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infracti-angelus · 1 year

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Pale Fire, Chpt 5

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing: Éomer and Lothíriel

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

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Click here for Chapter 4

Chapter 5: The Incident

His manner and bearing belied a cool aloofness. Indeed, the only fault that could be found in his interactions with the other partygoers was his stiffness, most likely due to inexperience as a warrior thrust into the role of king. But his eyes betrayed him. Lothíriel didn't know how to describe it, but his gaze held such awareness, a true presence in this very moment, that it almost alarmed 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 supper.

If this was what a brief look of indifference caused, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to be the center of his attention. The likelihood of that, however was in her favor, since he was making it a point to not rest his eyes on anything for longer than a few seconds while his captain was otherwise occupied, probably due to the amount of eligible women being blatantly paraded past by hopeful fathers.

Lothíriel felt perpetually flushed, not helped by the arrival of more partygoers. She announced to the rest of the family that she would find Ada, which left a very put-out Amrothos holding Alphros whilst Rosilith secured a dance ("or two!" she winked) from Elphir. Venturing this way and that and consciously keeping her gaze averted from the table housing the King of Rohan, she was able to cover a large amount of ground without any sign of her father. The surrounding lords seemed no longer content with her excuses and she could sense the electricity of their frustrations with each additional dance refusal. She had officially given up looking for her father and was going to seek out wherever Amrothos and Alphros had set up camp when her path was blocked.

"My lady," a masculine voice drawled.

"Lord Brayan," Lothíriel dipped her head in acknowledgement, schooling her features to one of cool indifference.

"You're looking…well."

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed. The epitome of gentlemanliness, Lord Brayan gave no indication to being the contrary. His gaze remained respectfully on her face the entire time, which was more than she could say for some of the other lords she had encountered. They had lasciviously dragged their eyes on her form, and one had even waggled his eyebrows suggestively (he'd been thrice her age, and she had to contain her laughter). Despite this, the statement from Lord Brayan left her ill at ease.

"Thank you, my lord. Excuse me." Lothíriel took a step to the side, attempting to extract herself before this chance meeting could evolve into something more.

He stepped to be in front of her again, blocking her path. Lothíriel felt a bubble of panic before narrowing her eyes. She had done much more difficult things than rebuff unwanted advances from a nobleman.

"I must confess, I find your appearance to be a bit of a surprise," he said, taking a step towards her to close some of the empty distance.

"Oh?" she countered, trying to sound entirely uninterested in his opinions (which wasn't hard).

"I thought you were sequestered away on your seaside palace," he said.

Lothíriel's brow quirked without her intending it to. She knew he meant what she was wearing, but spoken aloud he was referring to her presence in Gondor. Classic misdirection.

"Hmm," she said. The less she answered, the less fuel she gave him.

"It's nice to see your family let you out of that sandcastle." Lothíriel bristled at his reference to her ancestral home as a sandcastle.

He continued, "If you were mine, I would keep you tucked away, safe and sound. It's still very dangerous for such a journey. Then again, I'd be sorely disappointed if they did that."

Lothíriel stepped to her left this time.

"I could also understand if you were to get too bored being locked up, and need a release for your pent up energy." He stepped again to impede her escape. "Perhaps you've passed the time with other…activities." Lothíriel looked up sharply, and by the glint in his eyes, he knew he had touched a nerve. He grinned. "Horseback riding, perhaps?"

Damn him, Lothíriel thought. She could comprehend the deeper implication of his words.

He was extremely close to her now. She knew he could see down the front of her dress; his eyes dilated. "I'd like to see more of you."

Damn him again.

"Dance with me," he demanded and grasped her hand to place a kiss on her pulse point. Coils of revulsion curled inside her stomach. Lothíriel wished she could shed her skin like a snake. The memory of his lips on the inside of her wrist reminded her of a jellyfish sting.

"No," she extracted her hand from his. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought.

"When I wanted to escape, I had a special, isolated place I would go to," his voice lowered. "But I'd be willing to share it with you." He did not give up, despite her rebuff. She glanced around to see if she could find her family.

She noticed her father across the room –there he was! — and glanced at the man he was talking to.

Lord Brayan grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him, sliding his finger suggestively down the back of her dress. "If you're good, I'll let you come."

Lothíriel locked eyes with the King of Rohan. Fire seeped through her veins. Elbereth, the way he was looking at her. She felt a flush envelop her, and tore her eyes away from his as Lord Brayan's words registered in her mind.

If Lothíriel hadn't known the commotion it would cause, she would have thrown a fist (Erchirion had taught her how to fight when she was eight because Amrothos had, in her words, "kept trying to drown" her). Nonetheless, she knew the disgraceful behavior of her potential actions would only bring shame on her family, and perhaps affect their livelihood.

Lothíriel, instead, yanked her arm out of his grasp and took a step back. Her face burned in anger and she all but hissed "No, thank you" before she rudely (not enough to sate her rage, but enough to make a point) pushed past him and found the first exit she could.

