Sorry about the delays, everyone. I was out of town for a while, and then I had more difficulty writing than expected. This chapter threw quite a few curveballs at me, even though I pretty much knew where it was going. But as they say, it's not the destination, it's the journey.

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CHAPTER 14

If Wrath Be Kindled

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From the moment Éomer arrived in Dol Amroth, every thought was of Lothíriel.

In truth, nearly every thought prior to that had been of her, but coming to her home had brought her more poignantly to mind. He saw the boats at sea and thought of their lighthearted quarrels. He saw the elegance of the city and thought it no wonder that this had been her home.

He did his best to focus himself upon the task at hand, but the ache in his heart grew with each step toward the prince’s home. He longed for this to be over. The growing dread of the past few days had been unbearable.

He avoided the eyes which watched the party as they traveled upward through the city. He did not wish to see what anger was directed at him, nor what pain. As they passed through the great gate of the prince’s home, he could only hope that whatever was to come would happen quickly. He did not wish to see this prolonged.

They were led through corridors and courtyards, until at last they passed under a great arch and found themselves suddenly face to face with the noble men of Dol Amroth. Seated upon a low dais at the far end of the hall was Imrahil himself. Éomer observed Lothíriel’s brothers at their father’s side. As a herald announced their arrival in the realm, the young king stood tall. When the herald had finished, he approached with great care.

“Son of Rohan, what brings you to my hall?” said Imrahil, his voice cold.

Then Éomer drew his sword; kneeling, he laid it on the ground. “I come before you unarmed,” he replied, “and willing to take what punishment you offer. For with my foolish tongue I caused your daughter’s death.”

Whispers and murmurs flooded the hall, but Imrahil raised his hand to still them. “You acquit her, then, of those things of which you accused her?”

“I do, my lord.” At last he raised his eyes to the older man’s face. “I know now that the proof of my eyes is not always infallible.”

After a long silence, Imrahil gestured again, and the men and women who surrounded them left the hall. Thus the Prince of Dol Amroth and his sons remained in private conference with Éomer and the Lords of Gondor. Then slowly, and a little stiffly, Imrahil arose. “I find myself in a difficult position, Lord Éomer,” he said. “I know my rights under the law, but I wonder if my judgment is clouded, because the one who was wronged is my own child.”

“If you give me whatever punishment you wish, my lord,” he replied, “no one will think you unjust, for I deserve what retribution you will bring.”

“And if I require your life?” the prince asked. “‘Blood for blood’, as the law states?”

Éomer had had the long days of his journey to Dol Amroth to think of this. He had already written out his will of succession, naming his sister-son as his heir. Since Elboron was but an infant, his parents would serve as regents over the land. There was only one person with whom he had not shared final words, and that lady lay in her grave already. Yes, he was ready.

“If blood must be spilt to avenge blood, then spill it,” he said. “I do not fear death, and I know that in the eyes of the law I deserve it.”

This answer gave Imrahil pause, and when he spoke again his voice was not so cold. “And if I take your actions as acts of war, what then?” he asked. “Shall I ride forth and avenge my daughter’s death with the blood of Rohan?”

“No,” Éomer replied immediately, without thought. “For my people had nothing to do with this. I alone am responsible for your daughter’s death. Let not my people suffer your wrath.”

Imrahil regarded him closely before stooping to lift the sword from the ground. Éomer swallowed hard, but he straightened up and lifted his chin. He was determined not to show fear in his last moments.

“And if I show you mercy?” Imrahil asked, quietly. “Do I let you live, and live out your days knowing that you have killed my innocent child?”

Of all the things Éomer had imagined to hear, he was not prepared for this. An offer of mercy had been the farthest from his mind, and his eyes widened in response. He had been prepared for death, but was he prepared for life? Could he live, knowing what pain his actions had brought upon more than himself? Could he go on, and marry and produce heirs, knowing that the woman he loved died upon his words?

As the long moments passed, Éomer knew that he had no choice. If Imrahil had mercy, it was his duty to embrace it, for the sake of his people. He would not beg for what he did not deserve, but neither would he scorn what was freely offered. “I am deserving of death,” he replied at last. “Yet the decision lies with you. If you give me death, I will take it full willing. If you give me life, I will embrace it to the full extent of my power.”

Imrahil did not return to his seat, nor relinquish Éomer’s sword. He looked to his youngest son, who in turn summoned a servant to recall the noblemen who had left. They gathered once more, and after all was silent, the Prince of Dol Amroth addressed his people. “A great choice is in my hands,” he said, “for I have the power, and the right, to condemn this man to death. A death at my own hands. But I also have the power and the right to grant him mercy, though his accusations caused the death of a most beloved child.”

Long moments passed in silence, and Éomer was finally reminded of the friends who had come with him; for Aragorn touched his shoulder. Then Imrahil cast the sword upon the polished stone floor. The echoing clatter was enough to make Éomer wince. “My daughter loved you,” he said, quietly, turning away. “Even after your slander, she loved you. See to it you do not dishonor her again.”

Imrahil left the room then, exiting through a door behind the dais. The audience took this to mean they were dismissed, and they filed out of the hall slowly. Meanwhile, Éomer, in a state of disbelief, rose and took up his sword. “I do not believe I understand what has happened,” he said, more to himself than to his companions.

“My uncle is a great man, Éomer,” said Faramir. “And greatness comes with mercy.”

The oldest of Imrahil’s sons approached them then. “Cousin, will you come with me?” he asked of Faramir. “My father has been desirous of your company for some time.”

The steward nodded; and Elphir turned his attention to Éomer and Aragorn. “My lords, my father has anticipated this arrival and has had rooms prepared for you. My brothers will show you the way.”

And thus Éomer departed from Imrahil’s hall, not certain if he believed what had happened.

