked hopefully, yet hesitantly. He turned back and mumbled, ‘I did not mean to intrude, I apologise.’ Eradan responded kindly, ‘No apology is necessary, Éomer King, as it was no intrusion. I would ask only that you will return the lady back to the Hall,’ he said as he bowed farewell to them both and left. Éomer was deeply uncomfortable and stayed where he was in awkward silence. Eventually Lothíriel said flippantly, ‘You must have been the only King I didn’t dance with tonight, I am not sure how I should take this slight!’ She flashed him a brilliant smile which he did not feel reached her eyes. ‘I believe King Thranduil was similarly denied the chance to have the honour, my Lady,’ he replied pointedly. She gave a half laugh and nodded her head ruefully. ‘Yes, it was rather an oversight. My father disrupted the flow somewhat unexpectedly and I ran out of dances,’ she confessed. ‘May I ask why I was not included in the line up?’ he asked slightly testily. Lothíriel hesitated a little before answering him. ‘In truth, because I did not want to have my first dance with you to be one where the eyes of Gondorian society would be judging our every move,’ she offered by way of explanation. He was not sure whether she was serious or whether this was an elegant excuse. ‘We could have our dance now if you can think of the tune in your head,’ she suggested quietly. ‘Perhaps the Song of Lúthien, as we don’t have too much room here?’ It was one of the slower dances, more intimate and did not need a wide area to perform it. Éomer longed to hold her tightly to him. Attuned as they were to the physicality of the other, they glided together, his arm holding her waist closer to him than was strictly etiquette. As her cheek gently brushed against his beard, he heard a soft intake of breath and they began the dance in perfect synchronicity. It was the most sensual of all the dances, it had been provocative of her to have suggested it, as they both knew well. For such a large, broad man, he was a surprisingly light footed and graceful dancer. Lothíriel had not been expecting his elegance as he twirled her in his embrace, lifted her from her waist so deftly that she felt she was floating on air and caressed her hands as they moved through the flow of the dance. When the dance ended he was holding her very tightly to him at the waist, so close that she was in no doubt as to his interest in her physically. Her breathing had become heavier but not through the exertion of the dance. Suddenly, she closed her eyes in a look of pain and broke away from him. Clasping his hand still, she sniffed back tears and squeezed his hand hard. ‘I’m not ready,’ she gasped between sniffles. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just not ready,’ and with that she fled. As he remained a long while in the arbour to give his body time to calm down, Imrahil’s last words rang in his head. Patience, he had thought at the time, patience above all. ------------------------------------------------------------------- He returned to the Hall to find Éowyn and escort her home. She had been looking for him. She was still with Gelian. She regarded her brother enquiringly. ‘I believe Lothíriel may have already left for the evening?’ she asked searching for confirmation. ‘That is entirely possible,’ he answered truthfully if somewhat ambiguously. ‘Well,’ said Gelian, ‘the opening move has been played and it had stirred up strong emotions. It is going to be an interesting final two weeks for you both here.’ The realisation that he only had just over two weeks left with Lothíriel came as a shock. Aragorn had also retired for the evening, otherwise Éomer would have gone to see him immediately to discuss Delwine’s proposal. He looked at his sister, ‘Is Faramir still here?’ he asked. ‘He went to check on Lothíriel, but he did say he would be back to take his leave of us. Why?’ she probed gently, knowing that her brother was concerned about something. Not wishing to be indiscreet in front of Gelian, she continued, ‘Should I ask him back with us for a nightcap?’ Éomer’s reaction of relief showed his answer clearly enough. ‘Aye, I think that would be helpful if it’s not too late for him.’ Gelian, intuitive as ever, and knowing that Éowyn was visiting her the next day to discuss battle plans, bowed to them both and giving Éowyn a hug, left them to wait for Faramir’s return, which was not long in coming. He gave Éomer had guarded look, which did not go unnoticed by Éowyn. ‘Is she alright, Faramir?’ she asked her eyes switching from Faramir’s face to her brother’s and back again. ‘Éomer has suggested that you come back with us for a nightcap if you can be spared? I would very much like you to join us. This has been a most instructive evening, but I have so many questions which won’t wait until tomorrow or I will not be able to sleep tonight….’ She looked so adoringly at him, her beautiful pale face and startling blue eyes, that he could not find it in him to say no to her. He knew he was being manipulated but he acceded willingly nevertheless. ------------------------------------------------------------------- The three of them strolled down the short walk to their lodgings in silence, each wondering how they were going to deal with their respective questions on that evening’s events. Once settled in the parlour, Éowyn went straight to the point, ‘How was Lothíriel when you returned home?’ she asked Faramir. He sighed deeply, ‘She was in tears. I have no idea why, given the success of the evening.’ Éowyn noted her brother’s discomfort; he was avoiding her probing eyes. Faramir continued ‘Imrahil told me he had seen her meeting Eradan as she left the Hall. They have become very close, much closer than either myself or Imrahil like, despite him being close kin to Aragorn. I mean he’s old enough to be her father, Númenórean blood or not!’ Faramir exclaimed. ‘I think you’ll find he’s old enough to be her grandfather…’ Éomer snorted, unable to help himself. Éowyn shot him a severe look of disapproval. ‘I know that Lothíriel values his advice,’ she told them, ‘but I feel that is all. I do not believe she looks upon him in that way,’ she said pointedly. ‘He is a most honourable man and has the full trust of Aragorn and he should be respected as such,’ she added tartly. Both Faramir and Éomer looked at her sheepishly. ‘You are right as ever, my dearest sister,’ Éomer conceded as, although she had been in tears before he had arrived, he had to acknowledge, at least to himself, that Lothíriel had looked more upset when she left him. ‘Imrahil has got wind of her plans to move north, I’ve no idea how, as he did not get that information from me, and he is very set against it. He does not want to lose his daughter to such a great distance and to be honest, neither do I,’ Faramir confessed. ‘Nor do any of us,’ Éowyn agreed ‘but if it is what Lothíriel wants…’ Éomer interrupted her, ‘I wanted to ask you both whether you feel it would be viewed favourably if we, Éowyn and I, asked Lothíriel to stay with us in Rohan for at least six months ahead of your wedding. I know that she would be a great help to Éowyn in understanding the court politics and also familiarising her with Ithilien’s culture and prospects. If she is to be sent as an advisor to the North, shouldn’t she be first sent to Rohan as Rohan is the main artery between the two kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor and we also need to rebuild?’ He could tell that Éowyn agreed full heartedly when her face lit up at his suggestion. ‘I should tell you,’ Faramir answered smiling in relief, ‘that Imrahil had already asked me to sound you out on just such a proposition, if Lothíriel was still determined to leave Gondor. I do not believe she will change her mind, however, unless it is Éowyn who asks her, and you and I both manage to persuade Aragorn of it. I fear if she gets the slightest hint that Imrahil wishes this, she will refuse to go,’ Faramir confessed. Having received the outcome he was looking for, and with a busy day ahead, Faramir drained his glass and bid them both goodnight. Éowyn turned to her brother as soon as he had left them, ‘What happened between you and Lothíriel tonight, Éomer? And don’t pretend to me that nothing did. I saw you leave to go and find her and then Faramir received word she was seen running back in tears, long after Eradan was back in the Hall,’ she insisted. Éomer sighed and poured himself another glass. He had never discussed his private affairs with his sister and had no wish to do so now but even he had to admit to himself that his feelings for Lothíriel were very different to any other women he had met. She so confused him that he felt it likely that he would need his sister’s greater insight into Lothíriel’s feelings. ‘You are in love with her, aren’t you?’ Éowyn stated impatiently adding, when he did not answer her immediately, ‘If you are not, you are a fool.’ ‘Of course I am, together with any man who meets her,’ he replied quickly. ‘Any man, dwarf, elf or hobbit, if I am any judge…’ he added ruefully. Éowyn’s face relaxed somewhat. ‘I thought as much, as did Faramir. So, you are not interested in men….’ ‘No!’ he replied vehemently, completely taken aback. ‘Well, it’s not as though you have shown any interest in women over the last decade or so, not since...’ Éomer’s nostrils flared a warning to his usually sensitive sister. ‘I had to wonder… Not that I have known until recently what goes on. I had always just assumed you were abnormally shy.’ ‘Éowyn, this is a private matter, which I expect to remain as such,’ he admonished her curtly. