Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Pipwise for the beta!

Masquerade

By Elendiari

Chapter One: The Concept of a Masquerade

“A masquerade? Why?”

“Because, Estel, it would be a good way for our people to forget their woes for a time. Valar know they need it.”

Aragorn stared down at Arwen, who was seated at her writing desk, and sighed. Once the Queen had an idea in her head, he knew better than to try and prevent it. The fact that she had only been Queen for a few weeks made no difference.

“Well, what do you suggest, then? I imagine that you have the whole business planned already,” Aragorn said, sitting down next to her.

Arwen gave him a sunny smile and lifted a piece of paper. “I propose that we have the ball for four days. We had events like this in Rivendell, before you were born, and long before the Shadow returned. We could have one ball each evening, with different costumes each night. The last ball would be the grandest, of course.”

“What of those that cannot afford such lavish items, my lady?” Aragorn asked dryly. “What shall we do for them?”

Arwen reached out and patted his cheek. “Do not fear, Estel, I have that all planned out. What say you?”

Aragorn patted her cheek back. “I think it is a fine idea.”

Arwen gave an undignified squeal and hugged him. “Wonderful! Just wait until I tell Eowyn and the hobbits!”

Aragorn groaned. They were all doomed.

*****

“A what?”

“A masquerade.”

“And that is…?”

“A masked ball, Pippin. Like a costume party.”

“Oh! Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

Pippin folded his arms and glared at Legolas. The Elf sighed and rolled his eyes slightly. Hobbit could be so troublesome when they did not know a word. Legolas had no doubt that this one would now be stored away in Pippin’s memory forever.

“Queen Arwen has decided to have it. She wants us all to have good costumes,” Legolas continued, speaking to the rest of the gathered assembly. “There are four days' worth of dances, and each has a specific theme. They are-”

“We have to have these made for us, don’t we?” Merry interrupted. “Because we’re so small compared to everyone else. I say we make our costumes the best of the lot. We are the heroes of the West, after all.”

“I would have thought that that title belonged to Frodo and Sam,” Gimli said dryly.

“Must we get into that again?” Frodo groaned, settling back in his chair with a thump. “If one more person calls me that, I shall take my sword and beat them.”

This was met by laughter; Frodo, they all knew, would do no such thing. The companions were sitting around the kitchen of their fine house, eating supper and talking about the masquerade. Arwen had charged Legolas with giving them all the details; she had just sent out messengers with invitations, not only to the nobles, but to the common folk as well. There was an air of excitement pervading Minas Tirith, excitement that had not faded since from the wedding of only a few weeks ago. A masquerade had not been held since the before death of Finduilas of Dol Amroth, many years earlier.

“Well, lad, what themes has the little Evenstar has cooked up?” Gandalf asked, eyes twinkling.

Legolas smiled at the wizard. “As I was saying, there are four balls, one each evening. The first night will be a fancy dress ball, the second will be heroes of lore, the third will be a simple masked ball, and the fourth will be creatures from myth and legend.”

There was a moment of silence, than Pippin spoke up. “So, for the one about heroes of lore, will we be seeing men and women dress up as Frodo?”

*****

The masquerade was scheduled to begin in a week, and the City went into a frenzy. The Elves were a great source of aid when it came to costumes; not only were they masters of lore, but they had brought extensive amounts of clothing with them, most of which were put up for rental. Any day, the hobbits would see a group of Elves wandering the streets of Minas Tirith, buying things with the money they received from this enterprise.

The rich had their own tailors make costumes for them, and this went for the hobbits, as well. Fine suits were made for them, in many different colors, as were fine leather masks. Pippin had told the tailor that he wanted to be Frodo for the first ball, as a result of which Frodo got him down and tickled him until the lad ran screaming into Arwen’s chambers and stayed there for the rest of the day.

So it was that Aragorn found his smallest knight, sitting on a footstool by the fire, arguing with the seamstress about which shade of deep blue looked best on the Queen.

“Peregrin, I suppose you know that it’s highly improper for you to be here,” Aragorn said, giving the lad a threatening look.

Pippin gave him a rakish grin, the effect rather spoiled by the cake in his right hand and the teacup balanced on his knee.

“Honestly, Strider, there are a million women in here! Besides, I’d get thrown out of the window if I were to mess anything up,” he said.

“Oh, really? Who said that?”

“Lord Elrond. He told me to act as Queen Arwen’s page, for now.”