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Faramir followed his older cousin Elphir in the other direction, leaving the way Imrahil had. It had been many months since last he saw Elphir, and despite the deep grief that had brought him to Dol Amroth, he felt compelled to ask after his cousin’s family. “How are your wife and sons?” he asked.

“Aira is well,” he replied. “Our sons are learning to avoid Father’s advisors for fear of being married to the first girls who smile at them.”

At this Faramir almost smiled. “I hope to see them soon.”

“You will,” said Elphir. “I imagine you have had little sleep since your son’s birth.”

“No.” The conversation felt out of place, given the circumstances. “Éowyn has recovered from the birth, however.”

“I am glad to hear it.” By then they had arrived in the area of the house in which the family resided, and Faramir was surprised when they stopped in front of the room which had been Lothíriel’s. Elphir knocked; and they heard Imrahil’s voice beckon them in.

Elphir opened the door, and the two entered the room. Imrahil stood in the middle of the room, but Faramir was drawn more to the other figure in the room, a woman seated, brushing her dark hair. Once the door was closed, he whispered: “Lothíriel?”

The woman looked over her shoulder, and in a moment she had crossed the room and thrown her arms around him. “Oh, cousin, I am glad to see thee!” she cried. As she spoke, her father and brother slipped out of the room.

For a long time, Faramir could not react. He did not move to embrace Lothíriel, for he knew not what to think of her sudden return from the dead. Nor did he speak, for he did not understand what had transpired. At last, Lothíriel drew back from him and regarded him curiously. “Faramir,” she said, “what is the matter?”

“Why was I told that you were dead?” he asked, bluntly.

She stared up at him in silence for a moment. “I published it that I had died because of Lord Éomer’s false accusations, to see if he still loves me,” she replied. “Why, what is the matter?”

“What is the matter?” he echoed. “Lothíriel, you have lied to your people!”

“They will be told the truth, Faramir. Even if Éomer does not show any sign of his former feelings, when the proof of my innocence—”

“Lothíriel, what have you done?” he interrupted. “Have you lost your wits entirely? I find it but a small wonder that Éomer would not trust you!”

“Faramir!” she cried. “Cousin, why speak you thus?”

“He spoke what he believed to be truth, and you answered him with lies!”

She gazed upon him with incredulity and mild anger. “It was not I he saw that night, cousin.”

“That is not what I speak of,” he replied. “He was wrong, very wrong, and he has suffered for that. This charade of yours would not have affected that. He would have suffered had he merely known that he hurt you without cause. What makes you think you have the right to torture him now as you have?”

“I do not torture him beyond what he deserves.” She tried to turn away, but Faramir grabbed her arm to prevent her from moving. “Cousin, cousin, let me go,” she insisted.

“No,” he replied. “You did this for revenge, did you not?”

Tears began to form in her eyes, but he knew Lothíriel well enough to know that she was angry at him, not upset. “And what does it matter if I did?”

“He is not the only one you hurt!” he whispered fiercely. “The people are in mourning because of this. And had Éomer not been the brother of my wife, I would have cut him down!”

“Cousin, I love him!” she cried. “To know that he no longer loves me would kill me!”

“That does not give you this right,” Faramir replied. “That does not give you the right to act like a spoiled, immature, selfish child.” The tears that were now flowing down her cheeks had little effect upon him, for these were words he knew she needed to hear. “Your father showed him mercy. You should have done the same.”

With that, he released her and left. He did not see her fall to her knees, shedding tears of shame at his words.

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Imrahil found Faramir later in the day as he wrote to his wife. Though the prince advised against it, he sent word to Éowyn of the plot which Lothíriel had devised. But he agreed to hold his tongue among those in Dol Amroth, including Aragorn.

In exchange for this courtesy, Faramir demanded to know why Imrahil had acquiesced to Lothíriel’s will in the matter. The prince’s response was less than satisfying, though he could understand that the father’s anger had been nearly as great as the daughter’s. Yet he could not help but reject the idea. Lothíriel had been spoiled by a father widowed because of her birth and three brothers who were nearly adults by the time she was born. She was used to getting her way, and when this obstacle presented itself, she found herself overcoming it no matter the cost. Though there were reasons for her actions, there was no excuse.

After some discomfort had passed between them, Imrahil explained to his nephew that he had visited Éomer after leaving Faramir alone with Lothíriel. This too, it seemed, had been part of Lothíriel’s plan. Imrahil had spoken of ties needing to be strengthened between Rohan and Dol Amroth, despite the blood of Éomer’s grandmother in the royal line of Rohan. It was true that if he wished, the prince could take Éomer’s actions as an act of war. So Imrahil had proposed that Éomer take a wife from Dol Amroth.

The young king’s response had been no less than what Faramir would have expected of his brother-in-law. He knew that love, if it came again at all, would not come in the immediate future, and that he needed to marry. Convincing him to accept Imrahil’s choice of bride had been a simple matter.

“And so you will give him Lothíriel as his bride?” Faramir asked.

“If she agrees to it,” Imrahil replied. “She will give me her answer in a few days.”

Faramir shook his head. “After his behavior, I did not think him worthy of my cousin,” he mused. “Now I wonder if the opposite is true.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Imrahil.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” he replied, “but Lothíriel has not acted with honor.”

The older man paused and sighed heavily. “I suppose you are right. And I suppose I have been blinded by anger as much as she was. Can you forgive me for this?”

Faramir looked up, surprised at his uncle’s words. After a few moments of contemplation, he replied: “I have loved you like a father, Uncle, and where there is love, is there not also forgiveness?”

Imrahil nodded, and the two men embraced. “Let us hope Éomer and Lothíriel remember that before all is said and done,” he said quietly, and in his heart Faramir fervently agreed.

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