#alphros

He was tall. Far more than her father or brothers, but of like height to King Elessar. He was standing near the periain and separated from the crowd so Lothíriel knew he must be important, but besides that he wore a costly tunic of brocaded green that indicated him as upper class. He had broad shoulders, and the garb he wore could not mask the bearing of a warrior.  Nay, nor could the trimmed beard hide the sharpness of his jaw. His golden hair was neatly plaited at the nape of his neck, which was equally golden from the sun. He moved forward at something King Elessar said, and Lothíriel couldn’t believe how a man as large as he could move so gracefully, like a feline. Furthermore, she couldn’t believe how tight his deerskin breeches were. Lothíriel could not drag her eyes from this thoroughly masculine man.

Elphir, holding Alphros, had moved closer to her, and in a low voice that penetrated the fog of her mind, said “That’s the King of Rohan.”

Before she could respond, Faramir cried: “Behold the King!” And in that moment all the trumpets were blown, and Maren was already herding her back to her quarters to change for the festivities.

--

Lothíriel tried to minimize the splashing while she sat in the tub. Lothíriel loved being in the water, as it was normally comforting, but she felt it was unnecessary since she had bathed the previous evening. Taking care to keep her hair dry, she swirled her fingertips between the slices of lemon that floated around her, hoping to find answers in the expanding ripples.

The King of Rohan.          

Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime, practically a spinster in the minds of the other courtiers.

Essentially, being unattached at such a ripe age when most girls were married off at fifteen, had led her to experience the beginnings of infatuation, attraction, and, at times, even admiration. In fact, she had shocked some of the older noblewomen by being observed holding hands without a betrothal contract in place. They’d be aghast if they knew at times it went beyond hand holding into the territory of kissing. Both Lothíriel and her paramours knew that the sweet, innocent embraces were but empty and fleeting.

But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was an entirely different beast. And it infuriated her.

When Lothíriel was sixteen, she’d overheard a conversation between two maids while they were making up a bedroom. They had spoken of matters that were quite improper. One had described in detail the rough joining she’d had with a man twice her age against a wall behind a tavern. The other had responded that she kept herself content with her own hand. These encounters were something Lothíriel had never conceived, for these things were never explained to her. She supposed such behavior was shameful, a notion which had been reinforced with the strict rules of nobility and courting.  And having no mother to explain further, Lothíriel had tried to forget what they said.

               But she vividly remembered this conversation now. Thinking of the one maid’s description and applying it to him caused her nipples to tighten. What would it feel like to be held by him? To feel his lips on hers? Her hand dropped underwater to the juncture of her thighs.

               She’d never really done this before, never had wanted to. None of her past paramours had inspired this unknown aching that occurred in her most intimate of places. The tips of Lothíriel’s fingers tentatively brushed against her sex.

Maren walked in with a drying cloth, startling Lothíriel. Lothíriel’s hand darted to the surface and she flushed a deep red in embarrassment and shame.  Oblivious, Maren motioned for Lothíriel to rise and padded the moisture away. Lothíriel was thankful her flush had abated by the time heated oils scented with saltwater lilies were applied to her skin. Maren helped Lothíriel with her kirtle and squeezed her into the corset.

Maren bemoaned how dark Lothíriel’s skin looked.

“Maren, that’s enough,” Lothíriel snapped, already feeling uncomfortable between the corset and her thoughts.

Maren glared at her. “Everyone will be talking about it,” she said sharply, “it’s absolutely ghastly for a noblewoman.”

“Then let them talk!” Lothíriel replied, heatedly. “They have no right to prattle about me as if I did something wrong. I cannot control what I was born with, nor am I ashamed of it. I shall wear it proudly, as it denotes that I have ventured out of complacency and contributed to the welfare of our people.”

Maren was achingly quiet for a long time, before she smiled apologetically. “I often forget how much alike you are to your mother.” Maren put her hand against Lothíriel’s cheek. “Aye, you are right. They have done naught but sneer at the misfortune around them and concerned themselves with nothing of import. Do not let an old woman’s words trouble you, for you are a daughter of great men, with keen insight and a kind heart. If they are to talk about you, let us give them something to talk about.”

--

Light from the flames of lit torches bounced against the stone. Many of the walls were covered in freshly washed tapestries. Bundles of thyme were hung at intervals on the wall, and long wooden tables with solid benches for dining were decorated with blue lobelia and white camellia.  Lothíriel was pleasantly surprised to see the flowers, as she had thought all that was beautiful had died during the war. She itched to harvest the leaves, which made a very splendid tea. She thought it careless of everyone to use the plants as mere decorations when they could be dried and distributed as rations. Ah, Lothíriel thought bitterly, but the war is over and I’m sure everyone would rather forget rationing.

Several tables were claimed already, each laden with the bounty only a feast could provide. Some long tables were empty, waiting for families to gather and partake in the delights that awaited them.  A few of the long tables were shoved to the side of the hall to make room for dancing, as they were sparsely occupied by those who had already overindulged in the spirits and food.

