Author's Note: Greetings and salutations, dear readers! It's been a hot minute since I've written anything for this fandom, and it should be noted that this story is in no way related to Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours; I've grown a lot as writer since then, and this Lothiriel and Eomer are very different from their earlier counterparts.

That being said, I hope you enjoy this new story as much as the last one!

CHAPTER ONE

Most marriages amongst the Gondorian nobility were ones of convenience. A spouse was another way to gain power, to gain money, or even, in some cases, a way to gain fame.

Even marriages that ripened into love did not often start out that way; many couples were lucky to have met once or twice before their wedding day, let alone know each other well enough to form any sort of deep attachment.

It was tradition, the elders said.

It was responsible, mothers insisted.

It was right, fathers declared.

It was why the House of Stewards had outlived the line of Kings. Gondor's last king had married for love, only for it to bring about his ruin. The Stewards, on the other hand, had married women of their fathers' choosing, and thus avoided such a downfall.

The Princes of Dol Amroth, however, were something of an exception to the rule. The line had never been broken, running down from the very first prince, Adahil, all the way to the current prince, Imrahil. The ruling house of Dol Amroth was populated by tall, dark-haired men, just to the core and fair to look upon. And they had all married for love.

Though, they had become less fair of late; Prince Imrahil had married Lady Dejah, from Pelargir, and their sons, while as tall and just as their forebearers, were said to resemble their mother's line in both complexion and temperament. Lady Dejah was Gondorian, of that there could be no doubt, but her home city was as close to the borders of Harad as Osgiliath was to Minas Tirith. The people there were said to be noble of bearing, but quick-tempered, darker-skinned.

"More Harad than of Gondor," people whispered, but the Lady Dejah was as beloved by the people as her husband, so it was not a thought often voiced-

"What nonsense are you filling his head with now?"

Lothiriel startles, almost sending her nephew tumbling out of her lap. "Are you alright, Alphros?" She asks, "I'm so sorry, melamin, your horrid father frightened me-"

"S'alright, Aunt Thiri," the little boy promises, "you caught me!"

Still feeling vaguely guilty, Lothiriel kisses the top of his cheek, keeping her arms looped around him. "Honestly, Elphir, have you no manners?"

Her eldest brother snorts. "Amusing, coming from the girl who dumped a bucket of water on Uncle Denethor's latest messenger-"

"He called Naneth a barbarian!" Lothiriel protests. "And my dear sister-your wife!-little more than an exotic trinket-"

"Which I would have informed Uncle of, had the story of you nearly drowning his man not reached him first," Elphir finishes, lifting his son out of her lap. "Your aunt's pride will go before her fall, my son."

"Can't we just catch her?" Alphros asks, brow innocently furrowed.

Both Lothiriel and Elphir laugh at that, much to the little boy's confusion. "I suppose there's a more pressing reason for you interrupting my story than teasing me about the messenger."

Elphir's look of mirth morphs into something else. "Uncle is requesting that Naneth come to Minas Tirith."

Lothiriel closes her eyes, and counts to ten slowly, in both Sindarin and Westron. Denethor, son of Ecthalion, and current Steward of Gondor had always been more than a little dismissive of his sister-in-law's position as princess of Dol Amroth, but to demand her mother's presence in the midst of such dark times-

"That is a horribly inappropriate request," Lothiriel finally says. "Surely he knows this?"

"Knows and likely does not care," Elphir agrees. "But we cannot refuse him; Ada is still the prince, muinthel, and I am merely holding the city in his absence."

"It is dangerous!" Lothiriel argues. "In Faramir's last letter, he wrote that Orcs were moving on the eastern shore of the river. If Osgiliath is retaken, there will be no barrier between it and Minas Tirith."

"So Naneth will not arrive at the White City by boat," Elphir says, reaching to grasp her hand. "I am uneasy about this as you are, Thiri, but I cannot refuse an order from the Steward. Not with Ada and our brothers in the field."

Lothiriel knows he's right, as Elphir is about so many things.

