This story was written with my awesome friend Hanne! Her plot, my writing. I love her. She deserves the credit.

The spring brought forth wonderful blossoms that year; the gardens and fields where farmers grew their crops were finally flourishing after many years of hardship and war. The mood among all who lived in Imrahil's house was hopeful and carefree, almost celebratory. Soon enough they would have even more to celebrate, though Lothíriel was unaware of this as she walked, arm in arm with her lady's maid, to her father's study.

Once admitted, the maid took a place by the wall and Lothíriel stepped forward to the large oaken desk. Imrahil glanced up at her, and nodded before returning his attention to one of the several papers on his desk. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, hîr vuin a Ada," she said, sinking to her knees in a deep curtsey and lowering her head. Father was distracted by his correspondence today, she noticed, for it was several moments before he responded.

"Rise, daughter."

Lothíriel did as she was bid, though she kept her eyes downward.

"I have secured for you a match with the King of Rohan," Imrahil said, his voice echoing in the tall chamber. Lothíriel's eyes snapped upward before she caught herself. Fortunately her father did not see, his attention still focused on his papers. "We will travel to Rohan in ten days' time. I need not hope you will do the lineage of Dol Amroth proud, for I know you will behave properly." His tone betrayed far more emotion than Lothíriel was accustomed to, and in her mind she imagined his kindly face smiling. "I understand that this is going to be an adjustment for you. If you have any questions, you may ask."

Oh, how many questions she wished to ask! But her father had shown much confidence in her when he said that he was not concerned with how she would conduct herself. So she bit her tongue, and said, "I have no questions, Father, for I trust you completely." This was true, of course, but she was curious. Perhaps her brothers would be more forthcoming with details, for they surely had known of this.

"My wise daughter," Imrahil said, standing before walking around the desk, placing his cool hands on her shoulders in a show of affection before kissing her forehead. "I know you will be happy."

...

There seemed to be enough clothing for a half-dozen princesses, not just one. Lothíriel could only stand helplessly for fitting after fitting as her wardrobe was prepared at break-neck speed for her forthcoming journey. Day dresses, evening dresses, cloaks, underthings, nightclothes, stockings, shoes, perfumes, soaps and ribbons: would her stay in Rohan be long enough to use everything?

Imrahil was to escort her and her several trunks of clothing to Minas Tirith, where he would stay and Erchirion would take his place as Lothíriel's escort. Once they arrived in Edoras, Erchirion would continue north, leaving Lothíriel behind with her maid to act as chaperone.

It was an odd arrangement, she thought. She had never been outside of Gondor, yet her father considered her ready to spend the summer in a foreign nation, living in the house of its king and her betrothed and without any of her own family to support her. She decided it was a sign of trust, but the thought of such an unfamiliar situation made her apprehensive. And though no one thought to explain it to her, Lothíriel had surmised that she would be alone because her father and all three of her brothers were needed elsewhere. She simply was not a priority, when another man would be responsible for her welfare. But why would they think to do such a thing, before she was even married?

It was not her place to question it, though she did.

...

Weeks later, Lothíriel was granted her first sight of Meduseld in the dark of night, her dress torn and her maid crippled. Erchirion had ridden ahead of the main group after the accident, and so there were lights showing from the windows of the great hall. One of the guards carried her maid up the steps, and Lothíriel was left to trail behind, which she did with no small amount of apprehension. Would this be her first sight of her future husband, with their caravan in such a state, having arrived three days late and she herself not having bathed in a nearly a month?

If the travelling coach hadn't tipped over a hidden rock. If the maid had not been caught under it. If several days of rain had not delayed them at the Snowbourne. If it had been safe enough for Lothíriel to wash herself after weeks of travel. If her father had not arranged such a ridiculous journey for her.

She blinked in the brightly lit hall. There were a few people milling, mostly servants and a few of what looked like healers. She barely had a half-second to see a wooden throne and several brightly colored and equine-themed tapestries before her attention was claimed by a woman with silver hair.

"I'm to direct ye to yer bedchamber," she said, her Westron sound but heavily accented. "My name is Hamwyn—I am the housekeeper here. Yer brother gave me instructions before he left with the king to help stable the horses."

Lothíriel nodded, the thought of a bed bringing her exhaustion to the forefront of her mind. The woman continued to eye her, but not with suspicion. Interest certainly. And something else…something unlike the calculating looks she was accustomed to.

"Would ye care for a bath before ye retire?" Hamwyn asked. "And perhaps a warm meal?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, and after seeing her maid carried to the infirmary to be taken care of, Lothíriel followed Hamwyn to where she would be staying.

What she had been expecting, was not this. From listening to the gossip that filtered through the court at Dol Amroth, Lothíriel had fallen trap to the belief that the people of Rohan were far less sophisticated than their Southern cousins. But the oaked bed was draped in rich velvets, and embroidered tapestries lined the walls. A knotted rug covered nearly the entire floor, so it was quite an elegant if quaint, space.

However, she soon found her eyelids drooping, and it was in a half-trance that she felt Hamwyn helping her into a nightgown and brushing her hair. Tea was offered, and subsequently refused, and it was not a moment too soon before Lothíriel felt her head sink into the pillow, and Hamwyn leave the room after extinguishing the candles. Sleep came quickly, though not before a deep set anxiety of what would happen the following day surfaced and invaded her dreams.

...

A knock on the door startled Lothíriel awake, and blinking away her sleep, she croaked, "Enter!"

It was Hamwyn, which surprised Lothíriel. Servants in Dol Amroth did not announce their presence; it was considered a mark of their skill if they performed their duties without being noticed. But this woman was now stoking the fire, clucking to herself.

"I am very sorry, madam, but yer presence has been called for by yer brother. How he can be so heartless as to insist ye rise before the sun to see him off—and ye having only arrived at midnight. I told him as much, but what a scowl that boy has! He would not hear my point."

Lothíriel was yawning now, only half-registering Hamwyn's words. Of course Erchirion wanted to see her before he left—likely he would imparting a last morsel of wisdom, courtesy of their father. As much as she wanted to stay in bed, a direct order from her brother could not be ignored. She sighed and roused herself, the sight of a dim sky through the curtains making her weariness seem all the heavier. Why must he depart before dawn!

Hamwyn helped Lothíriel to dress in a warm frock (though late spring, the mornings were still cold) before brushing her hair back casually. She grew alarmed as she saw Hamwyn prepare to leave—surely this sort of hairstyle was not allowed here? Such wantonness! But Lothíriel had no choice except to follow the housekeeper, who bore a candle, to wherever Erchirion was. Lothíriel walked behind her, trying to tie her hair back somehow but mostly managing to rumple it further. At least her father was not here—she would be disgraced to appear in such a state.

The great hall of Meduseld was nearly empty; signs of a hurried breakfast still littered the tables (which Lothíriel found to be distasteful—why had the servants not cleaned yet?), and two men stood by the central hearth. Erchirion was one, dressed in travelling clothes; he was conversing with a taller and much broader man, at whom Lothíriel felt herself balk.

"Ah, the king is here as well," Hamwyn said, stopping and nudging Lothíriel forward. She had somehow lost all feeling in her legs, and keeping her eyes lowered she approached the men.

"Sister," she heard Erchirion say. She curtseyed to him, dreading the moment of introduction, which was not long in coming. "I wanted to see that you were properly introduced to Éomer before I departed. Show your respect."

It was only years of such situations that prevented Lothíriel from utter humiliation as she sunk down to the ground, keeping her head bowed. Etiquette dictated that the man address her first, and she waited. But only silence met her, before—

"What in Béma's name is this?"