Arwen, standing on a high stool, getting a gown pinned, laughed. “He’s a good hobbit, Estel, relax. He’s only a child by Shire reckoning.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes and sat down next to the hobbit, taking a cake from the tea tray. “So how are the costumes coming?”

Arwen smiled at him. “Wonderfully, aren’t they, Pippin?”

The hobbit nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, they really are splendid, Strider! This is going to be a party to remember!”

TBC

Author’s Note: For the purposes of this story, let’s imagine that the time period is late August-early September. It works with the setting of the story. Please forgive me my liberties. Thanks to Pipwise for the beta.

Chapter Two: Unlit Windows

The first ball was a resounding success. The great hall of the Citadel was decorated with all manner of tapestries, and garlands of flowers were strung around the pillars. The entire city turned out in their finest apparel, and the ball spilled out into the streets.

“I’m rather wishing for a few good hobbit-lasses right now,” Pippin sighed, leaning back in his seat. “It’s boring having no one to dance with.”

Frodo smiled at his cousin, balancing a goblet of wine in one hand. “I daresay you’ll be raising a ruckus in the Shire soon enough, Pip. Enjoy Gondor while you can.”

Sam snorted. “Right enough, Mr. Frodo. We’ll likely be missing the harvest festivals, though. I wonder if they celebrate harvest here?”

“Of course we do.” The hobbits looked up as Aragorn joined them, seating himself in one of the abandoned chairs nearby. “What do you think these balls are in honor of? It is almost harvest time; this is likely just the start of the festivities,” the King said.

Pippin grinned and took a bite of cake. “I daresay they’re doing things correctly, then. Or maybe we’re a bad influence on them.”

“I daresay it’s the latter option, Pippin. Hobbits are a very, very bad influence,” Aragorn said gravely, and basked in the hobbits’ laughter.

*****

It was a long time after midnight when the final guests left the Citadel. The tired royals drifted back to their rooms, and the hobbits made their way to their own house. There were still revelers in the streets outside the Citadel, and Pippin retired to his bed listening to their dim celebrations. He lay curled up in his soft, thick blanket, drowsiness creeping over him, but sleep still at bay.

Merry shuffled around the room for a bit and finally ended up at the window with a lighted candle. He could see much of the City from this vantage point, gazing northwest towards Rohan and the Shire. He could also see a portion of the Citadel itself, dark against the starry sky. Merry frowned, leaning out of the window for a better view.

“Pippin,” he said. “Come and look at this.”

Pippin groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head. “No. Go to bed, Merry,” he groused.

Merry glanced back at him, frowning. “No, you come here and have a look. It’s the Citadel - there’s something strange about it.”

Well, that did the trick. Pippin sighed and climbed out of his soft bed, sullenly joining Merry at the window. Curiosity was a deadly danger for the Tooks.

“What is it?” he asked, looking out of the window. “I don’t see anything strange.”
Merry pointed. “Look. The upper floors at the back of the Citadel are all dark. I can’t imagine why; I thought we had seen all there was of it.”

Pippin looked, craning out of the window. Sure enough, the back two floors of the Citadel were dark, in stark contrast to the brightly lit front rooms.

“I guess that’s the part they don’t use yet,” he said. “Too much for the Stewards to keep up.” He suddenly yawned hugely, and covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m too sleepy to care right now, Mer. Let’s think tomorrow.”

Merry nodded and turned away from the window. Blowing out his candle, he climbed into his bed and curled up. The dark windows and silent balconies would not leave his mind, however, and he lay awake for a long time after Pippin had dropped off to sleep. It was a mystery.

*****

“That part of the Citadel has not been used for a very long time, Meriadoc.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Peregrin, it has fallen into disrepair. Now, are the two of you going to let me finish my breakfast?” Aragorn gave the two hobbits in front of him his sternest glare. It had no effect. .

“It seems to me,” Merry said, leaning on his elbows, “That a line of rulers as rich as the stewards were would have been able to keep one wing of their house in the same state of repair as the other wings. What do you think, Pip?”

Pippin nodded, helping himself to one of Aragorn’s pastries. “We aren’t nearly as rich as the stewards at home, and we manage to keep everything in decent repair. It doesn’t make sense.”

Aragorn sighed and looked away. When it came to matters such as this, Merry and Pippin were very good at sniffing out misdirection. And yet, he did not want to tell them anything he knew about that part of the Citadel. Not now, when things were so happy.