But that does not make it easier to stomach; Uncle Denethor is cold on the best of days, and with Boromir gone from the city, it is unlikely that he was having many of those of late. Ada has always managed his mercurial moods best, and Erchirion after that, but Naneth is from Pelargir. People are...different there. Less distant, more open in their affections and passions and...well, nearly everything, from what Lothiriel can tell from knowing her mother's brothers. Though that was not hard to be, considering the strict behavioral code in Minas Tirith's court.

"We cannot send her there alone, Elphir," she says. "Ada would not like it. I do not like it; there are still those who call her the Harradrim-"

Elphir shoots her a sharp look, nodding down at the curious four year old in his arms. Lothiriel winces; Alphros is innocent enough to be unaware of the stigma that her mother's skin-and Lothiriel's own, and his mother's, and likely his as well, her sweet nephew-brought her in the grand court.

"What does that mean?" Alphros asks curiously. "The Harra-"

"It's a naughty word," Elphir says sternly. "One neither I nor Mama would like you to repeat, and certainly not one your aunt should say in front of you."

"Oh," Alphros's dark eyes are wide in his cherubic face, "I'm sorry."

Lothiriel frowns at her brother before kissing Alphros's cheek in apology. "Nonsense, Alphros. It was my fault for saying it."

Elphir nods and Lothiriel represses the urge to roll her eyes; she loves her eldest brother, truly, but it is hard to relate to him, ever serious and responsible, in the way she does with her other, younger brothers. Amrothos, always ready with a laugh or a witty quip; he would have distracted Alphros instead of scolding him and tickled him until he forgot the word in the first place. Erchirion would have explained what the term meant in a way their nephew could understand, gentle and soft-spoken as always, and suddenly Lothiriel is overcome with a wave of longing for her brothers so strong that it almost weakens her knees.

"Let's take you to your mother, my son," Elphir's voice breaks into her thoughts. "I fear Aunt Thiri will teach you more naughty words."

"Your father and Uncle Amrothos taught me all of the ones I know," she assures her nephew, who giggles at her comically contrite expression, "it is only fair if I return the favor."

Alycia is reading in the garden, only raising her eyes to smile at her approaching family when Alphros calls out to her. Her dark skin gleams in the sunlight, beautiful in a way that Lothiriel has secretly always envied. Aly would call her a liar if she said so; her sister-in-law is even more odd than Lothiriel's mother in the Gondorian court, for all that she is the daughter of a Merchant Prince from Umbar. The Midnight Princess, the people of Dol Amroth call her. They mean it with affection, the people of their city, but there are others who are less accepting of Dol Amroth's newest princess, and Lothiriel suspects Elphir and Alphros as well, by extension.

"Husband, sister," Alycia greets them, smiling warmly. "Has my son been misbehaving?"

"Never," Lothiriel assures her, even as Elphir nods. "The fault is mine, Aly."

"That I believe," her sister-in-law laughs. "The House of Dol Amroth is plagued by mischievousness, and you are no exception, my dear Thiri."

Alphros giggles, nestling his head into the crook of his mother's neck. Elphir smiles, his expression so fond that Lothiriel's heart aches; much as she loathes her brother's more righteous rants, she would give her left arm to see him always as happy as he is now.

"Lothiriel and I need to discuss Lord Denethor's request," Elphir explains, leaning down ruffle his son's unruly hair. "Can you manage the little pirate on your own?"

Alycia gives her husband a fondly exasperated look. "Elphir, I am with child, not deathly ill. I can handle our son."

Elphir flushes slightly and Lothiriel muffles a smile behind her hand; her brother has always been a worry-wort, but never worse than when Aly is expecting. She turns to give them her privacy as he leans down for a kiss. Elphir appears only seconds later, pink-cheeked and offering her his arm silently. Offering a quick wave over her shoulder to Alycia and Alphros, she allows her brother to lead her away.

"I do not like the idea of sending Naneth alone either," Elphir murmurs once they have rounded the corner. "If Faramir or even Boromir were present, I would be more at ease, but-"

"They are both out of the city," Lothiriel agrees. Although her cousins are older than even Elphir, who is twelve years her senior, Denethor's sons have all of his nobility and none of his coldness. Boromir's booming laugh always welcomed them into Minas Tirith's grand halls, and Faramir's soft smiles and sincerity were always in abundance. Yes, if either of her cousins had been present, Lothiriel would not have hesitated at all to send Naneth to her uncle's court.