She sought refuge in the pleasant but ill-tended gardens of Minas. Once lovely like the city, they too had fallen into disarray with the growing shadow. Even with the end of ethuil, spring, the gardens were lackluster. They could no longer compare to the gardens in Dol Amroth, but perhaps now that there was a new King, the gardens would be tended to once more. Even with the threat of war upon the lands, the gardens still held hints of aromatic scents from medicinal herbs cultivated by the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel leaned on the nearest stone balustrade and squeezed her eyes shut. She could still feel the imprint of his grip around her wrist as he pulled her against himself. She stifled the urge to retch.

Lothíriel breathed shakily. She was on the brink of one of her attacks. No, not now, she thought. She swore under her breath. She would not relive her encounter with the Corsairs. She refused to do so; she refused to let Lord Brayan trigger that memory. Recalling that pain seemed to be a reliable distraction, she sunk her fingernails into the flesh of her hand, causing angry crescent shaped welts to appear. Focusing on the sting in her palm, she could feel attack dissipate. Merciful Nienna, thank you.

It was dusk but the air still held the warmth promised by fast-approaching laer. Lothíriel found herself a well concealed alcove inhabited by a stone bench. Perhaps she could obtain a moment of reprieve before rejoining the party. She dusted off the moss the best she could, hindered in her task by the fading light. She would have to, unfortunately, see and interact with Lord Brayan eventually. Hopefully he didn't follow her out, or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Before she could turn to lower herself onto her seat, she heard a masculine voice behind her.

"My Lady, I-"

Lothíriel spun around and at first all she could see were broad shoulders. Before she could identify the speaker, she saw two shadows and a flash of steel to her right.

"My lord!" she cried in warning as the figure wielding a sword approached and shouted something. She instinctively put her arm out to protect the man—Lord Brayan?—in front of her and move him out of reach.

If she had thought the King's eyes made her burn, she was so wrong. The unnatural sensation of cold metal sundering her flesh was followed instantly by agonizing pain. Her whole arm felt aflame and the trauma of her body accepting such a wound blinded her to the subsequent scuffle. A glint of a dagger and the whole affair was over, with the uninvited man hailing victorious.

Lothíriel felt her heart palpitate at an alarming speed and she began gasping for air. Immediately the man knelt to the ground in front of her –how did she get down here? -and guided her arm to his lap.

"The laceration is mild. You are in no danger of losing any permanent feeling," he stated, his tone clinical and dispassionate marking him as an experienced war veteran. She could feel the pressure of some sort of fabric he pressed down to staunch the bleeding.

Lothíriel could not thank him, could not quip that loss of feeling would be a blessing, or even check to see if he had sustained any harm. Indeed, she could not even breathe and her vision started to blur.

"My Lady?" the man's voice had colour to it now. He was clearly alarmed.

Lothíriel tried to even her breathing or she knew she would pass out from hyperventilation, as she'd seen it happen to more than one noblewoman. She only managed to choke out a mangled noise. With her left hand she reached behind her and attempted to unbutton her gown.

"My Lady!"

"Lothy!" Amrothos' concerned voice joined the shocked one. Lothíriel looked up to see Amrothos jumping over a corpse and skidding on blood to kneel by her side, joining the man who had blond hair. "Lothy, what happened? Are you alright? What's wrong!?"

If Lothíriel had been in her right mind, she would have chided Amrothos for pestering her with questions without waiting for answers, but the relief of the arrival of her brother surpassed everything, and she managed to choke out "corset."

She could see comprehension flash across his eyes, and Amrothos, with a set task given to him, immediately took over unbuttoning her gown. After opening the back, he reached the lacings and began to loosen them. But he was going too slowly and her lungs burned as if someone had jabbed an iron poker, blazing red from heat, into them. Everything was aching and the edge of her vision started to blur. She could feel herself slumping from the lack of oxygen; Amrothos started to panic. Immediately she felt his hands shoved aside, and a quick glance revealed a solid arm reaching around her. It held a small dagger, still dripping with the assassin's blood, and took her brother's place. A swift motion and the lacings of her corset were sliced apart and she could finally draw a full breath. She slumped forward all the way forward, into the blond man's chest. She felt exhausted and closed her eyes; her head felt too heavy to lift. Though her arm still burned, the pleasure of filling her lungs with the night's fresh air caused her to inwardly rejoice.

"Lothíriel, what happened?" Amrothos questioned again. She felt the man she was leaning on inhale and felt the reverberations in his chest as he answered for her.

"I followed her out here to speak with her. She was able to warn me in time before either of us were killed." He cursed in a foreign language-was that Rohirric?—and continued, "I wasn't quick enough and she sustained injury." His voice was deep and reminded her of waves on the shore during high tide: powerful and unstoppable, but peaceful and soothing. There was a certain lilt to it that betrayed an accent she wasn't familiar with.

Lothíriel could feel hot, white light pulsating from her arm with each heartbeat. She steeled herself for the effort it took to speak and croaked out weakly, "Amrothos, please get Ada."

"I will be right back," Amrothos replied, eager to do something useful. He stood up and darted away, evading the pool of blood on the floor.