“The past is hidden in that part of the house,” he said. “Things that are long forgotten. I do not think that the two of you would like it much.”

Merry and Pippin stared at him, than glanced at each other. Aragorn felt for a moment that he had aroused even more of their curiosity, and attempted to drown it with a fierce look at them both. “Don’t go digging in the past unless you have a very good reason for doing so,” he said. “Know when to let things lie, please. I once knew a young woman who refused to do so, and she could not bear the knowledge of what she found. I do not wish that to happen to you.”

Merry frowned. “Who was she?”

“That is none of your concern,” Aragorn replied evenly. “Do you both understand me?”

“Yes, Strider,” both hobbits murmured together.

Aragorn nodded at them. “Good.”

*****

The hobbits left Aragorn alone and went out to the garden, pastries clutched in their hands. Late summer sunlight shone down on them from behind the low gray clouds that had blown in overnight; Pippin thought that the air smelled like rain. He hoped that it would not be raining for the next night’s ball. Arwen had scheduled the balls to fall every other day -this would allow anyone who had become drunk to sleep off their subsequent malady and recover in time for the dancing. It would also afford the city’s tailors extra time to make the costumes.

“Strider isn’t being fully honest with us,” Merry stated, breaking into Pippin’s thoughts. “He’s treating us like children again.”

Pippin sighed. “Really, Merry, if he wants us to ‘let the past lie’, whatever that means,

then maybe we should. It really doesn’t concern us.”

Merry shrugged. “I suppose, Pippin. I suppose.”

They sat munching in silence for a few minutes, until the clouds decided to overturn their buckets upon the world, and rain fell sweeping to the earth. Then the lads leapt up and ran indoors, and so began their new adventure.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Chapter Three: The Portrait Gallery 

“So, you are telling me that you’ve developed too much sense to have an adventure?” Pippin stood aghast, staring at Merry in shock. “But…but you’re the one who pointed it out!” he sputtered.

Merry rolled his eyes, folding his arms and glaring at his cousin. “I know, Pip, but think about it. We’ve just had a war. People don’t have adventures after a war; they go home and enjoy having nothing to do for awhile.”

“But the war ended months ago!” Pippin wailed. “I’m tired of having nothing to do. And anyway, how do you know what people do after a war? We’re hobbits, Merry, we’ve never fought in wars before!”

Merry sighed and shook his head. “Really, Pippin, all I’m saying is that Aragorn told us to leave well enough alone, and I think we should. You even said so, out in the garden. What made you change your mind?”

Pippin grimaced and flopped down on the hearthrug. “Boredom. All we do is sit around or stand guard duty, when we’re not at feasts or Queen Arwen’s dance parties. I’ve given it careful thought, and I think that we should explore a little. Aren’t you curious?”

Merry didn’t answer, just sat dangling his feet off the edge of the sofa and staring into the fire. It wasn’t that he did not want to explore, but there was something lethargic in him telling him that after all the adventure they’d seen in the past few months, they hardly needed to see any more. He understood that, being a full-grown hobbit, but Pippin was still a tween, and a Took besides. It was an irrational combination.

“Look,” he said at last. “Just leave it until the masquerade ends. Then, when things are really boring, we’ll have something to do.”

Pippin shrugged, and popped up as a knock sounded at the door of the study they were in. It was one of the maids, come to tell Merry that King Eomer and several of the Rohirrim were waiting for him in the great hall. Pippin was left lying on the floor, staring glumly at the dancing flames.

If Aragorn had done anything, it was only to make him more curious than he already was. Why wasn’t Aragorn curious, anyway? It was, after all, his own home now. Pippin would have turned the Citadel upside down if it had suddenly become his. The only thing that Pippin could think of was the possibility that Aragorn had already been to Minas Tirith. But that was impossible. He couldn’t possibly be that old, he looked like he was in the prime of his life. Pippin stood up and marched from the room. There was nothing for it. If Merry was not going to explore with him, than he would explore by himself. All he had to do was find the doorway to-

“Pippin!”

Pippin stopped and turned, trying not to look annoyed. “Hullo, Legolas.”

The Elf was wearing a leather apron over his clothes; for what, Pippin could not imagine. “Sam and I have found some overgrown greenhouses. Would you care to come and help us in them?”

Pippin sighed softly; he had no excuse ready at hand to throw at his friend. “Sure. It’ll be fun, I suppose.