But they are not.

And the city had become even more dangerous than the court; Mordor loomed ever closer, Rohan was silent to the north, and enemies seemed to creep in from all sides. Naneth is strong, stronger than perhaps anyone in their family, but Lothiriel cannot bear the idea of sending her to Minas Tirith all alone.

Swallowing her own fear, she says: "Elphir, send me."

"Minas Tirith is not as I remember it," Lothiriel murmurs as they follow their escort towards the Main Hall. "It is...colder, somehow."

"Not all cities can be Dol Amroth, Lothiriel," her mother replies, patting Lothiriel's hand where it rests in the loop of her elbow, "and Minas Tirith is Gondor's grandest jewel."

Grandest, perhaps, Lothiriel thinks, but the most imposing as well. It had never seemed so in the past, when Boromir had always welcomed them at the gates, laughing at her brothers as they scrambled over each other to greet him first, reaching down to scoop the youngest up on his broad shoulders. Faramir, though, always had eyes for Lothiriel, making sure she always felt as valued as her brothers.

She wishes either of dear cousins were here now. Uncle Denethor has never much understood how to interact with the women of the House of Dol Amroth.

Still, she forces a passably pleasant expression to her face as they are led inside, well-aware of Naneth's quiet amusement at her side.

"Ah, the jewels of Dol Amroth have finally arrived," comes the Steward's commanding voice.

Were he any other man, Lothiriel would take such words as a compliment. But she knows better-knows him better-and is well aware of the true sentiments lurking behind the expression. He sees her and her mother as pretty trinkets; valuable enough, of course, but lacking any real substance.

"Lord Denethor," Naneth says, sweeping into a flawless curtsey that Lothiriel can only envy. "It is an honor to return to the White City."

"The Houses will be most blessed by your presence, Dejah," he says smoothly. He offers her his ring to kiss and Lothiriel nearly baulks; they are every bit as gently-born as he is, and she knows beyond a doubt that if Ada were here, there would be no need for him, nor any of her brothers, to show such subservience.

Naneth, though, is as wily as he is, and bows her head over his hand without kissing the ring. Respect, but not deference. Lothiriel wishes she could be more like her.

"And this cannot be little Lothiriel," Denethor says, turning cool grey eyes towards her.

His eyes are like pebbles at the bottom of a stream, Amrothos always used to whisper, cold and blank.

"Uncle," she greets politely, dipping her head.

"You must be twenty summers now," he says, as if she has not spoken, "tell me, child, are you still not betrothed?"

Naneth's hand grasps hers in warning. Lothiriel has always had something of a glass face, and she knows her outrage must be apparent there now; they are on the brink of war, with nearly every man and boy gone to protect Gondor, and he asks her of marriage?

"Lothiriel has yet to meet the man of her choice," her mother says smoothly. "And even if she had, she would not dare wed him without her father present."

Denethor sniffs dismissively. "I forget how you southerners conduct yourselves, allowing the children to choose their own spouses. Ah, well; perhaps one of my soldiers will catch your eye, eh, Lothiriel? A military-minded man: strong, courageous...not too different from my Boromir, mayhaps?"

"Boromir is a very fine man, my lord," Lothiriel says, unable to stop herself despite the warning look her mother gives her, "but I have known enough of war. I think I should like a scholar. Someone gentle. Kind, even."

Like Faramir goes unspoken, but Denethor's eyes narrow nonetheless.

"The folly of youth," he snaps. "Bergil will show you to the Houses and then to your rooms." Lothiriel nearly stumbles at the abrupt change in subject. "I trust you will find everything satisfactory. Good day, my ladies."

Naneth blinks as he storms away. "We must be careful here, Lothiriel. It will not do to have Lord Denethor as an enemy."

"We are here at his request, assisting his healers because he has not had the foresight to have more people trained," Lothiriel grumbles.

"No, I am here at his request," Naneth says, kissing her temple. "You are merely an annoying addition to his plan."

Lothiriel feigns offense before she puts together what her mother has said. "Plan?"

