Minas Tirith
26 March 3019

Lothíriel stared at Minas Tirith. She loved the city -- not as she did Dol Amroth, certainly, not as her home -- Minas Tirith was not a very homely sort of place -- but with a fierce pride and loyalty. Three thousand and ninety years it had been since her fathers fled Númenor, and this place remained here, unchanged, while Minas Ithil turned into a fortress of the Úlairi, and Osgiliath lay in ruins. She could see the destruction of the Pelennor, and turned her eyes away from the burning of the dead; but the walls of Minas Tirith were of the craft of Númenor, and only the gate seemed touched by the battle.

As the guards carefully identified each member of her party, she arranged her thoughts.

“Lady Lothíriel.” Ingold bowed deeply, and she remembered who she was -- even in the days of the Kings, the Prince of Dol Amroth’s daughter was second only to the Queen, the royal princesses, and her own mother. Until that Arnorian everyone was so pleased about married, she remained the highest lady in Gondor. Her coronet, carved into the shape of a circlet of flowers, itched, and her gown was heavier than she ever remembered it being -- she had forgotten how hot it was here; her back, among other things, ached, and strands of her dark hair were falling down. Lothíriel lifted her chin and ignored it all.

“Belegil must be very well-treated. She is temperamental,” she warned the soldier who had been taxed with her mount’s care, hoping her Westron was not too rusty. She never needed it in Belfalas. “She likes oats. I do not know how plenty they are in Minas Tirith, after the war.”

“Belegil, eh?” The man looked at the black palfrey, who snorted and stamped her foot. “We are accustomed to fussy horses now, my lady. Strange times.” He shook his head and led the suspiciously tranquil Belegil after him.

From there, she went to the Houses of Healing. It took her five minutes to convince her brother’s men to leave their posts. “I will be quite safe here. The war is over -- surely you have heard everyone talking of it?”

Captain Haldad frowned. “Lord Elphir said -- ”

A tall, severe woman left the Houses, scowling at them. “This is not a barracks,” she said sharply. “Either stay or go, but stop dawdling.” Lothíriel was distinctly irritated to see them obey with nary a complaint, but nevertheless her face lit up with a smile as she turned to the woman.

“Aunt Ivriniel! Father said you were here.”

Lady Ivriniel sniffed. “He did not mention asking you to come. What do you know of healing?” She tsked. “And this is no place for a lady. You had better go to the Citadel, you will be taken care of there. I cannot imagine what you and your father were thinking.” She added reluctantly, “I am glad you are here, Lothíriel. Someone has to represent the family, and with Elphir in Dol Amroth and the others off in Ithilien somewhere, you are the only one to do it.”

Lothíriel shook her head with a smile. “I need to see Faramir. That is why I came here first. Father said he was here, and would be for awhile.”

“Young people!” pronounced Lady Ivriniel. Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “Why, the Lord Steward discharged himself this very morning, would not brook any opposition. All I hope is that the authority does not go to his head, poor boy.”

Lothíriel bit her lip. “I shall come and see you this afternoon, aunt, after I have spoken with Faramir. You are staying here?”

Lady Ivriniel sniffed. “Of course. Sickness does not wait upon the hours of the sun. Now, run along, girl.”

Lothíriel laughed and kissed her cheek. “Good-bye, Aunt Ivriniel.”

She went back past the stables and bit back a smile at the shocked stammers of the guards at the last gate. Most of the ladies who usually stayed here over the winter and spring were gone, and many of their husbands and sons had gone to the Black Gates, or remained in the army left here for the defence of the City. The servants, of course, a few archivists, healers, children running errands, some elderly nobles -- that was all. Lothíriel enjoyed the mischievous breeze tugging at her hair -- the early sunlight illuminating the radiant white stone around her and beneath her feet. There was an enchantment here, too, like the sea and yet different. She loved the cool, elegant strength of it. As a child she had listened, transfixed, to Faramir’s raptures about his home. A queen among cities, Lothíriel; you cannot imagine it, until you have seen it with your own eyes. She could almost hear the echoes of her fathers’ steps following the same path she did now, generations upon generations of the Dúnedain of Gondor -- but their enemies never had.

And the Dúnedain of Arnor would walk there, now. After the Stewards had fought bitterly for all these millennia, they would still lose it. Lothíriel sighed. Araglas or whatever his name was had led them to victory, it was true, and her father loved him. She did not doubt his lineage, if her father and cousin did not. And yet . . . what of Arvedui? what of Pelendur? It was decided long ago -- right or not, the decision was made. Are we to be overrun with wild men from the North, who through their own folly and wickedness lost their own kingdom long ago? By what right does he claim it? Isildur relinquished Gondor to Anárion’s heirs, and there is no heir of Anárion -- Gondor should belong to the people of Gondor. What knows he of us? Does he think that because we look the same, we are the same?

Lothíriel dropped her eyes. She would smile at the King and show him every courtesy, of course. She would not shame her father or her family or her cousin. She would be perfectly loyal, if that was what they wished. But her thoughts remained her own, and she heartily wished he had been content to defend the last stronghold against Mordor, like the Rohirrim, and return to his own land.

