Yours to Command

Of Moths and Butterflies

Those who do not lie will find it difficult to detect falsehood.
This is their weakness.
Those who lie will find it difficult to perceive the truth.
This is their weakness.

(Saying from Gondor)

***

Lothíriel enjoyed the sensation of firm muscles under her hands, pent-up power temporarily quiescent, but ready to burst forth at any moment. Whispering endearments, she ran exploratory fingers along the strong back. She wanted to know every inch of the great body next to her. Velvety soft, yet permeated with solid strength, it radiated heat. At the very first touch, two days ago, a piece of her heart had been taken, exchanged for a promise of freedom and laughter.

She stroked the wide, powerful chest. Warm breath caressed her cheek and she reached up to bury her fingers in the long hair.

"You're so beautiful," she sighed.

Winterbreath snorted as if in agreement and gently butted Lothíriel with her head. Recalled to her task, Lothíriel took up grooming the mare with long even strokes again.

All around her, she could hear the early morning routine of the stables taking place, grooms talking to each other while cleaning the horseboxes, the rattle of a wheelbarrow on the cobbles outside, the creak of the well chain as stable boys hauled up buckets of fresh water for the horses. Comforting sounds that didn't disturb the tranquillity of her own small corner. She leaned into her strokes, determined that Winterbreath should be the best-groomed horse in her father's stables.

She thoroughly enjoyed her work and knew there existed no better way to get to know her new horse than to care for Winterbreath's daily needs. At first, the head groom of Prince Imrahil's stables had been scandalized to see his master's daughter wield wisp and curry comb, but he had capitulated when informed that the King of Rohan himself had advised her to do so.

Lothíriel started to hum a Rohirric tune as she worked, but resisted the temptation to take a few dance steps. She had already hit her shin on her bedside table while doing so the night before and stubbed one toe most painfully. Hareth had scolded her for not taking more care, but only half-heartedly, infected by her mistress's happy mood. The maid did of course have no idea what had caused it, although Lothíriel's request to get her prettiest riding dress ready for this afternoon might have given her a hint.

The door to Winterbreath's horsebox creaked and Lothíriel turned towards it. She had paid no attention to the steps going to and fro in the passageway outside. One of the grooms bringing fresh hay? But she found herself greeted by her father.

He planted a light kiss on her cheek. "You're up early, daughter."

She nodded toward Winterbreath. "I wanted to spend some time with my new horse."

Lothíriel could hear him patting the mare's neck. "A very generous gift from Lady Éowyn."

"She's beautiful," Lothíriel agreed, wondering all the while why her father sought her out so early. His next sentence enlightened her.

"Lothíriel, I've been thinking that you should have a day of rest today." He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder before she could utter a protest. "You know that tomorrow is the wedding and you will need all your strength to carry you through the long day."

"Father, I'm not some frail invalid!" She could have added that she wasn't stupid either and recognized a pretext when she heard one.

"Of course not. But I do not like to see you run yourself ragged with all these dances and excursions. After all, with the long ride from Osgiliath, we didn't get in until late last night. Believe me, I just have your best interests at heart."