"It is no mistake that your uncle requested that I come to the city so close to the start of a war," Naneth murmurs, tucking Lothiriel's hand back into her elbow as they are led towards the Houses of Healing. "If Mordor attacks now, your father will not hesitate to throw his support behind Minas Tirith's soldiers."

Lothiriel's mouth falls open. "By being here...we have guaranteed Lord Denethor the Swan Knights."

"You have always been too smart for your own good, little flower," Dejah says, pressing her palm to Lothiriel's cheek. "With the tongue to match. Let us hope you can keep both your brain and mouth in check."

It is only then that Lothiriel realizes the true weight of the choice she has made in coming to the White City.

Word of Boromir's death comes on a Tuesday.

The sun is high in the sky and if Lothiriel faces to the south, she can almost forget that the cloud of Mordor is at her back, that her family is scattered to the wind, that the sea is not close enough to touch.

Naneth has been welcomed by her fellow healers with great joy; tales of Lady Dejah's formidable skills are known even here, in the heart of Gondor, and they are kinder to her than any noble has ever been. They welcome Lothiriel too, for a pair of young hands and a quick mind is always welcome among those tasked with the healing of others.

The day seems like any other since they have been in the city, but for one thing: a squadron of horses has apparently arrived at the Great Gate, carrying something of great importance.

"Perhaps it is a letter from Ada," Lothiriel muses, folding fresh bandages absentmindedly.

"Not even his letters would be given an honor guard," Naneth says, frowning. "I fear this is news of an unhappy kind."

It is.

They have returned to their rooms for their midday meal when a great wail suddenly comes from the hall. Alarmed, Naneth plucks Lothiriel by the hand, and together they make their way to the source of the sound.

Lord Denethor is slumped, pale and weeping, across the great black chair of the Stewards. Knights of the city kneel before him, save one, who stands, shaking.

"The boat was discovered not two days past," and Lothiriel twitches under her mother's steadying hand, for she would know that voice anywhere, anywhere in the world, "on the banks of the Anduin. Scouts discovered the remnants of some great battle, but no sign of any other-"

"My son," comes Denethor's voice, devoid of emotion in a way that sends a chill up her spine, "is dead and you speak to me of your failures?"

Faramir falls silent.

Lothiriel's breath flies out of her in a rush; she cannot imagine a world without Boromir in it. Brave Boromir, who'd never met an enemy who could best him, who never tired no matter how much she and her brothers had insisted on climbing on his shoulders, who was always ready with a booming laugh and warm smile. Boromir, who had always called her his little princess, for all that she was far from fair and graceful. If Boromir, Captain of Gondor, legend and hero to so many little boys in the city, has already been felled…

"Oh, Thiri," Naneth murmurs, brushing at the tears she hadn't realized she'd shed.

"Father," Faramir starts to say-

"Leave me," Denethor hisses. "All of you."

It is only then that Lothiriel sees Boromir's horn, split down the middle, in his father's lap.

The soldiers file away, loyally obeying their grieving lord's orders. Faramir hesitates, so Lothiriel does too; she will not leave him here, alone with Denethor's bristling, selfish grief.

"Father," Faramir says again, "he was my brother, too."

Denethor says nothing, his fingers tightening on the horn the only indication that he has heard his son's words.

Naneth unwinds her arm from around Lothirel's shoulders, stepping up to touch Faramir's elbow. "Come away, Faramir. Please."

"Aunt Dejah," he says, voice dazed, "I did not know you were in the city."

"I am," she answers, "and Lothiriel is here, too, and we would offer you comfort-"

Denethor snorts, eyes finally lifting from Boromir's horn. "Comfort? The only comfort he can take is that he was lucky to be born." His eyes grow distant again. "Boromir was born lucky."

Lothiriel can take no more of this; she steps to Faramir's other side, slipping her hand into his. "Come, Faramir. Let us go."

Her cousin-the only cousin left to her-cries in her arms that night, and Lothiriel feels as if her heart is breaking right along with his.

If he has lost his brother, what is to prevent her from losing hers? Losing Ada? Losing Faramir himself? How many more people will grieve for their sons, their fathers, their brothers, their husbands?