Lothíriel took another deep breath and exhaled shakily. The man's arms, which still held her, tensed slightly. After a few more moments of breathing comfortably in silence, Lothíriel finally shifted. Wincing a little, she untucked her head from beneath his chin and glanced up.

She shivered. And his arms tensed around her again.

It was the King of Rohan.

"Do you have the strength to stand?" he asked, the tone of familiarity he had used with her brother was replaced with a strained one.

Gooseflesh prickled across her skin at his breath on her neck. Lothíriel nodded. He carefully shifted her from his lap and stood. Gently, he picked her up at the waist and set her on her feet. Lothíriel swayed a bit and he caught her before she could tip over.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, looking up at his face. His jawline was incredibly sharp even beneath his trimmed beard, and she tempered the urge to reach up her hand to cup it. She observed that his jaw was clenched. She watched the corded muscles in his neck twitching, and noticed that he wouldn't look her directly in the eye.

"Lothíriel?!" she heard her father's panicked voice call to her. The King of Rohan stepped away from her immediately and his stinging gaze honed in on Imrahil. Lothíriel turned around and saw her father, Amrothos, a few of their most trusted Swan Guards, and a Rohirrim hurrying toward them.

"Ada," Lothíriel cried out immediately, rushing into her father's embrace and holding onto him tightly with one arm while cradling the other. Lothíriel could hear whispered Rohirric behind her. Imrahil gripped her tightly by the shoulders to move her away from himself so he could take inventory of her injuries.

"You've been harmed," Imrahil's voice was low and tight. He took off his splendid mantle and draped it over her shoulders, as her dress was sliced and was starting to slip further down her body. Without the King's heat, she realized how chilled she was. The majority of her back was bare, and the mantle provided cover she didn't realize she needed. She watched as the Rohirrim left his King and slipped away.

The King of Rohan cautiously approached them and cleared his throat. Imrahil looked at him. "Prince Imrahil," he spoke lowly and quickly, "I do not think it prudent to stand out here in the open any longer where prying eyes may discover us."

His eyes darted toward Lothíriel and back to her father, raising an eyebrow. Imrahil's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at his daughter. His eyes widened at what he saw and he nodded in agreement. Lothíriel felt confused.

Imrahil looked at the King, knowingly. "You are wise, my friend, and I perceive you have a plan. Mayn't I be aware of it?"

"This must be dealt with discreetly. It would do no good for our peoples to know what has happened here, on this night. Peace is still too fragile, and news of assassins infiltrating during the coronation day would cause chaos."

"And Lord Aragorn?"

The warrior-king looked thoughtful. "I am loathe to divulge this information to him immediately and taint this day with ill tidings. I would have us deal with it privately until tomorrow at least. The less people who know will be to our advantage."

Lothíriel turned at footsteps coming towards them, and the Swan Knights instinctually went into a defensive pose. The footsteps belonged to the Rohirrim returning from his errand. The Swan Knights only relaxed when Imrahil motioned them to with a wave of his hand.

He spoke rapidly to his king in Rohirric. The King of Rohan turned to Imrahil and explained. "I asked Éothain to procure the services of Éowyn. Your daughter needs her arm tended to, and I think it best that we do not go to the healer here, or else it will be reported. We needed someone trustworthy, and Éowyn has been studying the art of healing. Éothain has informed her of being needed, and she is waiting in her room with the appropriate supplies. That is, with your permission."

"That is agreeable," Imrahil said, turning from Lothíriel and speaking in hushed tones with the Swan Knights. The King of Rohan's expectant gaze shifted to Lothíriel. It took her a few seconds to realize he was waiting for her approval as well. She nodded mutely, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with her wounded arm on which she was still putting pressure. At her consent, the King spoke to the man named Éothain in their language, and though she could not understand them, it sounded like they were arguing.

Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow, and she was being ushered away by the Swan guards. Lothíriel stumbled often, and was steadied by one of her father's most trusted guards. Lothíriel didn't register for several moments that the knights were following Éothain through the servant corridors to the guest rooms. The further they walked, the more agitated Lothíriel could feel herself become. Finally, they arrived in a wing that Lothíriel recognized as being reserved for important dignitaries, and Éothain rapped on a solid wood door in a staccato rhythm before the lock clicked open. A beautiful woman with long golden hair answered the door a crack, her face drawn tight and worried. Upon seeing Éothain, she cried out and embraced him. She spoke quickly with him in their native language, and motioned for Swan Knights to stand guard at the door. She smiled tentatively at Lothíriel until she noticed the garment wrapped around her arm, and then the woman's face paled.

She spoke sharply with Éothain who answered in what Lothíriel perceived as a snippy tone. Lothíriel watched as Éothain shrugged the woman off and left while she was in the middle of a sentence. The woman looked extremely frustrated before taking a deep breath, schooling her features to one of calm and turned to Lothíriel and invited her in.

