Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.
Rating: M
Click here for chapter 2
Chapter 1: A Missive
A salty mist blew from the shore up to the balcony, whipping Lothíriel’s skirts and staining the silk with sea spray. On any other day she would have been upset because this was the last passably extravagant gown she owned, but her heart wasn’t in it. She felt as she were one of the gulls flying over the blue waves.
Only a short while before, a soldier rushed to the kitchens to inform her that a lone messenger from Minas Tirith had arrived wishing to deliver news. A fortnight had passed since the last missive from her father, Prince Imrahil, informing her of his intentions to ride to Minas Tirith to aid the Steward of Gondor. While his letter was warm, he spoke of the great danger he would face as he raced the gathered Shadow to her uncle.
Lothíriel had thanked the soldier for the news. She had tried to keep her paces even as she ascended from the kitchens to her rooms, but once she had passed from watching eyes she had broken into a run. Upon entering her quarters, she had stripped herself of her plain linen gown. She donned her last dress worthy of her station to receive the tidings of war, be it ill or not. If the news was good, she would look the lively princess of Dol Amroth they used to know long ago. If the news were ill, her appearance would reassure her people that they were in capable hands. Close to tears already, Lothíriel had chided herself as she left the room. She must remain brave for her people, no matter what she was told.
The messenger was Alric, who was apprenticed to his father Alden, the Royal Courier. She had helped look after Alric when he was a toddler, though now he was almost thirteen summers. His mother Rícah was the palace cook, a matronly woman who Lothíriel loved dearly. Rícah had stepped into the role of mother when Lothíriel’s own had died when she was eight summers.
He looked grave when she had entered Grand Hall and when he looked upon her face he burst out crying and ran to her, burying his face into the bodice of her gown. Lothíriel’s heart dropped into her stomach as she embraced him until the tears subsided.
Alric stepped back and used his sleeve to wipe snot, before assuming a brave face.
“Princess Lothíriel,” he croaked out, forcing himself into a stilted bow. “I come bearing news as the-” his voice waned and he took a steadying breath, “I come bearing news as the new Royal Courier from Prince Imrahil.”
“Oh, Alric!” Lothíriel couldn’t contain herself. Her emotions were at war within: sorrow for the loss of dear old Alden who always had a quick joke and a hard candy in his pocket, and restrained joy for news that her own father remained in this world with her.
Something caught Alric’s eyes behind Lothíriel, but he bravely continued on. “Prince Imrahil has entrusted me with sharing these glad tidings with you: Sauron has been overthrown and the War of the Ring has ended. Your father and brothers have all survived battle and-” he ran his arm across his eyes to catch fresh tears as they began to fall once more, “and a descendent of Elendil sits upon the throne of Gondor once more. Your father bids me tell you to make haste to the city of Minas Tirith for the coronation, so that you may be joined with your family. Here.” He shoved a letter into her hands before walking behind Lothíriel to join Rícah who had entered shortly after Alric had bowed and was now silently sobbing uncontrollably. She embraced him and their sorrow, while not dulled, was shared.
Lothíriel shook her head, dispersing the memories. She let her eyes trail out across the waters. A true blue reflected the sky. White foam hit rocks at the foot of the white sandstone walls of the palace. Gulls screeched and dove and emerged with fish clutched in their claws. A lone butterfly fluttered against the wind before disappearing from view. She stepped away from the balcony back into her quarters, away from the peace of the sea to the chaos inside. Her governess, Maren, frantically paced around the room while clutching the letter from Imrahil in her hand.
Maren was ranting, throwing gowns from the wardrobe into a pile on the bed. “Your father bids you leave as soon as a possible! To ‘make do with what you have’!”
Lothíriel gingerly sat on the settee next to the bed when Maren whirled around at her.
“You have absolutely nothing fit to wear at court, let alone for the first coronation Gondor has seen in eight hundred years!” Maren huffed.
