Like a Blade Forged in Fire

Prologue

A/N: We know so little about Lothíriel, only her date of birth and the fact that she married Éomer of Rohan. So strictly speaking the only AU element in this story is that I've made her a few years older. However, I'm sure this is not what Tolkien had in mind of how the two met - but then the same can be said about my other scenarios ;-)

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this ride and that it will cheer you up in these difficult times. The story is finished and just needs a final revision, so I promise to post faithfully.

Keep safe!

Prologue

City of Serpents, 3012 Third Age

Even the stars were strange. Lothíriel caught a brief glimpse of the night sky as they were escorted from one courtyard to the next, deeper into the sprawling palace. This far south, Eärrámë, called after Tuor's legendary ship, sailed high above the horizon, its keel glittering with a bright white star. In Gondor only the prow was visible.

Like nothing else it made her realise how far they were from all that was familiar: her country, her family, her home. Hundreds of leagues lay between her and the mist-wreathed shores of Belfalas. Shores she would never see again.

A hand touched her lightly on the arm. Looking up, she found her brother Erchirion regarding her gravely. She tried to smile at him, but did not succeed too well to judge from his deepening frown.

"Just think," she said in an effort to distract him. "We must be the first Gondorians in centuries to set foot in the City of Serpents." Except for captured slaves, of course.

Her brother refused to take the bait. "Lothíriel," he said, "you can still change your mind."

Yes, and have him and his men die for nothing. It was no coincidence that their father had only included unmarried swan knights, all volunteers, in her escort. But she would not let them throw their lives away.

"I know what I'm doing," she answered him, trying hard to believe her own words. "All will be well."

How fine it had sounded in Denethor's study in Minas Tirith, such a brave and gallant thing to do for Gondor. Discussed over a glass of mulled wine, with her uncle's rare approval warming her as much as the cosy fire burning in the hearth, she had only seen the opportunity to do something to aid her beloved country. Not even her father's horrified reaction had made a dent in that confidence, not when the Steward himself threw his weight behind the plan.

A warrior for Gondor, like a blade forged from grace and beauty, her uncle had called her, making Lothíriel feel flattered not to be treated like a child anymore. Now that warrior faced her first battle. And she would not bring shame on her ancestors, Lothíriel vowed, though so poorly armed. One additional weapon she still had: her wits. Perhaps she would need those most of all.

Ahead of them a massive pair of doors was thrown open. They entered a big hall lit by golden lamps hanging from the ceiling. Courtiers in richly coloured robes, emerald, sapphire and topaz, filled the room, eyeing them curiously. Their escort of guards stayed behind, leaving them to cross the floor on their own, their steps sounding loudly on the polished marble.

Lothíriel found her gaze drawn to the other end of the hall, where a throne stood on a raised dais, sheltered by a canopy shaped in the form of a snake's head, its hood spread wide and fangs exposed. Men there, one sitting on the throne and three standing beside it, all wore scarlet. At another time she might have enjoyed the riot of rich colours and tried to capture it in a drawing, but now her throat went dry. She was suddenly glad that she would not be required to say much or she might have disgraced herself.