"My name is Éowyn," she said softly as she locked the door, gesturing at a padded bench at the foot of her bed for Lothíriel to sit on. Lothíriel's blood pumped thunderously through her veins and she could feel her body vibrate with energy as she moved to the bench and sat down. Despite her upbringing, Lothíriel could not still sit. She watched Éowyn glide with impossible grace over to a table positioned underneath a window. There were a variety of herbs mixed into poultices, a sharp needle and thread, and cotton fabric strips. A set of closed doors led to an adjoining room, which was for a spouse as was custom in Gondor. Perhaps Éothain's? Based off of their interaction, Lothíriel wasn't sure. Her general knowledge of the Rohirrim and their naming customs could very well point to Éowyn being Éothain's sister, which would make more sense. The room was large for just an apprentice healer, even if she was foreign, but perhaps it was due to Éothain's rank. A fireplace on the opposite side of the room boiled a pot of water and crackled comfortingly, though it did nothing to soothe Lothíriel's reeling mind.

"I'm Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she provided, as she tried to think of anything that would keep her still, "and I'm so dreadfully sorry to disturb you during the festivities." Lothíriel gripped the fabric of her dress with one hand and forced herself to sit still as Éowyn approached her. The Rohirric beauty was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of the Houses of Healing. The fabric was almost black in order to disguise blood stains, and had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in shimmery thread on the left side over the collarbone. The robe was tied with a swath of fabric, silver in color and purely decorative, which indicated she was an apprentice. The higher up in training, the plainer and more practical the belt was. The Warden of the Houses of Healing had a leather belt which held many pouches and slots for tools. Her hair was down but plaited back. Its pale gold colour reminded her of a ghost crab Lothíriel routinely saw scuttling across the sand after dusk near one of her favorite places to sail.

Éowyn knelt down next to Lothíriel and reverently unwrapped the fabric from around her arm and folded it. She replaced it with a damp cloth. "Is he alright?" she inquired quietly, while pouring a sterilizing concoction over the wound to prevent inflammation.

Lothíriel ceased the bouncing of her leg and winced at the sting, startled out of her reverie. "Pardon?"

"Is the King alright?" she clarified, dabbing at the wound to clean it.

"Oh! How did you know he was involved?" Lothíriel puzzled aloud. Éowyn gestured towards the fabric at her feet that had been used to slow her bleeding. The discarded item was a costly tunic of brocaded green.

"The King of Rohan was wearing this. It used to be King Théoden's, and it has blood on the outside of it. Yours has not seeped through it yet."

"Oh!" Lothíriel flushed. She hadn't even realized that the King had given her his own tunic. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed him in nothing but his under-tunic and breeches. She looked at the woman who was tending to her. Lothíriel thought that she looked frightfully pale. "Your King is completely unharmed, as far as I am aware," she reassured, recalling that the people of Rohan had already lost one King. Lothíriel watched colour return to her face and a look of immediate relief.

Éowyn breathed a prayer of thanks in her own language. Smiling at Lothíriel, she handed her a less than half full small glass phial to drink from. "This is the last of the poppy tears I could find. It should help to dull the pain while I stitch the wound closed. After this, all I have is willow bark," Éowyn explained.

Lothíriel downed the bottle in hopes that it would help. She immediately felt her heartbeat slow down, though she didn't feel sleepy like the last time she had been in this situation about a year ago.

"How is it that you were wounded?" Éowyn asked casually as she prepared the needle.

Lothíriel recalled vaguely that the King of Rohan had said Éowyn was trustworthy, but didn't know to what extent. She settled that it wouldn't hurt to tell the healer, but Lothíriel froze at seeing the threaded needle coming toward her. Éowyn, believing Lothíriel's hesitation to be from lack of trust, paused in her task. "Éothain told me it was ill-tidings for all, that you were attacked."

"He told you what happened?"

"Not the complete tale. I've known Éothain since we were very young. He grew up with my brother and I, and the three of us are still very close. My brother and he, especially. It is rare to see them parted. He said just that you were involved in a scuffle with an enemy, and the consequences of it are far reaching for us all."

"I was in the gardens," Lothíriel explained as she exhaled through her mouth, "when I heard a voice calling to me. It was your King, though I did not know it at the time. I saw a flash of steel in the corner of my eye. I tried to move him out of the way, but I wasn't fast enough. " Her speech slowed as the needle Éowyn held initially pierced her flesh. Lothíriel's eyes took on a glassy quality, and she appeared to be reliving some horrific memory from a time long passed.

"Breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth," Éowyn coached. Éowyn had witnessed many soldiers experience this after the Battle of the Morannon and had herself struggled with the episodes of the warriors' waking dream after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Lothíriel dug her nails into her upper thigh to ground herself and inhaled slowly through her nose and could feel herself return to reality as she exhaled.

Éowyn watched intently. She looked extremely contemplative as she knotted the final stitch and used a small dagger to remove the excess thread.

"I-" Lothíriel started to speak.

"Nay; there's no need to explain. It never happened." Éowyn interrupted her, making herself appear intently busy on wrapping Lothíriel's arm with cloth strips. Lothíriel looked extremely grateful, her vigor finally returning. "Well at least the assailant has been dispatched," Éowyn continued, hoping to distract her patient from feeling any residual uncomfortableness.

Lothíriel nodded. "Yes, it is good. Do you know if they captured his companion?"

Éowyn's sharp eyes snapped to Lothíriel's. "Éothain spoke only of one."

