Lothiriel sat in the solar surrounded by the remains of someone’s breakfast. Two cups and an empty teapot. A basket with crumbs. She picked up a crock still smeared with fresh-churned butter and replaced it on the tray. She felt disjointed and out of place. She had watched the men of Dol Amroth march away and did not expect to see any of them alive again. When they’d returned with news of victory and her father’s survival, she’d rejoiced with all the rest and thought her life would resume its normal course.
The arrival of Lady Eowyn of the Mark changed all that. Watching the shield maiden dismount from her horse, Lothiriel was struck by the cold, proud beauty. Rumors of Eowyn’s bravery did not match the reality of the woman herself, in Lothiriel's eyes. She’d expected a much more imposing figure, but what she’d found was a woman who seemed lost and alone. The sadness touched Lothiriel on a deeper level.
She longed to grow closer to Eowyn, to become a companion and friend that would help the shield-maiden heal the wounds sustained from battles beyond the Pelennor Fields. If she allowed it, she would admit that she longed for more than mere friendship. She did not allow it. In her heart, she knew Eowyn would reject any such advances.
She rose from her place on the cushions and gathered
the dishes. Servants would clear
them away eventually, but she needed the distraction. With the tray in hand,
she made her way towards the rear of the keep and the kitchens. After she
returned the breakfast dishes, she strolled restlessly through the castle.
Deciding to watch the last of the storm from the tower, Lothiriel climbed
the winding stair and at the top stood silently watching the woman who’d
occupied her thoughts.
The storm calmed somewhat as Eowyn stood high in the tower. Unable to sleep, she rose from her bed and sought the highest place she could find. The ocean fascinated and called to her. The torrent slowed and she was able, after a time, to see the wide expanse of ocean. The waves undulated towards the shore and faded from sight as it drew beneath the castle walls. The scene mirrored her own life: crests and valleys, battered and broken upon the harsh shore. She was adrift and knew it, but did not know in what direction to cast an anchor. First she thought that death in battle would be an end to her suffering, yet that was not to be. Then, there had been Faramir. Looking back on it, she realized that she did not love the captain. She loved the idea of loving him, of being loved by him. She loved the idea of the safety he had to offer. Yet, she did not believe that safety was the elusive something that would make her life a happy one. She never liked the easy paths.
“Why are you so sad, my lady?”
Eowyn blinked and stared at the reflection in the glass. Lothiriel, with her golden hair streaming down her back, stood just behind her so that their images were superimposed upon one another in the clear panes.
“What makes you think I am sad?” Eowyn dismissed the image from her mind and focused on the sea instead.
“Your face, just now.” Lothiriel answered honestly.
“I was thinking of all the changes since the war. I suppose, I am sad because Eomer is sad and we both have suffered greatly.” Eowyn unconsciously flexed her shield arm. For the most part, it no longer pained her, but the memory of it remained with her. Do all wounds heal? The sting of rejection faded when she’d seen Faramir and Aragorn together. She’d come to terms with Theodred’s death, although she doubted Eomer had. And this wound? The one she secretly prodded but dared not speak of? Would that heal? Or would it fester? “These wounds are still fresh, Princess.”
Lothiriel studied Eowyn a bit longer, took in the deep shadows under her eyes and the paleness of her cheek and brow. The lithe, strong body was straight and proud. She was, in many ways, a woman carved of marble. Should you push her, she would topple and shatter. Moving forward, she boldly placed her slender arms around Eowyn’s shoulder. “If you tear at the scab, the wound will never heal cleanly. Fresh bandages are best.”
A tingle traveled the length of Eowyn’s body and she shivered. Part of her wanted to retreat, nurse her wounds and her confusion in solitude, and the other part wanted yield wholly to Lothiriel’s embrace. She stood rigid and undecided.
When Eowyn neither moved nor spoke, Lothiriel lost some of her self-confidence and started to pull away. Eowyn stopped her by clasping her wrist. Then she began to speak of the things in her heart. She poured into Lothiriel’s sympathetic ear all her hopes for a happy marriage to Faramir and how those hopes ended. She spoke of her own belief that she had not been in love with the man at all, and had, in fact, never loved a man that was not a blood relation. She spoke of things that she did not intend and as the sky grew brighter and the sun sparkled on the water below them, Eowyn felt washed clean.
At last the shield-maiden was silent; spent. Some one else might have taken advantage of Eowyn’s confusion and her confidence. Lothiriel was wiser than that. Instead, she placed a light kiss on Eowyn’s cheek. “There are different kinds of love, my lady. It comes in unexpected forms, unexpected sources. Treasure what you are given and never be stingy with your own. Do not fear rejection or acceptance, for both have much to teach.”