By this time, those thoughts had brought her directly to the Stewards’ apartments.

“Lady Lothíriel!” the guard exclaimed. “I did not know you were in the City.”

“Most people do not,” Lothíriel said. “Thalion, is my cousin within?”

Thalion hesitated. “Yes, my lady, but -- ”

Her eyebrows shot up. He was an older man who had once served Faramir in Ithilien, and like most such men, was unswervingly devoted to him. “Yes?”

“The Lord Steward,” he began proudly (Lothíriel dropped her eyes to hide her amusement), “is not entirely recovered. You should not tell him anything that might . . . disturb him.”

“Very well,” she said impatiently. “I shall restrict my conversation to the weather and the health of my nephew. May I pass?” Loyalty was very well and good, of course, but Rangers made positively insubordinate servants. He started and stood aside. Lothíriel went down the hall, then paused. Would he be in the room he had occupied all his life, or in the Steward’s? For that matter, had he moved to Boromir’s? He had the right, of course, but it would not be like Faramir. Of -- of course. Uncle Denethor’s library. Faramir had always preferred it there. Lothíriel marched quickly, ignoring the startled glances from the two retainers still there. Just before reaching her destination, she met a third, a vexed-looking woman with a tray in her hands. It had mostly uneaten food on it.

“Oh, my lady, perhaps you can help,” the woman said, registering no surprise at her presence. “I am Hareth, madam, from the Houses of Healing, and I was told to see that the Steward received this.”

“It appears that he did,” Lothíriel replied.

“Yes, and he must eat to keep his strength up! He hardly touched this soup -- and only ate the crust of the bread -- and even the milk is -- ” She looked up, turned pale, and gulped. “Oh, my Lord Steward, I didn’t mean . . .”

Lothíriel whirled, and with a cry of “Faramir!” promptly abandoned all reserve, flinging her arms about his neck and pressing her lips against his smooth pale cheek.

“Lothíriel, I had no idea -- ” he was laughing a little as he held her away with one arm. The other rested in a sling.

“Oh, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no, of course you didn’t. Lothíriel -- ” he looked at her wonderingly -- “I had not the slightest expectation of any of your being here, my uncle said -- ”

“I knew you would not take proper care of yourself, Faramir, you never do, and now, there is no one to oppose you, not with Father off at . . . wherever he is.”

“Cormallen,” said Faramir. “It is near Henneth Annûn.”

“Oh. Well, I can see that I was right, cousin. Look at you! You are thin as a lath, and you have no colour at all. Is your arm very bad?”

“It is mostly healed,” Faramir said, his lips twitching suspiciously, “this is only to keep it still.”

“That is something, at least. Look at that food! You have hardly touched it.”

“Lothíriel, I -- ”

“You must think of others, if you will not think of yourself. Why, your bad habits are putting poor Haleth and the other healers, I am sure, in a frenzy of worry. You must eat well to get better, and I do not care that your arm is mostly healed. Haleth, come along -- ” The healer watched wide-eyed as Lothíriel propelled the Steward into the library as she scolded him, then remembered herself and followed.

“Thank you, Haleth, that is enough.” Lothíriel frowned. “That does not sound right. It is Haleth, isn’t it?”

“Hareth, your ladyship,” Hareth said meekly, slipping away. Lothíriel promptly forgot her and turned to stare at her cousin fiercely.

“Look at all those papers. How do you expect ever to get well if you work yourself so hard? Now, eat your soup before it gets cold.”

“You are a regular mother hen, Lothíriel,” he said, holding out a chair for her.

She sniffled and fumbled for a handkerchief as she sat down. “I had to come, when Father told me what happened. I knew nobody would . . . ” She blew her nose. “With the others all gone, I thought I should go mad. And I dreamt of the most awful things, and Elphir tells me nothing, you know how he is.”

“He probably knows very little himself,” Faramir said gently.

“I know. That is why I felt so dreadful about it. And with . . . everything, I simply had to come. Have you heard from my father? Erchirion and Amrothos, are they -- ”

“They are all well and unhurt,” said Faramir. “We are fortunate.”

Lothíriel met his mild grey eyes in astonishment. “Faramir,” she protested, “you cannot mean that. Perhaps we have been less unfortunate than some, but that does not make our own losses any less.”

“That is so,” he conceded, then said, “There is a lady in the Houses, Lothíriel, a lady of great beauty and valour, who has lost far more than you or I. Her uncle and cousin, her mother and father, they are all gone, all in some fashion or another killed by this war. She has only a brother left. They two are all that remain of the House of Eorl, and they alone will face the task of restoring Rohan, once the celebrations are past.”

Lothíriel sat up straight. “The Lady Éowyn?”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

“She who slew the Witch-king?” Lothíriel pursed her lips. “She rode for love of the King*, that is what Father wrote.”

“She loved her uncle very much,” said Faramir.

---

*quoted from PoME.