"Yes, one assassin. I'm talking about the accomplice he was with," Lothíriel said. She felt renewed energy flow through her body, like a thrumming running through her veins.

"They do not know there was a second enemy," Éowyn stated harshly.

"Well someone has got to tell them!" Lothíriel exclaimed, jumping to her feet as the urgency washed over her. She felt as if she were racing the rising tide; there were but a few, fleeting moments in which she could secure her fate. "There's a chance we could still prevent them from leaving the city."

"They are debriefing now in the war room as we speak," Éowyn spoke hurriedly. Lothíriel started towards the doors but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. "Ye cannot go while you're like this."

Lothíriel wrenched her shoulder out from her grip and assumed her mask of indifference. "I am perfectly capable of speech, therefore I am going."

"Nay, I do not mean to prevent ye from going," Éowyn said softly, turning her palm up to suggest she meant no harm. "But ye may want to be at least properly covered up."

Lothíriel looked down at herself and blanched. Here she had been abashed at the King of Rohan in naught but his under-tunic and breeches, while she had looked twice as disheveled. The hem of her dress was a shade darker from the rest, stained from the blood pool. A rip on the side by her right knee must have happened when she hit the ground. But truly, the most mortifying thing was the top of her dress. Its mutilation to save her life had left her with little decency. The slips of fabric that served as her sleeves sagged near to her elbows, and Lothíriel realized that had she not been keeping her injured arm so close to her body, the entire dress would have slid down to expose her bosom. In fact, the entire torso at the back of her gown was ripped open, and displayed her bare back from the very nape of her neck to her tailbone.

"Sweet Elbereth," she breathed. Éowyn said something to Lothíriel she didn't catch and ventured into the adjoining room while Lothíriel took a mental inventory of everything wrong in her appearance. Her hair, which Maren had painstakingly taken the time to curl, was haphazard and wild. Lothíriel tried to run her fingers through it like a comb, but was interrupted by Éowyn returning.

"No clothing of mine will fit you," Éowyn apologized, handing Lothíriel a small stack of folded clothes. Lothíriel regretfully knew how true that statement was; Éowyn was slender everywhere that Lothíriel was not. Lothíriel's bust and hips would never fit into any of Éowyn's dresses. "I took this from my brother's room; Éomer won't mind. There's a pair of trousers and one of his old shirts, too. I found an old belt of his that should keep everything from falling off you."

Lothíriel thanked Éowyn and began to hurriedly strip off the remnants of her dress. Taking care not to unnecessarily jostle her arm, she slipped the soft shirt over her head and tucked it into the trousers. Éowyn had to assist her with tightening the belt. Lothíriel thought she looked like she'd been swallowed, but Éowyn looked at her approvingly, strangely satisfied with the end result. Lothíriel thought that was odd, but was distracted by Éowyn tossing worn leather boots toward her.

"We look to be the same size," she smiled. "You will look less ridiculous wearing these than your sodden slippers." Lothíriel looked down at her slippers and grimaced. "Now make haste."

Lothíriel threw a few words of gratitude over her shoulder as she darted into the corridor. She decided she would have to sacrifice a little time in the name of discretion. After all, imagine the fuss that would occur if some Gondorian were to recognize her, the Princess of Dol Amroth, while she wore trousers, not to mention her bandaged arm. Thus, Lothíriel followed the servants' corridors and passageways. Thankfully the party was still in full swing, unaware of the happenings, and the corridors were largely empty. Lothíriel was able to make it to the war room in record time.

Lothíriel took a fortifying breath and charged towards the doors, where two Swan Knights stood guard. One, the older of the two, looked panicked as she strode towards them. His bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise and his face paled. The younger's eyes widened, his jaw dropped open, and he flushed crimson. Both stood frozen as Lothíriel approached, and she could hear raised voices within the room. She grasped the door handle and wretched it open without delay, ignoring the belated reprimand of the elder guard croaking a distressed "Princess!"

She entered the war room.

Additional Context-

Nienna -a Queen of the Valar, the sister of Mandos and Irmo (known as the Fëanturi), acquainted with grief and sorrow but also pity and courage. She is ranked as one of the eight Aratar, the most powerful of the Valar. Her element is grief and she is ever mourning for the wounds of the world by evil. Those who listen to her learn wisdom and endurance in grief.

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ass-deep-in-demons · 5 months

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✦ Seeing White ✦

Fandom: Lord of the Rings Genre: slice of life, comedy, romance Characters: Faramir, Eomer, Boromir, Eowyn, Lothiriel, Legolas, Merry Rated: G Length: 3119 words, one-shot

This work is dedicated to @emilybeemartin and directly inspired by her art, and also these recent posts circulating in the Boromir fandom: [slutty white shirt] and [rain soaked Boromir].

I am tagging the folks who got tangled in the Wet Shirts Shenanigans: @sotwk, @scyllas-revenge, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @konartiste, @emyn-arnens, @nihilizzzm, @emmanuellececchi. If you didn't want to be tagged I'm sorry, pls ignore :)

✦✦✦

Minas Tirith, 1st of Lótessë 3019 TA

Yes, thought Faramir. This is a great idea. The Ladies will be thrilled.

