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?”

-----------------------------------------------

*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.

Dol Amroth, 3019

---

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.

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.

Lothíriel stood silently amid the gardens, observing the woman who stood apart from everyone, as still and cold as a statue. Healers bustled to and fro, but the Lady Éowyn paid them no mind. She stared eastward, holding her injured arm against herself. Were it not for her height and golden hair, Lothíriel would never have guessed who she was.

When deeply and dangerously injured, she had been eager, even desperate, to leave; now that she was more than well enough to go whither she would, she remained. Something had changed, and she was absolutely certain that Faramir had not told her everything. This was far from unusual with him, but she could not but feel a vague, formless suspicion that there was . . . something.

‘Suilad,’ she said, and Éowyn turned to face her. For a brief instant, the two women studied one another. The look of Gondor and Rohan was curiously blended in her; she was taller, slimmer, and paler than most of the Rohirrim, her features finer, but there was no question that she was one of that people. Her look was icy, somehow removed from the world around her, and yet there was also something fierce there.

‘Mae govannen,’ Éowyn replied. ‘May I be of service?’ Her Sindarin was halting but clear, and the rich, rolling intonation, though odd to Lothíriel's ears, was not unpleasant.

‘Please forgive my intrusion. May I sit down?’

A flicker of curiosity crossed the other woman’s face. She nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I hope you do not mind my introducing myself. I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil of Dol Amroth.’

Éowyn smiled politely, but without warmth. ‘It is an honour, Lady Lothíriel.’

‘No, the honour is mine. You see, I have been so eager to meet you, Faramir says -- ’

‘Faramir!’ The sudden sharp cry was completely at odds with her judgment of the other woman. Lothíriel eyed her with considerable interest. She was certainly not indifferent to him.

Not that anybody was. Faramir had a certain -- effect on people.

‘Forgive me . . . I was just startled. I am a little acquainted with the Lord Steward -- do you know him well?’

Her healthy hand clenched and unclenched in the white material of her dress. Lothíriel blinked. She could not possibly be --? Well, perhaps in Rohan, things were different. ‘Of course I am,’ she said, surprised. ‘He is my my father’s sister-son, my only cousin. Did not you know?’

Éowyn visibly relaxed. ‘No. No, I . . . he never talked much of his family, except his brother.’

Lothíriel’s eyes went to the tower where her uncle had spent so much time, and she felt a peculiar twisting sensation, tears nearly rising to her eyes. She looked away. ‘I imagine not, at such a time. In any case, he says that you are a kinswoman of ours.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Éowyn shook her head. ‘Perhaps you are mistaken -- my grandmother was a Gondorian, but she was sister to the Lord of Lossarnach, not Dol Amroth.’

‘Yes, but she -- they -- were cousins to my grandfather, and Faramir’s, the Prince Adrahil. You see,’ Lothíriel prattled on, keeping a sharp eye on Éowyn -- ‘our great-great-grandfather -- Faramir’s and mine, and my brothers’ of course -- was the Prince Azrubel, and his daughter was Morwen and Forlong’s mother. And that makes us all kin, and of course Faramir is so attentive to family. I think that’s why he was so concerned, when the Warden said . . .’ She stopped. ‘Oh, I am terribly sorry for rattling away like this. I hope I am not bothering you too much? I really only wanted to introduce myself and tell you that if you . . . that is, that . . . well, my family -- my father, and my brothers, and Faramir -- well, we are here, if you need anything. Especially you. My people do not forget our debts, you know. Though -- ’ she sighed -- ‘I suppose you shall be going back to Rohan soon enough.’

Éowyn stared at her a moment, her expression at once puzzled and pertruebd. Then, unaccountably, she flushed, turning away, towards the south. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, then smiled, her face warming. ‘Thank you, Lady Lothíriel, for your kindness nevertheless.’

‘Oh, please call me Lothíriel. I do not have so many kinsmen left to keep distance from those that remain.’ She shivered. ‘Would you mind terribly if we went inside? I am from the South, you see, and these cold northern places chill my bones.’

Éowyn laughed, a little awkwardly, as if her voice was ill suited to it. ‘I would not think it cold here, but then, I am from even further north myself. Of course -- ’ she turned, and Lothíriel took her free arm.

‘You must tell me about Rohan. Do you know, I have never been outside of Gondor? I have spent almost my entire life here or in Belfalas. My father often comes here on matters of state, you see. He and my uncle the Steward disagreed on many, many things, but they always had a great respect for each other.’

Éowyn turned to her, surprised. ‘You were fond of him? Your uncle?’

‘Yes.’ Lothíriel swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘He was always -- very kind, and he understood . . . things that almost nobody else did, or would allow me to speak of. The Stewards and the Princes have been near kin for many hundreds of years, so we have some . . . qualities in common. But Uncle Denethor was never afraid of words.’

‘No, I imagine he wasn’t.’ Éowyn bit her lip. ‘Do you know . . . that is, have you heard . . . I am sorry, I -- does Faramir know? About the pyre, at least?’

Lothíriel froze in place, turning as still as the Argonath. ‘The -- the what?’

‘There was a pyre built for your uncle,’ the other woman said cautiously, ‘and for . . . for the Lord Faramir.’

‘Impossible!’ Several startled people turned their way; Lothíriel closed her eyes and regained her composure. With a faint smile, she said, ‘Forgive me, I only meant . . . we do not burn our dead. We embalm them. Have you seen Rath Dínen?’

Éowyn, looking soberly at her, said, ‘Have you?’