The war has scarcely touched her, and already Lothiriel feels as if it has already wrung her dry.

Faramir departs the next morning for Osgiliath, despite her protests.

"You need time to grieve," she says, frowning as he shrugs on his ranger's doublet. "Faramir, have you even stopped to eat?"

He smiles softly at her, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Little Lothiriel, ever my protector."

"Someone has to do it if you will not," she grumbles.

"I would not rob you of your favorite occupation for all the world," he says, finally sounding like himself again, not like the stone-faced creature he'd been in the early hours of the morning. "Even if you are rather too large to sit on my shoulders any longer."

Blushing, but happy that he feels well enough to tease, she pinches him. "I would try if I thought it would make you stay in Minas Tirith."

Faramir's smile falters. "I cannot abandon my post, Lothiriel. Not even...not even for Boromir."

She takes his hand at that; she cannot comprehend, not fully, what Boromir's loss means to him. Oh, it hurts her, deeply, to think of Boromir lying still and cold, to think of his rooms somewhere within the keep dark and empty from now on, to think that she will never hear his laughter again, or hear him make a ribald joke to startle Ada into laughter. But Boromir has been Faramir's protector and friend a thousand times over; he has been there every day of Faramir's life since the day of his birth, and she can only imagine how his absence now must feel.

"I know," Lothiriel says, "but I think he would want you to eat, at the very least."

Smiling just enough, he does.

The city is subdued in the wake of Boromir's death, subdued and frightened.

Naneth and the other healers try to keep the morale in the Houses up; their patients have worries enough as it is without the knowledge that the city's best and bravest soldier has died on a mysterious quest. Lothiriel feels restless and ill-at-ease. It feels as if there must be another stroke of something, some large event ot propel them further into despair or to yank them back towards hope.

She's been tasked with sorting some of the healing herbs; Naneth has taught her about them since childhood, and the other healers appreciate her diligence and gentle touch with the more delicate plants, when a sudden cry rings out from the gate.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir has returned!"

Lothiriel lurches to her feet, nearly spilling her carefully picked verbena. The Grey Wizard, here? Surely that is a sign of something, though for good or ill she could not say.

"Naneth!" She calls, wincing as a few of the healers hush her, and some of the less wounded men's heads lift from their bed.

"She's in the east wing, my lady," one of the head healers-Mistress Ioreth, if Lothiriel was remembering correctly-offers with a wry smile. "But do try to keep your voice down, this is a place of rest."

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Lothiriel nods. "Yes, Mistress Ioreth. My apologies."

The other woman pats her arm, gently, to show that she's been forgiven.

Her mother is indeed in the east wing, and looks up bemusedly as Lothiriel approaches, doing her best to remember that she is a princess, not a serving girl, and to run through the House's halls would be unseemly.

"Naneth," Lothiriel says, attempting to compose herself. "Mithrandir has come."

Her mother frowns slightly at that. "Gandalf, here? It will be good to see him again, certainly, but I cannot imagine he brings good news." The Grey Wizard has brought news, along with something else; or rather someone else.

Peregrin Took, of the Shire, is the first halfling Lothiriel has ever sen, and she has the most absurd urge to sweep him into a hug as he stands there, looking smaller than ever in Minas Tirith's great hall.

"Ah, Lady Dejah," Gandalf says, bowing over Naneth's outstretched hand. "I am pleased to see there are yet level heads in this city."

"Mithrandir," Naneth greets, "many a level head has been made less so by war."

"It helps even less when they were less than steady to begin with," Lothiriel mutters under her breath, earning an exasperated look from her mother and a snort from Gandalf.

"Are you Lord Denethor's wife, my lady?" Comes a voice from around Gandalf's elbow.

Both princesses turn their attention to the halfling, who blushes under their scrutiny.

"Pippin comes from a long line of hobbits who do not think before they speak," Gandalf says, fond exasperation in his tone.

"His question is a fair one," Lothiriel defends. The Shire is far from even the western-most reaches of Gondor; he would likely not have heard of Dol Amroth, let alone know that Denethor has been a widower these past thirty years. "But no, Master Took, we are not the Steward's direct kin. Merely a sister-in-law and a niece."