The day was perfect, too. From the windows of his chambers in the Citadel, all across the White City Faramir could spot the many signs of the long awaited Spring. Together with the verdant Gondorian flora awakening to life after the months of darkness and cold, so, too, were the people of Minas Tirith rising from their knees past the indignity of War. Just as the trees were dressing themselves up in colourful bloom, so were the inhabitants of the old Minas Anor decorating the streets for the impending coronation of their new King Elessar. The merchants, like wandering birds, were returning from distant lands to their abandoned shops and stalls, striving to make up for the losses sustained recently by the Gondorian economy.

It was, for Faramir, self-evident that such a day would be best spent in the Archives of the Grand Library. Granted, if it were for Faramir to decide, all days would be library days; this day, however, was especially well-suited to that purpose. Having the confidence of the palace wait-staff, through careful intelligence he had ascertained that Lady Eowyn, the bold and beautiful sister to the King of Rohan, had today off. It would be delightful to guide her through the collection of scrolls depicting the Fall of Numenor - Faramir could not imagine more romantic circumstances. If not his humble person, then the priceless works of illuminatory art would certainly impress the White Lady.

There remained the question of propriety, naturally. Here, too, he had both luck and days of prior careful planning on his side. Out of all of the birds flocking to Minas Tirith after the thaw, perhaps the most colourful (and certainly the loudest) was his little cousin Lothiriel. The lass was come from Dol Amroth with her brothers to join the upcoming celebrations. This was her debut among the Minas Tirith nobility and so Boromir and Faramir were expected to escort her on occasion, as a courtesy to their uncle the Prince.

What a splendid opportunity to marry duty with pleasure: give his young cousin a lesson in history and spend time in the company of the White Lady. The White Lady in the White City - such an occasion called for the whitest, most pristine of his shirts, and also his best doublet. On this day he was allowed a bit of vanity and he was quite pleased with the results, when he checked himself in the mirror one last time.

Faramir left his chambers and descended to the Courtyard, where he was met with the view that had never failed to cause a pang in his heart, ever since the tender years of his boyhood. In the centre of the sun-bathed plaza, on an islet on the Fountain grew the White Tree of Gondor. In the past, its name referenced its lush white bloom, the beauty of which, if the legends could be trusted, was an echo of the mythical Trees of Valinor. For centuries now the name had only been associated with the Tree’s dry and dead white wood, from which the bark had long been peeled off by the weather. Nary a bud had been spotted since the long gone days of Steward Belecthor.

On that day, though bare as ever, the Tree did not stand there all alone. Under its branches, seemingly caught up in his thoughts, the young King of Rohan was strolling and admiring the Fountain. Faramir, who himself had never been to Rohan, had met Eomer King only recently, in non-too-happy circumstances. All the Lords of Gondor had had the honour of attending a vigil around the bier of the old Theoden King, who had fallen in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Even though several weeks had passed already since that ceremony, the shadows of the battle past could still be spotted lurking on the noble face of the Horse Lord Eomer. Still, his good humour seemed to be gradually returning to him, if the sharpness of his gaze and the healthy colour on his cheeks were anything to judge by.

The young King of the Rohirrim was, coincidentally, just who Faramir needed at that moment, as without his blessing Faramir’s plans would all be for naught. The matter needed to be carefully broached. Luckily, Faramir was nothing if not subtle.

“Eomer King!” he hailed and politely inclined his head in greeting.

“Just Eomer would suffice,” said the Man of Rohan. “My brother Theodred bore great love for your own brother and always hosted him gladly at the Golden Hall. For all the stories I’ve heard about you growing up, I feel as if we were best friends already, Lord Faramir.”

“And who am I to spurn the friendship of a King?” said Faramir and smiled. “Eomer, then, and you must call me by my name as well.”

“Do you think it will sprout leaves again?” asked Eomer, and Faramir understood that he was talking about the Tree. “You know, after Aragorn’s Enthronement?” This did seem too good to come true. Even though from under the Tree’s roots water continued to spring and feed the Fountain, it was difficult to believe that the dry branches held even one drop of sap.

“That, I would want to know myself,” said Faramir wistfully. He felt gooseflesh erupt on his arms at the thought that he might yet witness the Tree blossom in his lifetime. “I would very much like to see the face of my brother, when that happens,” he added quietly.

“And how fares your brother?” asked Eomer. “I’ve heard he’s been through an ordeal during the War of the Ring.”

Faramir hesitated. An ordeal would be an understatement, he thought. Boromir was not himself ever since he’d returned from the War. Faramir could see right through his brother’s facade. He had been pushing himself to the limits, working day and night like a madman. But Faramir was loath to share his worries with Eomer just yet, so he opted for a diplomatic answer.

“My brother is dedicating his every effort to the betterment of Gondor, as was always his way,” he carefully admitted. “I don’t think he’ll allow himself a moment’s respite until Aragorn is seated on that throne, at last. Thank you for your concern, thought. The sentiment is much appreciated. In fact,” Faramir grimaced, “it is rather I who ought to be enquiring about the wellbeing of your Lady sister.” He looked at Eomer and saw the man’s features soften at the mention of Lady Eowyn.

