A/N: This owes its inspiration to a certain conversation with Raksha the Demon and Nesta at Emyn Arnen.

Prologue

In these latter days, as in Númenor, the ladies of the Dúnedain clung to what remained of their years with a tenacity fully equal to that of their brothers and husbands, desperate to remain as long as they did.

For the Queen of Rohan, there was no need. Her husband lived long by the measure of the Rohirrim, few of whom saw eighty; he lived to grieve as his sister was entombed in Rath Dínen, tears falling down his lined cheeks and his great shoulders bowed; he lived to see his grandchildren running about Meduseld, the warm Rohirren sun shining on raven and golden hair.

She remembered the faint chill that had come over her, early in their betrothal, when he laughed about pulling out his first few grey hairs. In Rohan, that was something a man of twenty-nine might find amusing. Éowyn, leaning against the arm of her betrothed, teased her brother about advancing senility and decrepitude. And Lothíriel felt herself growing pale and cold; she lifted up her eyes, and met Faramir’s.

The cousins stared at one another, in sudden clear understanding of the fate they would share. But the moment passed quickly -- they were young, and fair, and the world seemed to lie before them like a land of dreams, various, beautiful, and new*.

---

Dol Amroth, Belfalas, 3005

Lothíriel was six years old when the dream first came. She woke weeping, without being entirely certain why. Another day, she might have run to her father, but he had been cooped up with his own father, and his brother the Steward, all day, and she was rather afraid of both, particularly the latter. Her nurse, Gildis, was still asleep and Lothíriel knew she would fuss, she always did, if she found Lothíriel crying.

It did not pass, as most bad dreams did; Lothíriel lay awake for hours, shivering a little, and the images kept on dancing across her mind. She was walking across a grassy hill, she could feel the rich dirt squeezing between her toes, and she looked up at a great tall pillar. Voices were singing very softly, as if afraid of being heard — not in normal speech but the other, the one Prince Adrahil sometimes used on very special occasions. And then — the sea, the sea that Lothíriel had always loved, began coming in, first in little waves, then bigger and bigger ones, until the song turned into screams and Lothíriel’s eyes were blinded and she gasped for breath.

The next morning, when her brothers went down to the shore, she slipped away and shuddered. The dirt was squeezing between her toes, and although there was no mountain the hills around her grandfather’s castle were very green, and she leapt in fear as the waves lapped against her toes. But they went back, and never became any greater. Lothíriel was still afraid and stepped back, where she was safe from it. She had never thought to be afraid of the sea, and sniffled plaintively.

“Lothíriel?”

She turned her head, and her small pale face lit up with a smile. “Faramir!”

She could not remember a time when she had not known her father’s sister-son, although he had only been with them a year. He seemed very big and tall and powerful to her, older even than Elphir, although many of the man called him “lad.” His mother, like Lothíriel’s, was dead; Aunt Finduilas had died years before Lothíriel was born, but everyone said she was just like her.

He swung her up in his arms and Lothíriel squealed happily, for a moment forgetting her fears. But he quickly brought them back by tracing one tear-stained cheek. “Lothíriel, why have you been weeping?”

Lothíriel dropped her eyes. “Bad dream,” she mumbled. “The sea is scary.”

Faramir’s straight dark brows drew together, and his customary gentle, easy expression altered sharply. He looked startlingly like his father then, and Lothíriel instinctively drew back a little. “What did you dream, Lothíriel?”

She dropped her eyes. “I don’t know. I was just walking, and the wave came, over the hills, and I couldn’t breathe, and . . .” She shook her head, wrapping her arms about herself. “And there was no more song.”

His eyes grew even more alert. “Song? What song?”

Lothíriel scrunched her nose up. “I don’t remember. A hymn,” she added proudly, remembering the word, “’Cause they talked about Him. Parts of it, I think Ada and Erchirion and Aunt Ivriniel and you sang once — well, Erchirion played, and the rest of you sang.”

“Can you remember any of the words?”

Lothíriel shrugged. “Er, siri, I think . . . and aldar, because that sounds like Eldar and that’s Elves and we’re part Elvish, and then something about leaves*.”

Faramir sat down beside her, on the sand, disregarding his fine apparel. For a moment, his fingers clenched in the cloth of his tunic. “Have any of the others ever talked about dreams?” His voice was more like Faramir again, steady and calm.

“We’re supposed to pay attention to them, Grandfather said, just in case, but he didn’t say anything else, and the others never had any special ones.”

Faramir sighed. “You’ll have to talk to my uncle about your dreams, Lothíriel,” he said. “He knows more about them than I.”

She blinked up at him, toying with one black plait. “Are they special?”

“They’re true,” he said quietly, staring west at the sea. “That’s why you have to pay attention.”