“Don’t you start with me, young lady!” Maren pointed her finger at her, causing Lothíriel to bite her bottom lip lest she remind Maren that such an action was hardly genteel. “All of your gowns look as if you are farmer’s daughter instead of a princess, or they are irredeemably stained from traipsing across the village—”
“If by traipsing, you mean dispensing food to the townspeople so they don’t starve to death as is my duty, than yes, I was—“
“Aha!” Maren exclaimed. She rushed out of the room before Lothíriel could get in a word edgewise. She was gone long enough to make Lothíriel wonder if she was supposed to have followed when Maren returned with servants lugging an old, heavy trunk, placing it in front of her with a dull thunk. A maidservant followed them with a rag, curtsied and dusted it off before being dismissed by Maren. The newly clean desk smelled like lemons grove south of the town. It was made of cedar and intricate wood carvings of waves and ships decorated the lid and the edges. The metal latch was shaped like the neck of a swan, with the nose fitting into a protruding ring to keep the lid closed. The chest was familiar to Lothíriel but was unclear to her how, like a distant memory. She reached out to touch it but was startled by Maren unceremoniously dumping all the dresses off the bed to the floor. Maren’s spindly fingers shifted the swan latch and lifted the lid.
“These used to be your mother’s,” Maren said, lifting up a gown and shaking it out. From the fabric, sprigs of lavender used to prevent insects dropped to the ground. She delicately placed it on the bed before reaching for the next one. “Now, while these are severely out of fashion by almost two decades, they are suited to your station and we can embellish them while we sail to Minas Tirith.”
Maren continued chattering about threads and ribbons and stitches but Lothíriel heard not a word. She reached out her hand and stroked the fabric of the nearest dress, smoothing out a pleat. For a moment, the scent of her dear Naneth floated around her before being lost forever. It made her heart ache. Her hand stilled when she noticed Maren’s eyes appraising her with a frown.
“You are much plumper than your mother ever was,” she announced to the room, before rifling through the trunk. Lothíriel flinched and wanted to argue. She wasn’t plump. She just wasn’t comparable to a twig used for kindling. Everyone this side of the Ered Minrais knew that her mother had been willowy. Maren pulled out a corset, which had been unpopular in court as long as her mother’s dresses. “Hopefully once we lace you into this, the dress will fit,” she said, pulling out a kirtle and an overdress. “You’ll have to wear it every day until we get there to get used to the shallow breathing, especially if you are to dance with any of the lords.” She arched her brow at Lothíriel. “Speaking of attracting the lords, when did you get so dark, child?”
Lothíriel glanced down at her arms and grimaced, trying to be thankful for her genetics even if it did get her into trouble with Maren. Maren was, to put politely, ancient. She had been Naneth’s governess. Naneth came from the coast of Harondor and had met Imrahil while he had been touring with the Dol Amroth navy. Maren had helped raise her ward’s children and often commented on the similarities between them.
Elphir had inherited their mother’s slenderness. Like Naneth, he had an uncanny ability to both read and command a room. Lothíriel often went to Elphir to ask for his honest opinion. His insight could never disappoint her and she admired his wisdom. How fortunate that the eldest son was born to fulfill his role of future Prince of Dol Amroth.
Erchirion had inherited Naneth’s ability to put anyone at ease, as well as her love of the sea. He was, in Lothíriel’s opinion, the best sailor out of the four of them (although Amrothos would protest if he heard that). Maren often told her that their mother was constantly causing disturbances in her childhood due to racing on the sea. Lothíriel had to guess that her wildness was part of what attracted her father. Her Naneth had the knack for being so easy-going that people who had never met her felt like they were life-long friends. Lothíriel was sure that these character traits were critical in winning the people of Dol Amroth’s favor, since her mother wasn’t exactly from the noblest of families.
Amrothos’ story-telling ability was just like their mother’s, although Ada said that the truth-stretching was unique only to him. Amrothos also inherited Naneth’s large eyes, which made him look entirely too innocent. Maren swore someday he would trick a woman into marrying him just by looking at her. She once said this in front of Amrothos and his facial expression had Lothíriel burst into giggles.
Lothíriel had inherited her mother’s hair. Lothíriel had dark hair like her father and brothers, but in the summer if she stayed out in the sun long enough, it developed a sheen of deep red. It always held a naturally relaxed curl which was envied at court. However, Lothíriel had also inherited her mother’s complexion. Her mother had, as far as Lothíriel could remember, stayed inside as much as possible. When forced to go outside, she had powdered herself to achieve a pale appearance. Lothíriel was forced into powdering her face every so often at Maren’s insistence. She knew Maren was only looking after her, but Gondorian standards of beauty did not taint the love Dol Amroth held for Imrahil’s bride. Lothíriel wished that she, too, could be accepted.