“She is better than I could have hoped for,” said Eomer with a tentative smile, “in part thanks to your patient encouragement, back in the Houses of Healing… for which I am much obliged, by the by. Of late, she’s been out more. I deem it a good sign.”

“That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Faramir, and then he quickly checked himself. “Erm… I mean, I’m glad to hear her spirits have improved…” He gathered his courage. “In fact, I am grateful for the opportunity to talk to you on this very matter. You see, I’ve devised a plan, which needs but your approval…”

“A… plan?” Eomer echoed, visibly apprehensive.

“Indeed. I’ve been meaning to take my little cousin Lothiriel to the Archives of Minas Tirith today, to show her our priceless collection of painted scrolls. Perhaps the Lady Eowyn could be persuaded to join us. It would be good… for her moods, I mean!”

Eomer raised his brow at that.

“Now that is a peculiar coincidence. You see, I had planned to take my sister out for a horse ride today, and I was meaning to propose that your cousin Lothiriel would join us in this entertainment. The other day, during dinner, she mentioned her interest in the steeds of Rohan…”

Faramir frowned. His carefully devised plan was now falling apart for this new development. Though he had started his riding lessons as soon as he had learned to walk, aware of his strengths Faramir knew: he had a far better chance at impressing the Lady with his wits than with his equestrian prowess. This matter with Eomer King required a subtle approach. He decided to try dissuasion.

“Curious, indeed. Last time I witnessed my cousin in the saddle, she fell off and broke her ankle. She has been wary of horses ever since…” Faramir mentioned casually. Granted, Lothiriel had been seven when that happened, however Eomer did not need to know that.

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. A vein on the Horse Lord’s temple started pulsing, Faramir noticed.

“And you, my good man, do not know mine sister, if you think a day among old parchment could ever improve her mood,” Eomer bit back.

Faramir felt a wave of hot anger roll through him. Eomer’s comment stung. Was it possible that Lady Eowyn, so eager to listen to his tales of Gondor’s history back in the Houses of Healing, could indeed reject his offer of a good time in the Archives? Reluctant though he was, he had to admit: where she was concerned, his usually clear mind became clouded. For the first time in his life, emotions made him doubt his better judgement. Eomer, however, seemed to be faring no better, judging from his face, which was getting visibly… flushed?

“Hold on, Eomer…” Faramir put two and two together. “You mean to… spend time with Lothiriel? You do!” Now this sat ill with Faramir, who was used to thinking of his cousin as a little girl, and not a woman grown, ready to be courted. “Have you any idea how young she is? Barely seventeen, I’d wager!”

Eomer levelled Faramir with a deeply unimpressed look.

“You’d loose, too, for she is twenty, and I am eight and twenty! Which is perfectly respectable, and also none of your business. The Lady’s father, the Prince of Dol Amroth, has already consented to my courting her,” siad Eomer icily.

Faramir felt momentarily mortified about his outburst. Ah, this was bad. Of course the most pressing matter for Eomer right now would be to marry well, and of course the noble, beautiful and now decidedly of age Princess Lothiriel would be his intended. And if that were so, then Faramir might have just offended his prospective brother-in-law. Still, he was convinced he could use this unfortunate situation to his advantage.

“He has? Oh, that is well then. I wish you all the luck with securing the Lady’s favour. Unfortunately, my uncle Imrahil has also already approved of my plans to take Lothiriel for a history lesson to the Archives today. You are most welcome to join us, if you will. As is the Lady your sister, with your approval,” he added hastily, hoping to repair some of the damage caused by his ill-advised words.

“Denied! I am taking my sister for a ride today, and that is that,” said Eomer, who seemed to have taken offence from Faramir’s questioning of his motives regarding Lothiriel.

“I beg, Eomer, reconsider…” Faramir began, but then something strange happened. He felt a firm shove upon his shoulder and the ground was abruptly swept from under his feet. He flailed his arms, but that did not avail him - he toppled over the edge of the Fountain and…

SPLASH!

Next he knew, he was taking in a lungful of its fresh water. When he emerged to the surface, sputtering and coughing, he was met with the sight of his brother, who took his place next to Eomer at the water’s edge. Boromir was fresh past his training, already out of his plate, only sporting an unbuttoned surcote over his shift. He was flashing his teeth in a wide grin, his arms crossed cockily over his broad chest.

“Of course it is you, brother,” said Faramir somewhat bitterly. “I see your signature subtlety has not left you over the course of the War.” He could not stay mad at Boromir for long though. Not when his moments of good-natured mischief and levity, so frequent before the Ring, were now so few and far between.

“Forgive me, little brother,” said Boromir, affecting solemnity, “but only you could have thought taking a Lady to the library would serve you well. As your elder it is my duty to tutor you in the ways of women.”

“Hold on, he wanted to woo my sister with books? Hahaha!” Eomer was in stitches about the concept. “Oh, that is rich indeed! Wait ‘till she…”

SPLASH!

