Imrahil's Daughters

Chapter 1

Dol Amroth, a year later

Lothíriel stared out her window. The setting sun lit up the White Horse upon Green flying from the highest tower of the keep in honour of their royal guest. Time for a last council of war. Soon she would have to face what she had done her best to avoid for the last twelve months – or rather who. She huffed a sigh. You'd think the man would have the decency to stay put in his own country like his ancestors before him, but instead he'd befriended King Elessar and even her father, who had invited him for a visit to Dol Amroth.

She pushed the casements open and a bee buzzed past, homeward bound for the skeps kept behind the castle. If only she could follow it! How she longed for a few hours of puttering around her beehives, or better still, an evening spent in her tower, pouring over the new books Faramir had sent her from Minas Tirith. When she had been a child, she had once invented a sister who would do all the boring chores for her, while she ran wild to do as she pleased. However, there was no way she could excuse herself from tonight's entertainment. She had even considered feigning an illness, but had then decided that some things were best faced head on. Sooner or later she would have to meet their honoured guest, the way the man kept hanging about Gondor. And then...

Fleetingly she wondered if her father would listen to a plea of temporary insanity. Rumour had it that her uncle Denethor had gone mad before the end. Could she tell her father that it had been catching? Lothíriel shook her head. No, Father would never find out. The man was only here for three days, surely she would be able to scrape by somehow. She had it all worked out, had even drawn several diagrams before hitting on the final plan. Everything was under control.

A knock on the door heralded the entry of her youngest brother. Amrothos whistled when he spotted her. "You've dolled yourself up very prettily, Sister."

Once she might have thrown a slipper at him for his teasing, but that would not agree with her new role. She glided across the room, careful to keep her back straight. "Do I look elegant?" The silk whispered around her legs.

He shrugged. "I suppose so. It's certainly not your usual style."

Since her usual style consisted of throwing on the first dress to hand, that could only be construed as an affirmative. Lothíriel cast him a grateful smile, but then quickly composed her features. A polite but distant expression, she reminded herself, elegant carriage and regal bearing was what she was aiming for tonight. Her first line of defence.

Her brother watched her with a quizzical expression. "So what's all this in aid of?" He motioned to her hair, plaited and curled into an elaborate knot at the back of her neck, the silver dress with matching slippers, the string of pearls fastened round her throat. "I can't remember the last time I saw you so ladylike. Surely it's not in honour of our guest?"

Lothíriel dropped her eyes. She hadn't told anybody, not even her favourite brother. "He's a king," she answered. "Father would want me to dress accordingly."

"And of course you always do what Father wishes you to do..."

That drew a reluctant grin from her. "Well, most of the time."

"Not according to him," Amrothos chuckled and flopped down on her bed. "So why did you want to speak to me? Or is it a full council of war?"

She nodded. "The General should be here any minute."

As if on cue, the door opened again and her aunt swept in. Ivriniel still favoured the voluminous and heavily embellished skirts fashionable fifty years ago in her youth and the pink lace frothing across her chest contrasted sharply with her aquiline features. In the past Lothíriel had frequently regretted that she had not inherited the height of her father's family, but on the other hand the famous Dol Amroth beak had also passed her by. A small mercy to be grateful for – it would have made her unmistakable!