“Child, I won’t be able to hide you with powder,” Maren whispered, horrified. “You’ve not a light patch a skin anywhere.”
Lothíriel had to concede. In general, her skin was naturally darker than her mother’s. But when Lothíriel stayed outside, her naturally tanned skin turned positively golden.
“I’ve been following Ada’s orders, Maren, while everyone else is away. And I can’t do that while sitting in the palace embroidering.”
Maren sniffed in response before turning back towards the dresses. “Then we truly have our work cut out for us. We must improve the dresses or else I’m afraid you will remain unattached permanently, for who would want a princess when she looks like that!”
Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.
Rating: M
Click here for chapter 1
Chapter 2: The Report
The journey took seemingly forever to Lothíriel and likely the rest of the ship’s crew. Maren insisted on traveling with them, which put her in a perpetually foul mood. She suffered from aearlhîw whilst they sailed along the coast of Belfalas until they cleared the Mouth of Anduin. Betwixt bouts hanging o’er the side of the ship, she berated the cook, bossed around the boatswains, and interrogated the sailing master. Perhaps the only ones unscathed were the captain, first mate, and Dol Amroth’s harpists who travelled with them to perform at the coronation (they were safe because they rarely left the cabin they shared, insisting on practicing). Because Maren was incapacitated for the first leg of the journey, it fell to Lothíriel to dissemble the droves of rejected garments she owned and glean whatever usable trimmings she could, placing them in empty baskets for Maren to examine when she was able. Truthfully, Lothíriel wasn’t much more pleasant to be around than Maren. She found herself rather snippy with everyone, undoubtedly due to being confined to a corset from every sunrise to dusk. The first time Maren had laced Lothíriel in, she had needed to brace her knee at the base of Lothíriel’s spine to get the appropriate leverage. Maren had to tighten it twice that day before Lothíriel could button up one of her mother’s gowns. Lothíriel had decided then that she abhorred corsets and understood why they had gone out of style. They were impractical for breathing. Maren, however, was satisfied, because by the fourth day Lothíriel was able to keep it on without reprieve as long as she remained immobile. By the fifth day, Lothíriel was able to complete simple tasks, such as utilizing the chamber pot unassisted or take a turn about the cabin.
By the end of the first week, Lothíriel believed she finally acclimated to wearing a corset, though she wasn’t quite sure how she’d ever accomplish dancing in one. Perhaps she could avoid dancing altogether? Somehow she doubted it. In the meantime, Lothíriel busied herself with embellishing her mother’s dresses. They had passed through the Mouth of Anduin and were no longer on the sea but rowing up the river. Maren’s countenance improved greatly and she was able to assist Lothíriel. On one gown deemed too plain, Maren embroidered elaborate swirling designs in silver thread reminiscent of the sea surf around the cuffs, collar, and hem. On a dove grey dress, Lothíriel stitched mother of pearl on the skirt. Once Lothíriel was exhausted from her constricted lungs and pricking her fingers, she would retreat to the deck and gaze at the lands.
The entourage was small, with only two ships sailing along the river. Lothíriel and Maren occupied the larger of the two which housed the greater number of Swan-Knights. The larger ship was part of the Royal Armada. Its large white sails were massive when unfurled and the figure head at the bow shaped like a swan’s head. The outside of the ship had detailed carvings in the white wood, made to mimic the feathers of a swan’s wings. The other ship of the party was from Dol Amroth’s fleet. Its smaller size allowed it to sail faster and be maneuvered in tighter places more easily. The remainder of the ships stayed in Dol Amroth to protect the coast there from Corsairs of Umbar. Lothíriel was unworried, for as per her father’s letter, ships bearing Swan-Knights would be stationed periodically along the river to join them and ensure their safety. The first of her father’s ships, Aerthûl, was the first to join them as they approached Pelargir. The setting sun cast hues of rose gold on the stark white sails. But it wasn’t until they passed through South Ithilien and reached Emyn Arnen that Lothíriel became excited. A giggle rippled through her as the Lancrista, came into view. Oh, how she had teased Amrothos for the naming of his first ship! As they rowed closer, she could see him walking excitedly on deck, waving to her and barking orders. They came to dock at shore and in no time Amrothos had departed his ship and boarded her own.