Eomer landed in the Fountain right beside Faramir, giving out a most undignified squeak. This did serve to improve Faramir’s mood a great deal.

“Only I get to make fun of my brother,” said Boromir, putting his hands on his hips. “King or no king, you’d do well to mark that, young Eomer! And you will not be telling your sister about any of this. She would…”

Faramir rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed under Boromir’s bulk, as the elder brother, too, inevitably hit the water with a great -

SPLASH!

“Do not presume to speak for me, Boromir of Gondor!” warned Eowyn, towering over the three of them. “And you too, brother! I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs, thank you very much.” She had pushed Boromir into the Fountain with such effortless grace, and told both of Faramir’s tormentors off without a hint of hesitation! She was perfection, Faramir knew. Had he not been in love with her already, he would have fallen head over heels for her at that moment. “I would be glad to join you for a tour about the Archives, Lord Faramir,” said Eowyn, and honestly, it all seemed too good to be true.

“I have never seen you pick up a book in your life, sister,” said Eomer, “save to throw it at our tutor.” He pushed his wet hair back from his face and attempted to stand up, only to slip and plop down once again.

“Slander!” cried Eowyn, and the most beautiful blush crept onto her face. “I love books! I definitely have read a lot of books in my time! And I happen to take a great interest in the history of Gondor, of late,” she fumbled visibly, which only added to her charm in Faramir’s eyes.

He stood up and shivered. His elegant brocade doublet, which he had picked especially for this occasion, was now entirely ruined. He hastily shook it off, not wanting the richly coloured fabric to stain his white shirt underneath. He wiped off the water from his face, and finally deeming himself presentable (for a given definition of the word) addressed the Lady.

“I would be delighted to personally recommend to you the best historical monographs from our Library, my fair Lady Eowyn,” said Faramir and bowed, smiling widely. “Going through them will of a certainty take some time, but I wholeheartedly offer all the assistance I could give in your studies.”

“You know not what you have signed up for, Lady,” said Boromir, who was still sitting in the water up to his chest, and not in any rush to get up.

“Oh, I think the Lady knows perfectly well what she has signed up for,” the merry voice of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood sounded from behind Eowyn, and it was only in this moment that Faramir realised the White Lady had not come here alone. Distracted by her radiant presence, he had failed to notice the Elf, who was standing a little way off with Meriadoc Brandybuck, one of the Perians, and a furiously blushing, uncharacteristically quiet cousin Lothiriel. The three of them appeared to be carrying… hammers and chisels? Although the girl seemed to have dropped hers and focused on fanning her beet-red face instead.

“We were just off to the City, to help with the renovations of the houses on the Third Level. Master Gimli means to teach us stonemasonry!” Meriadoc supplied, excitement brimming on his features.

“Though I have noticed the Ladies are acting somewhat distracted,” said Legolas. “I wonder if they are up for the task after all, or maybe they would rather stay here and admire the views that the Citadel offers on this fine day.”

Faramir suddenly felt very self-aware. He suspected he was blushing at least as strongly as Lothiriel. Luckily, Lady Eowyn did not seem to mind, or even notice. She appeared to have forgotten his face was up here and not down there. Ah, well. A gentleman must make allowances for the sake of ladies.

Boromir looked suspiciously pleased with himself. He stood up, took off his wet surcote and shook the water off like a giant dog might, splashing on both Faramir and Eomer.

“Pardon our indecent state, Ladies,” Boromir said then, jovially. “I think we should all go and help with the renovations today. Many houses have suffered during the siege and I, for one, am impatient to start rebuilding.”

“A worthy cause! One I’d be glad to join once I get the chance to change into something dry,” said Eomer, who had just managed to get up, after a few mishaps. He put his mighty arms to use and wrung out his soaked shirt. Faramir was sure he heard Lothiriel actually squeal.

“I don’t know that you should,” said the Perian, who seemed bent on making the situation as awkward as possible. “We would get more crowd engagement with you three coming as you are.”

To this, Legolas snickered with malicious glee.

“It could do wonders for the population’s morale, true,” the Elf mused. “Alas! We’d get plenty of volunteers, but very little actual work done, I expect.”

✦ BONUS: ✦

“Gondor is beautiful at this time of the year, is it not, my Queen?” said Aragorn.

He was meant to be reviewing the list of guests for his Coronation, but got distracted by Arwen’s movements about his new office. Something outside had caught her attention, apparently, for she’d spent a good while gawking through the window. And his beautiful Undomiel, ever graceful and unperturbed, could only very rarely be caught gawking, and only in private. He had to assume she was not immune to the splendour of the White City, and he was well pleased that she approved of her new domain.

“Pardon?” she startled, and a faint blush tinged her alabaster cheek. “Oh, yes. The nature is in full bloom. But, I am not your Queen. Not yet, at least,” she said, and smiled a very secretive, private smile.

Aragorn suspected a hundred years would pass before he’d learn to decipher all the subtleties of her expression. He was content to just admire them, for now.

[MY WRITING MASTERPOST]

#lord of the rings fanfiction #faramir #boromir #eomer #farawyn #lothiriel #eowyn #lotr fanfiction #ass deep in demons #[arda]

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