Dol Amroth, 3019

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Lothíriel’s father, and two of her brothers, went to war. Elphir remained, to rule the Land of the Prince in his stead; she, because she could do no good in Minas Tirith, and the Steward had enough on his mind without a constant reminder of his beloved wife every time the two saw each other. She knew nothing for weeks, and bitterly wished her dreams showed her something a little closer to home than lost Númenor, and Beleriand, and places she did not know but which she had seen sink beneath the waves.

When her father’s letter arrived, Lothíriel knew not whether to weep for joy or grief. Her father, and her brothers, were well and unharmed. Aunt Ivriniel had only been moved from her residence in the City by the order of the Steward, and now that the battle was over, had returned to badger the wounded into recovery.

And Denethor, twenty-sixth Lord and Steward of Gondor, was dead. Lothíriel gasped, and dropped the letter as if it had burnt her. She was very fond of her uncle, quite likely because he, in his severe, undemonstrative way, had always been very fond of her. In later years he had grown grim and dour, and his behaviour was sometimes erratic, and she did not quite understand why he was so . . . harsh to Faramir (the finest man who ever breathed, in Lothíriel’s firm opinion), but she loved him nonetheless.

“Lothíriel?” said Elphir, frowning. “What happened? Is Father — ”

She slowly bent down, and retrieved the letter. “Father is well, and Erchirion and Amrothos and Aunt Ivriniel. It’s . . . it’s Uncle Denethor. He’s dead.” She knew her voice to be cold and emotionless when she spoke, and she wished it otherwise, but could not help it, for she always grew cold and pale and distant when her feelings were the most fervent.

Like Aunt Finduilas. She was not sure if the words were spoken in her uncle’s voice, or her father’s, or her sister-in-law’s, or any of the dozens of people who had said so.

Elphir’s eyes widened, but forever the pragmatist, he said, “How is Faramir, then?”

Lothíriel returned to the letter, but there was little enough there. Denethor had died during the battle. Faramir, now the Steward of Gondor, was gravely injured, but a great healer and captain of war, who had come out of the North, had kept him from death and he was expected to recover. The Úlairi had come to the Battle, but their leader had been slain.

Elphir scoffed. “Who could do what an army of our finest men could not?”

Lothíriel just repressed a smirk. “A woman, Father says. The sister, or sister-daughter, of the King of Rohan. He is a little unclear there. The Lady Éowyn, though, and a perian out of a far land.”

“A perian,” Elphir repeated blankly. “Lothíriel, the periannath are nothing more than Arnorian legends.”

“You shall have to ask him all about it when we see them, then.”

Elphir frowned. “I cannot leave, not during war. Why, what does Father say?”

“Nothing outright. It is Faramir. Something dreadful happened to him before he was taken to the Houses, I think, and Uncle Denethor was . . . Father says they were angry about something, before Faramir fell, and now that every one is going to the Black Gate, he will have to be told about Uncle Denethor, and be Steward, and he has no one at all left, except us.”

“The Black Gate!”

“I think it’s some sort of cunning plot of Mithrandir’s.”

Alphros sniffled. “Ada . . .?”

“You should not raise your voice, brother. A gentleman never raises his voice.” She perused the rest of the letter. “Elphir, I am going to Minas Tirith.”

Elphir leaned back and pressed his fingertips against his temples. “Ai,” he mumbled. “Did Father tell you to?”

“He implied it.” Her skirts swished as she whirled out of the room.