“Lothy!” He yelled, scrambling up the ladder thrown off the side. His grin was infectious and wide as she threw herself into his open arms, squeezing him fiercely. “Great Ulu, what a welcome sight you are! I’ve missed you! How do you fair? Are you eating enough? You look too skinny! Is that Naneth’s dress? How ever did you fit into that? Have you been eating enough? We expected you two days ago! What took you so long?”
Lothíriel couldn’t help the good natured teasing and chided him as she released him. “Amrothos, I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again: I can’t answer every question when you throw them at me all at once!”
Amrothos had the decency to look properly chastised but continued grinning. “Tell me you’re your journey was uninterrupted by any hazards. We expected you two days ago.”
“That is due to Maren,” Lothíriel explained. “She demanded a day on the shore to dye cloth. Do not be cross with the Captain for postponing our progress. She was a tempest personified!”
He looked quizzical. “Maren came along? And why would you need to dye cloth? Haven’t you plenty to wear?”
Lothíriel’s eyes dropped. “There is much changed since you were last home.”
Amrothos frowned. “Tell me all.”
“Well…trade has all but ceased due to heightened traffic by the Corsairs. Goods we once considered essential are now regarded as frivolous. Cloth is limited to what we have and our grain stores have been depleted.” Lothíriel’s further account was interrupted by Maren’s footsteps approaching them. Amrothos immediately stood up straighter as she approached.
“After all I’ve done for you and yours, you did not yet greet me, boy.” Maren croaked, wagging a finger at Amrothos.
Amrothos grinned. “I didn’t know an old cantankerous governess would be here.”
Maren’s eyes narrowed and she reached up and firmly swatted the back of his head. “I’m not old.”
If it was possible, Amrothos’ grin widened. “You told me you vowed to never step on a boat again after transporting Naneth to Ada.”
“Aye, and you once swore that you would wed me when you were old enough.”
Amrothos guffawed, motioning them to follow him below deck to continue the conversation in private. They settled themselves in Lothíriel’s cabin and Amrothos urged Lothíriel to finish her report on Dol Amroth.
“I’ve had to access the emergency victuals,” Lothíriel, grimacing as Maren dropped lace into her hands that needed mending. “Rícah has been doing her best to make due. She’s been baking cram with what remains. I hand out rations of it to the town every few days.” Maren made a disapproving noise, but didn’t press the matter and Lothíriel began the painstaking task of tatting. “Dol Amroth is living on what we can produce ourselves. The townspeople survive off mollusks, but are too frightened to venture outside of the shallows.” Lothíriel sighed. “Some of them have gone too far from the shore and didn’t return. I now instruct some of our Swan-Knights to fish every day, though I’m sure they’re not pleased with me for the directive. We’re fortunate we have a ready supply of meat and salt from the ocean. I’ve gotten very skilled with herbs in the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the difference it makes when you’ve eaten fish every day for every meal.”
“And are you eating every meal?” Amrothos inquired. “Because I’m certain that was Naneth’s dress, and she was built like an eel.”
“Doesn’t she look splendid?” Maren interjected.
“Yes, I’ve been eating,” Lothíriel glared at Maren. “But as I stated, all of my dresses are sensible. I’ve been wearing them while weeding the gardens or cooking in the kitchen. I don’t own anything extravagant fit for court--”
“Absolutely nothing fit for a princess!” Maren bemoaned.
“—and Maren found some of Naneth’s dresses that we could alter for me. Included in the chest was a corset, which is—”
“This is highly inappropriate discourse, young lady!”
“—laced so tightly I can barely breathe in attempt to stuff me inside this gown,” Lothíriel finished.
Amrothos chuckled at Maren’s distress, prompting her to swat at him again.
“And what of you, brother? Are father and the rest well?”