“That . . .” Lothíriel gulped — “that happened? Really?”

“Really.”

She shivered. “I don’t think I shall ever be able to play in the sea again, Faramir.”

“It’s not the fault of the sea,” Faramir said, with a smile. “Our fathers were the world’s greatest mariners, and your people still are. You should not let it keep you from loving the sea. Your father didn’t.”

Lothíriel lifted her eyes. “Ada has dreams too?”

“Yes, and Grandfather — and my mother did.”

“None of the others?”

Faramir shook his head. “Not that I know.”

Lothíriel stared at the sea. She remembered being just a baby, and splashing in the ocean, and swimming with her mother when she was alive, and once, just once, hearing the echo of voiceless singing in her ears* as she stood, transfixed, with the waters up to her calves. Her skirt was drenched with salt-water, but she didn’t even notice until her brothers found her.

“You love the sea, too?” she asked abruptly. “Like Aunt Finduilas?”

Faramir’s face grew very grave. “Perhaps not quite so much.”

“I heard Lady Ailinel say that she loved it too much, that it was the sea-longing that killed her. Is it true?”

“So they say. That is why she named me for it, in any case.”

“Gildis has been telling me about names. She says that Ada is named for Imrazôr whose son was the first Prince, and for Grandfather, who is Adrahil. Those are Adûnaic. She says that’s what we used to speak, but that we didn’t like it anymore after Ar-Phaz . . . Ar-Fara . . . er . . .”

“Ar-Pharazôn,” Faramir supplied with a smile.

“Does the fara in your name mean the same thing as the phara in his?”

“Certainly not!” He pretended to be offended. “Mine means ‘seashore.’* ”

“And his?”

“Golden, if I recall correctly.”

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. “Is your name Sindarin? Mine is, and Elphir’s and Erchirion’s and Amrothos’. She says that after the King went away you all had Sindarin names. Like Uncle Denethor, and his father and his father and — ”

“No,” he said hastily, “no, it isn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is the one my mother chose.”

“Why?”

He gave her a Look, which briefly quelled her. “Why did you start having Sindarin names? Did the King care?”

“I rather doubt it,” Faramir said dryly. “It was . . .” He stared at her for a moment. “It was a way of saying we knew we weren’t Kings, I suppose, even if they never came back.”

“Are you going to be a King then?”

Faramir laughed outright. “Never. I shan’t even be a Steward.”

“Then the King must be going to come back,” she decided. Faramir’s lips twitched. “What does my name mean? I haven’t learnt yet.”

He smiled outright. “Do you see that patch of flowers over there?”

Lothíriel blinked, but obediently turned her head. “Yes, they’re very pretty.”

“Pick them for me, so that the stems are still long, and I’ll tell you.”

She obeyed, still bewildered, then stared as her serious cousin began cheerfully plaiting the flowers together. “How do you do that?”

He handed her several of the flowers. “Do what I do.”

Painstakingly, she imitated him, and once she had finished — though she had no idea what he was doing — he took his half and hers, and wove them together into a coronet. Then he gently placed the whole thing over her head, pulling the front down so that it lay on her forehead. Lothíriel giggled. “Am I a queen now?”

“Only a princess, I’m afraid.” He dusted the pollen off his palms, and said, “That is what your name means.”

“Princess?”

“No.” He pointed at the circlet. “It means that you have flowers over your brow.”

Lothíriel frowned. “That’s a silly name, isn’t it? How would they know that I would ever wear flowers?”

“They probably named you for someone else.”

“Have you heard of someone named Lothíriel?” she demanded.

“Other than you? No, but I haven’t had much time for studying lately. I’m sure there was someone.”

Lothíriel’s flower-bedecked brow wrinkled; then she beamed. “It doesn’t matter. When I grow up, I’m going to always wear flowers in my hair, so that my name will mean something. Won’t that be pretty?”

“Very pretty.”

“But you must not tell.”

He solemnly promised, and she kissed his cheek, setting her flowers awry. “I knew you wouldn’t. You always know what to do, cousin.” She paused. “Faramir?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a monster under my bed. Can you tell it to go away?”

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*the title and this line both come from "Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold

*Lothíriel actually heard, "lavë i síri ar i tauri ar i aldar ramar an alassë" (let the rivers and woods and trees shout for joy); the last, she mis-heard as "lass," leaf in her own language. It is an entirely invented line of the Erulaitalë, "praise of Eru," a Númenórean religious ceremony.

*according to the Silmarillion, some of the Eruhíni (Elves and Men) could still hear the echo of the Ainulindalë in the sea.

*"fára" is one among several Quenya words for "beach" or "shore." Considering Finduilas's history, it seems the likeliest meaning.