Lothíriel surely felt the eyes on her when she entered the grand room, searching for her family. Indeed, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, but tried to ignore the feeling. She could already hear the tittering of the noblewomen. Within a moment’s time, a few lords had already approached her asking for a dance. Lothíriel had been able to politely refuse, supplying that she had just arrived and was looking for her father. They had walked away rather dejectedly. Though he had not offered himself as a dance partner, Lothíriel could feel Lord Brayan’s gaze track her across the room and it caused the hairs on her arms to stand at up. After nearly having wine spilled on her “accidentally” by Lady Blythe, Lothíriel eventually found the Elphir and Amrothos –where was Erchirion?—lingering near an entryway. Their tall figures in Dol Amroth regalia looked princely and intimidating compared to the other noblemen, ensuring her a perfect reprieve from dance requests.

As she approached, Amrothos opened and closed his mouth repeatedly like a fish. “Lothy,” he exclaimed, “I must demand that you go back and change this instant.”

               Lothíriel daintily rose an eyebrow. Elphir also hesitated, before opening his mouth to speak when he was interrupted with the return of Rosilith carrying Alphros.

               She immediately squealed. “Oh Lothíriel!” she said, shoving the squirming tot into his father’s arms in favor of smoothing the pale pink pleats of her gown, and grasping Lothíriel’s forearm, “you look absolutely splendid!”

               “No she doesn’t!” interjected Amrothos.

               “Oh shush, you,” Rosilith whirled at Amrothos, poking his chest with a rigid finger. “If Lady Elspeth looked like this, you wouldn’t be complaining.”

               “That’s exactly the point,” Elphir said, darkly. “You look like a strumpet.”

               Seeing a flash of emotion on Lothíriel’s face, Rosilith whirled this time at her husband. “Hear me now, hervenn. You have seen bare shoulders plenty of times ‘fore now. I have a mind to turn you over my knee for your insolence. And you, Amrothos. You best remember that she is not only your sister but a member of the royal family deserving of respect, who has been running Dol Amroth by herself with no help from you. She is no longer a child, but a woman, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

               Lothíriel barely heard the continued tongue-lashing Amrothos received as Rosilith directed him further to the side of the room. Lothíriel looked to the contrite Elphir.

               “Is it…is it really that dreadful?” she asked tentatively.

               Elphir sighed, shifting Alphros from one hip to the other. “Forgive me, Lothíriel. I spoke rashly. You surprised me, is all. Though I daresay your attire is nowhere near court-appropriate for Gondor, it is surely passable in Dol Amroth and not at all deserving of my words.”

               Lothíriel let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I admit, it’s a bit much for me as well, but Maren insisted I wear it.”

               Elphir looked surprised. “I am shocked Maren approved of this, though I don’t blame her. If her aim was to capture the attention of eligible men, it has certainly succeeded. Perhaps too well, as even Lord Rawley is ogling you, much to the despair of his wife.” Elphir’s face darkened. “And Lord Brayan hasn’t taken his eyes off of you since you walked in.”

Lothíriel repressed a shudder. “No, I suspect Maren was trying to atone for harsh words in a quarrel.” She shrugged. “She manages to bring out the warg in me every so often. And it’s not her fault entirely that the gown doesn’t adhere to Gondorian standards. Despite is being a few decades out of season, it would normally be considered fairly decent if I were similar to Naneth’s build. As it is, I’m a bit too…plump, in certain areas, for it to sit rightly on my frame. But Elphir, if you think it best, I would go back and change now.”

“Nay, Rosy is right. You aren’t our little sea urchin any longer.”

Lothíriel scrunched her nose in distaste for her childhood moniker. Rosilith returned to take Alphros who was decidedly squirming and reaching for her. Amrothos followed sullenly behind her, staring at his boots.

“’M sorry, Lothy.” He mumbled, glancing up. Rosilith quirked an eyebrow at him and he flushed. “You look splendid and I’m a deplorable brother with no taste.”

Rosilith nodded in approval, shooting a wink in Lothíriel’s direction.

“Oh, Amrothos,” Lothíriel sighed, grinning. He peeked up and saw all was forgiven and beamed at her.

“Perfect,” Rosilith declared, cutting off the conversation. “We should find your father. I’d like to eat something before the dancing starts.”

“Yes,” Elphir said, looking at his sister. “I suppose your dance card will be full within seconds.”

Lothíriel shifted. “Actually, I’m not planning on dancing tonight.”

“Oh, why ever not! Lothíriel, it’s a celebration, you absolutely must!” Rosilith cried, her bright eyes widened in horror that Lothíriel would dare to skip dancing (it was Rosilith’s favorite part of a party due to the fact she met Elphir while dancing).

“Maybe she doesn’t want anyone getting the wrong ideas,” Amrothos said, dryly. He glared in the direction of Lord Brayan.

“Perhaps…” Elphir said slowly, shooting a sly glance at Lothíriel, “perhaps she’ll change her mind if the King of Rohan asks her.”

Lothíriel flushed.

Elphir nodded his head towards his right, capturing Lothíriel’s attention.

Sitting at one of the long tables was the King of Rohan.

Sindarin Language Guide:

periain - (plural form of perian), Halfings/Hobbits hervenn - husband