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she asked more gently. She made him repeat to her Lothíriel’s last words, ‘I am not ready?’ she mulled over carefully. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that is very encouraging. It means she likes you very much. She would never have gone so far with any man unless she was very interested in him. Apparently, she never lets any man of the sort to find her attractive anywhere near her. Gelian had thought there was something brewing between you two ever since we went to see them. She has never seen her so relaxed around any man other than Faramir and Galador. It had been quite a shock to the family – a pleasant one,’ she said flashing one of her brightest smiles to her brother. ‘I have a busy day tomorrow, Gelian and I are on a war footing, so I will bid you good night.’ ------------------------------------------------------------------- If Éomer had gone to his room feeling somewhat more encouraged, Lothíriel was utterly downcast. Delantir had come to tell her that Eradan was waiting for her with an urgent message in the garden. She had eventually found him looking for her outside and she followed him to the most secluded arbour she knew, tucked away behind the Hall overlooking the great battlements of Minas Tirith. She had run straight into his arms for a reassuring hug. He held her protectively. ‘Why are you upset? Tonight was a triumph. I was watching the faces of your detractors and they were distinctly ill at ease,’ he told her in admiration. She sighed, ‘I was happy and then when it ended, I felt suddenly empty. I wonder sometimes if I distrust the feeling of being happy,’ she explained sadly. He looked down at her lovely face and held her to him more tightly. ‘This is all quite new, Lothíriel. It will take you time to adjust to your new situation,’ he said wisely. ‘You have a message for me?’ she enquired. ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘He is coming, and sooner than we anticipated. We will need to step up preparations. I suggest we both speak to Aragorn first thing tomorrow.’ ‘Eradan, if this becomes known, in the wrong way, it will greatly upset my father, and could be dangerous for my brothers. I think this is what is distressing me the most. I don’t know how to protect them. Father so wanted to dance with me tonight and all I could think of was…’ She stalled, tears welling up in her eyes. Eradan put his arm around her shoulder and caressed her cheek guiding her head onto his shoulder. They both heard the noise of someone approaching as Éomer’s powerful frame came into view. Lothíriel stepped away from Eradan and called to Éomer to stay. Eradan understood her signal and left graciously, smiling philosophically to himself. It was already night, but she could see Éomer’s features in the glow of the torches which blazed around the Citadel. He really did have a strange effect on her body. As ever her mind was racing to understand what was happening, but she was confused by the shock of sensations deep within her she felt whenever he was near. And he was tantalisingly near, within touching distance and in a secluded terrace above the city under the soft glow of the torchlight. She wanted an excuse to feel him closer, to feel him touching her and so they danced, the sensation between her hips becoming ever heavier with her desire for him. And just as she wanted to succumb to him and allow him to kiss her, her mind snapped with a sudden memory and all emotion shut down. She knew the palace grounds better than most and found her way back to Faramir’s quarters without meeting anyone through secluded passageways, but one of the Tower guards had seen her return and had witnessed her distress. He must have sent word to Faramir as he turned up not long afterwards to see her. She was still crying when he knocked on her door and she could not hide the fact from him. He had come over to her to hold her in a concerned embrace asking what was wrong. She just snivelled and shook her head and said simply that the pressure of being back in Minas Tirith with all its bad memories was affecting her. She would be fine in the morning… When he left her, she slumped on to her bed and lay thinking of how she was ever going to overcome this. If she could not, Cirion would have won, her pain would become permanent and Denethor would have succeeded in destroying her. She did not know if she was in love with Éomer, she did not know him well enough, but she could not deny her overwhelming attraction to him. Yet Minas Tirith was about to receive the most unusual visitor for whom she was completely responsible. She had to focus, and not on her physical desire for King Éomer. It was with these conflicting thoughts and emotions filling her mind that she struggled to find sleep. |