Many knew or guessed what had happened to their lord, and even those who recognised the Prince’s daughter had few qualms about repeating the entire morbid tale. Like a pale grey shade, she passed through Rath Dínen, the first to do so since the Steward’s death and his servants’ departure, until she came to the ruins of the House of the Stewards.

Lothíriel slowly picked her way through the long hall. A delicate stone hand, broken off at the wrist, seemed to stretch towards her in supplication; she could not restrain herself from kneeling beside it, trying to discover which sarcophagus it had originally belonged to. Within seconds, she found herself placing the hand next to the blunt stone wrist of a grave-faced child, then ran her fingers over the raised letters. Anairë daughter of Meneldur, 17th Lord of Emyn Arnen—

Foolishly, she patted Anairë’s carved hair and continued on her way, with the occasional, resentful glance at the sun, which shone through the great gaps where once impregnable stone had blocked all light..

Lost without the familiar halls and faces to guide her, she found the bier almost by accident. The stone where so many Stewards had lain themselves to rest, giving back the Gift, was forever altered, cracks running every which way across the formerly glossy surface, though none so deep as to really harm it. For one long moment, she stood still and dazed; then, her eyes hard and blazing against her white face, she began frenziedly pulling the rubble off the bier, appearing every inch the madwoman.

It was only once she had finished her task, bringing her bruised and dirty hands down on the bier, that she noticed the dark flaky material smeared across them. Dust?—no, too dark. It was more like . . . more like . . .

Whatever fevered strength had driven her seemed to vanish then, and Lothíriel sank to her knees. There was no rod, no treacherous palantír, no other remnants of her uncle the Steward. Hot tears fell down her cheeks, and she fought a shudder of revulsion at the thought of wiping them away with her ash-covered hands.

For a time, she was lost in a black quagmire of unhappiness. She had never lost anyone before this year, and Boromir — he was wonderful, of course, but not so close, not so akin, as the others, and he had died honourably, in battle, just as he wished and expected. Denethor would never have wanted this — this utterly debased end, the desecration of all that he had loved and treasured and fought for, his last remains smeared across his niece’s hands. She desperately wanted to be clean again and, catching a sob in her throat, leant her head against the bier, the stone cooling and drying her tears.

‘Lothíriel.’

Tiredly, she lifted her eyes to her cousin’s, unable to summon the strength for anything more. ‘Aunt Ivriniel told me that you had been asking about Father’s death.’ He paused, then added in his most quintessentially Faramir tone, ‘Do you really think it was wise to come here?’

‘No,’ she said dully, ‘of course not, but . . . we cannot always be wise, can we? Sometimes, we must know.’

‘I understand.’ He sat down as easily as if they were at the Dol Amroth shore rather than the fallen house of his forebears. ‘Though I would not have had the courage to come alone.’

Lothíriel straightened, indignation flaring to life with her. ‘You do not lack courage, Faramir, and you are a fool if you think you do. If a braver man ever existed, I have not heard of him.’

A smile tugged at his lips. ‘There are many kinds of courage, Lothíriel. Facing this — ’ he gestured around them — ‘takes something quite different than what is required to fight Úlairi and orcs and mûmakil.’

‘What are you going to do, Faramir?’

‘Salvage what I can and rebuild, of course. It is not so bad as it appears; much of the art of Númenor went into this place.’

‘I thought . . .’ Lothíriel swallowed. ‘I thought it might be just — left, the way it is now. Nobody seems to care much about remembering the Stewards, now that the King has returned.’

His grey eyes hardened, and for a moment the ghost of Denethor flickered across his young, unlined face. ‘For twenty-seven generations and nearly one thousand years, we have served the memory of a king who was, by all accounts, remarkably foolish. As long as I live, it will not be forgotten.’ He gave her a piercing look. ‘Loyalty to the King does not mean disloyalty to the Stewards, Lothíriel.’

‘Uncle Denethor thought it did.’

‘By the end, my father thought many things, and they led him to — despair.’

To thisLothíriel thought, and set her jaw stubbornly. ‘He was the Steward. It was his right to accept or reject Aragl — the Arnorian’s claim.’

‘Yes, it washis right. And now it is mine.’ He sighed with what would have been fatigue in anyone else. ‘Whatever the — peculiarities — of his claim to the throne, he is the rightful lord of the Dúnedain. That matters far more the intricacies of Gondorian law.’

‘If you say so, cousin, then of course he ought to be King. It is only that I wish Gondor could go back to the way she was, before the war. Why must everything change? I do not like change.’

Faramir laughed softly and sprang up. ‘You are a true daughter of Númenor, Lothíriel. Come, we need not stay any longer.’

Lothíriel stumbled to her feet, then held out her hands. ‘Faramir — I didn’t mean to — ’

‘I will have some water fetched,’ he said. ‘As for the rest, it will be removed to a safe place until my father’s sarcophagus can be made.’

She nodded, something like a smile trembling on her lips. ‘He will be properly remembered?’ she asked, her grey eyes anxious. ‘I know that he was not himself at the end, but before that — he gave everything to Gondor, and he deserves . . . honour, for that. And he loved you, he did, he was only trying to spare you something worse.’

‘I know,’ said Faramir calmly. ‘It will not be forgotten.’

As they walked out into the Street, Lothíriel asked, ‘Faramir? How — how did you find out? They told me that you were not to know. Who told you?’

‘Your father, twenty minutes ago.’ He gave the House of the Stewards only one long, lingering look, then turned his back on it and walked away so quickly that Lothíriel had to run to keep up with him.