The hobbit nods, looking more at ease. "That makes sense, my lady. Surely Boromir would have mentioned if he had a mother and sister as lovely as you."

Naneth hides a smile behind her hand as Gandalf gives the hobbit's ankles a swift smack with his staff. But it's not the Took's compliment that has Lothiriel reeling; it's his casual mention of her cousin, only so recently lost.

"You knew Boromir?" Lothiriel asks.

Pippin blinks up at her before giving Gandalf a wary look. "Aye, my lady. He is-was-the bravest man I've ever known."

"He was," Lothiriel agrees. "Perhaps, you would tell me more of him, and your journey?"

"I should like that very much, my lady," Pippin says, brightening at last.

"If you enjoy hearing stories from fools-" Gandalf starts to say, but his smile is fond.

"I have been called foolish enough times to not mind another person who would be named so," Lothiriel answers, lips twitching as Naneth sighs and the wizard laughs. "Come, Pippin, I expect you'll be hungry, hm?"

"Always, my lady."

Pippin's friendship quickly becomes the one bright spot in an otherwise dark and frightening time.

Mordor looms ever closer, Faramir remains in Osgiliath as orcs continue to march along the shores, and there have been no letters from Ada or her brothers, Elphir included.

"I feel as if we are in some fickle lull," she tells Pippin one day, "as if we are lying in a still pond with no knowledge of the approaching storm."

"I think it's rather hard to miss, my lady," is the hobbit's quick response. She gives him a confused look and Pippin nods wryly at the ominous clouds.

That manages to startle a laugh out of her and he grins.

"I am sorry, Master Took; I've become melancholy of late."

"S'alright, I've always been quite good at fighting that particular monster," Pippin assures her. His smile fades, though, as he looks away towards the White Tree.

Lothiriel touches his hand, gently; he has seen such things, her small friend, and is so far removed from all that he knows and loves. Food, she's found, is always a ready remedy for moments when he goes quiet like this. She would dearly love to acquire some of the pipeweed he misses so much, but something with such a strong smell was not permitted in the Houses, and she is unsure of where else she would keep it.

Pippin squeezes her hand before forcibly brightening. Rising to his feet, he asks: "Where to today, my lady? If I'm to truly to be a guard of the Citadel, I must know every inch of my new city."

"Faramir would be a better guide for that, I'm afraid," she says, drawing her arm around his shoulders, "and Boromir even better than that."

"It's nice to see the city he came from," Pippin admits. "He always spoke so fondly of it. Of home."

"Minas Tirith has never known a finer son," Lothiriel says, tone wistful. "But I have always been partial to my own city, truth be told."

"Dol Amroth?" Pippin supplies quickly. "Is it as beautiful as here, my lady?"

"Oh, more," she answers. "Minas Tirith is grander, surely, but Dol Amroth is all grey stone, you see. Better to blend in against the coast, so pirates cannot spot us."

"I've never seen the sea," he says. "What's it like?"

And Lothiriel is able to forget her fears for a little while, talking about the ocean she loves so well.

Author's Note: Eomer appears in the next chapter, I promise! Just taking a bit of time to set our scene. Also, in case it isn't obvious, I'm attempting to rectify one of my least favorite things about Lord of the Rings: the lack of anyone who's not lily-white. To better showcase where I'm pulling the cultures from, I'll put it in terms of our world:

Northern Gondor: France

Southern Gondor (where Lothiriel's mother is from): Spain

Northern Harad: North Africa

Southern Harad: Central and South Africa

And yes, there will be elements of racism, classism, and sexism addressed in this story, because come on, we need a little diversity up in here.

Also, in case anyone is curious who I'm imagining for some of the principal cast (and yes, their ages may not match up perfectly):

Imrahil: Gabriel Byrne

Dejah (Imrahil's wife, unnamed in the books so I took liberties here): Gina Torres

Elphir: Oscar Isaac

Alycia (Elphir's wife, also unnamed in the books, thanks Tolkien): Lupita Nyong'o

Erchirion: Diego Luna

Amrothos: Anthony Ramos

Lothiriel: Gina Rodriguez