Stunned, Eowyn turned her head so that she could see the princess more clearly. The kiss and embrace were sisterly and above any reproach. Her words, moreover, showed wisdom far beyond years or experience. For the first time, Eowyn thought of Lothiriel as a woman rather than a child. “How old are you, princess?”
The dark gray eyes sparkled brilliantly for a moment and a mischievous smile played upon her lips. “I am Numenorean.”
Caught by surprise, Eowyn could only gape for a moment. Then she laughed. “That is why you are so wise.”
The laughter sounded pretty in Lothiriel’s ears. She’d feared that the shield maiden would never laugh again. “My wisdom is hard won, like your victory over the Witch-King.” (Rohirrim is for plural, like the entire people)
Eowyn nodded as she turned her face towards the window again. The sun sparkled on the panes and erased their reflection. “Thank you for being with me.”
“Truly, my lady, the pleasure is mine.”
“Will you call me Eowyn?” Eowyn breathed in the scent of lilac and vanilla that wafted from Lothiriel’s skin and hair.
“I have duties to attend, Eowyn. Will you be all right if I leave you alone?” Lothiriel did not want to leave her guest, but she did have things to attend to.
Brusquely, Eowyn straightened away from her friend. “Of course, besides, I should see to Eomer.”
“Later, perhaps I can show you the beach? The storm will have washed up all manner of strange sea shells and little creatures.”
Eowyn smiled. “I look forward to it.”
Lothiriel wanted to place her lips against Eowyn’s temple, as if to seal a bargain or imprint her self on the shield maiden. She did not.
Watching her go, Eowyn wanted to call Imrahil’s daughter back and turn her face up to the cool lips for a kiss. The impulse was so strong that Lothiriel’s name was nearly on her tongue before she mastered her own thoughts. She gave Lothiriel time to reach the bottom of the tower before leaving.
~*~
Eomer climbed the stairs slowly, still lost in thought. Servants and guards passed him and bowed, but he barely noticed them. His shame still clung to him and his doubts and questions nipped at his heels like faithful hounds. Would he always have those doubts and fears? Would he spend the rest of his life wondering what Theodred would think or do?
“Eomer?” Eowyn planted herself before her brother and barred his path until he blinked himself back to the present. “What ails you?”
He studied his sister, saw her paleness and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. How long, he wondered, since she last slept? How many nights had she cried herself to sleep? Days? Weeks? Years? What was it that his sister craved? Would she know it, if she saw it? Or would she be like him, stubborn and unyielding? “Prince Imrahil and I have concluded our business.”
“Then we are ready to return home,” she stated rather flatly.
“If you like. I had thought to stay and wait for Imrahil’s sons. Maybe one among them would be to your liking.”
“No,” Eowyn shook her head from side to side. Her brows drew down over her nose in a slight, almost puzzled expression, as if she wasn’t sure of herself. “I do not think that they would make a suitable match.”
“Do you fear rejection? If that is so, then you will spend the rest of your life as a maid.”
Eowyn bit back her initial response. To remind him of how he mourned for Theodred would be cruel, besides, he thought his love a secret and she would not disabuse him of the notion. Rather, she chose another tack. “Is that so bad? You have taken no wife and will need a woman’s help.” Then a thought crossed her mind and even as it did so, she felt an unreasoning jealousy rise up within her. “Unless you intend to ask for Lothiriel’s hand?”
Eomer heard the edge and mistook its meaning. “She has not been offered, nor am I certain the match would be beneficial on both sides. Regardless, Eowyn, she could never usurp your place,” he hastened to reassure his sister.
You would replace me in her heart. The thought came to Eowyn’s mind with so much unexpected force that she nearly staggered from it. The images rushed through her mind, unbidden and unwelcome, and she had to force herself to remain calm lest she turn and flee from her brother in an effort to escape her own mind. Resolutely, she stood her ground, just as she had as she faced the Witch King. “I do not fear Lothiriel.”
Eomer opened his mouth and then closed it with a snap. His sister’s reaction was foreign to him. He had no context in which to frame her reaction, and therefore, no way of formulating his own response. While he gathered his thoughts, Eowyn continued to speak, as if to define her own thoughts.
“I do not fear death or service to you and Rohan. I only fear a cage,” she repeated the words she’d once spoken to Aragorn, as if saying them aloud once more, gave her strength of conviction.
Staring into her eyes, Eomer felt a sudden, nagging suspicion. Reaching out, he took her elbow. “Come,” he said gruffly. “It is time the two of us talked.”
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