Amrothos assured Lothíriel that he, her brothers, and Ada were well. His countenance visibly fell when he delivered the news that their Uncle Denethor and cousin Boromir had passed. “Faramir is on the mend. He took a critical blow while defending Minas Tirith. Ada was able to rescue him. Of course, this was before I got there, or else I would have done it myself. He seems shaken, and I dare say he is still critically wounded by Boromir’s death.”
Lothíriel sighed, wiping tears that were gathering at the corner of her eyes. “What ill news. I had hoped to show Boromir that I can bake bread now. It is leagues better than the last time I had baked for him, though it is not to the quality of Rícah’s. Faramir must be desolate.”
“When I departed, he had been quite preoccupied.”
Amrothos explained what had happened at the Battle of Minas Tirith. He told them of how the White Lady of Rohan had surreptitiously joined her kinsmen and had slain the Witch King of Angmar, but not before receiving a devastating blow. He described how she had been healed by their new King, who was a mighty warrior, noble and just, blessed with a healing hand, and had “nigh taken her from the very grips of blackness and horror.” (The King Elessar also had a quiet sense of humor and was “tall as the sea-kings of old”).
“While recovering, the White Lady met our own dear Faramir,” and the amount of brow wiggling and winking caused Maren to swat him again.
“In all seriousness, I am indeed pleased for Faramir. He deserves every happiness,” Lothíriel pressed, “and he has not had any for a time.”
“Aye, not since your Aunt Finduilas died,” Maren supplied.
“I am pleased as well,” Amrothos insisted. “And Faramir could not pick any more fortuitous than the White Lady. She is sister-kin to the King of Rohan.”
“Îdh has smiled upon him,” Maren said, warmly.
“I thought the King of Rohan was older,” Lothíriel mused.
“Théoden King was their uncle. The White Lady slew the Witch-King to save him, though she was too late.”
“Oh.”
Amrothos entertained Lothíriel the remainder of the time with stories. Erchirion had apparently thrown a fit when Amrothos was chosen to meet her instead, but he had been tasked with mollifying many of the nobleman who were left reeling after the passing of their uncle, the Steward of Gondor, and the coming of King Elessar. The new King of Rohan was already displeased with Elphir, who had recommended a prompt betrothal and marriage to secure the royal line. Elphir had been unexpectedly backed by numerous advisors of Rohan, which had incensed the king. The king had, evidently, roared at Elphir to focus on getting his own wife before hassling him. Elphir had smugly introduced the king to Rosilith who, since Elphir had parted from Dol Amroth a few years ago, had been working in the Houses of Healing and their son, Alphros. Amrothos described the king’s following outburst with glee, managing to censor the tirade at the last moment when he noticed Maren was listening.
All in all, the last leg of the journey was pleasant with Amrothos in tow. Once they arrived in Osgiliath, an escort met them with horses and wagons to guide them to Minas Tirith. They had managed to make it a day and a half before the coronation (“So soon!” cried Maren, though she was to blame for the delay). After a rather joyous reunion between her father and brothers, Maren insisted there was still much to do before Lothíriel could be considered presentable (Lothíriel had a feeling this was because the day previous, Maren had noticed freckles on her face).
And so it came to be the morning of the coronation.
Sindarin Language Guide:
aearlhîw = aear - sea + lhîw -sickness
No such thing as a word for seasick, so I combined them
Aerthûl = aear - sea + thûl -breath
Lancrist = lanc - throat + crista - (v.) to cut;
Something I would assume a young boy would think sound edgy (ie. what your first email address sounded like, I’m sure)
Ulu - The Sindarin equivalent of Ulmo; Ulmo, also known as King of the Sea, Lord of Waters, and Dweller of the Deep, cared about Arda and the Children of Eru. It was said his spirit was in the very viens of the world, and through them he kept in touch with the Children of Eru and saw every grief and need, and thus knew more of the goings on with them than even Manwë. Even while the Valar were secluded in Valinor or when the Children were under the wrath of his brethren, Ulmo, alone of the Valar, was the one who never forsook them.
Naneth - mother
Ada - father
cram - cake of compressed flour or meal (often containing honey and milk)
Îdh -The Sindarin equivalent of Estë; One of the seven queens of the Valar (The Valier), Estë had the power to heal all hurts and weariness.