*****

Working in the greenhouses was enough to put the unused wing out of Pippin’s mind for a time. By the evening of the next ball, he had different things to think about, namely, his costume for the masque. He was supposed to dress in his finest, so of course, Frodo and Merry became complete tyrants, insisting that he dress with utter care in his Citadel uniform, brush his hair to the point where it gleamed, wash his face, scrub behind his ears…Pippin finally bolted when Merry decided that his curls needed a trim. He sought refuge with the Evenstar.

“You look perfectly fine, Pippin,” Arwen assured him, once again smiling down at him from the table she was standing on, having the hem of her skirt pinned up. It was an old dress, one she had come to Gondor with, but the hemline was bad for dancing. Pippin turned in a full circle before her, arms held out for her inspection. Arwen considered him seriously, and nodded. “Yes, you look very good, a veritable prince of the land. Are you willing to act as my page again today?”

“Of course, if you want me to,” Pippin replied. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell me stories of the Shire. I’ve been wanting to hear them for ages,” Arwen replied.

The rest of the afternoon was quite pleasant; Pippin told her about some of his and Merry’s exploits in the Shire, and taught her several songs. By the time they left for the ball, Pippin’s cousins had given up on him.

The second masquerade was just as spectacular as the first had been. It was something that they would have to introduce in the Shire, Pippin thought as he watched the grand courtiers dancing. Candlelight, swirling music, the aromas of food and fine perfumes…maybe it was too grand for the Shire. There was a huge band-no, they called it an orchestra here. Pippin felt dazzled and slightly overwhelmed by the colors and the number of people.

“Who’d ha’ thought there were so many grand people in Minas Tirith?”

Pippin looked over at Sam, who was sitting near to him, and grinned. “Shocking, isn’t it? I expect they all hid in the mountains during the war.”

“Or else they all came out of the woodwork,” Merry agreed, filling his pipe. “Surely they can’t all have been soldiers.”

Pippin shrugged and sat back. His seat was quite comfortable; he had set himself in the Steward’s seat, and was lounging on Faramir’s cushion with a mug of ale. The rest of the company was dancing, and he rather envied them.

“Oh for a Shire lass,” he sighed, and his fellow hobbits groaned.

“Not this conversation again! Come on, let’s find something to do,” Merry said. “And nothing forbidden,” he added with a swift look at Pippin. “Just some good clean fun.”

“I suppose that rules out mud slinging, then.”

They looked up; Eomer stood beside them, splendid in his finest clothing. He had the sort of look on his face that always caused Frodo to quickly lock up anything valuable.

“Hullo, Eomer,” Merry said. “How are you?”

Eomer grinned down at the hobbit. “Let’s see if we can’t induce the others into a game of sorts. I have one planned.”

“What sort of game?” Frodo asked.

“I’ll tell you when we have Aragorn and company gathered in the corridor.”

It was like Eomer to prey on curiosity, Pippin thought as they scurried around the dance floor, tugging on coats and gowns and whispering to their friends to meet them in the corridor straight away. It was very hobbity of him.

It took the four hobbits and Eomer nearly twenty minutes to round up Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas, Gimli, Eowyn, Faramir, and Gandalf. They gathered in a corridor off the main hall, out of the sight of prying eyes.

“Alright,” Eomer said cheerfully, when they were all assembled. “We’re going to play a game.”

“Oh heaven,” muttered Eowyn, and her brother elbowed her gently.

“It’s a very old game,” Eomer continued, “And a very entertaining one. Everyone hides and one person must find them all.”

This was met by a mixed chorus of groans and laughter. “Hide and seek?” Merry said in disbelief. “I thought that was a hobbit game!”

“Oh it is. And a Man game, and an Elf game, and I dare say a Dwarvish game. I can’t say anything for wizards, though,” Aragorn replied, grinning at the hobbit. “I’m game for it; there are countless places to hide in the Citadel. Who will be the seeker?”

“Not I!”… “Surely not me”… “You can be it, Eomer, it was your idea.”

“I’ll be it,” Gandalf interjected, and they all paused to stare at him. He met their stares keenly. “Wizards do not hide.”

Pippin snickered, and earned a hard elbow in his side from Merry. Gandalf just shook his head. “Are there any objections? No? I’ll give you five minutes, then. Go!”

For a few seconds there was general confusion, as everyone turned and sprinted off in opposite directions. Pippin found himself running at full speed down the darkened corridor, separated from everyone. Or almost everyone. He heard footsteps pounding along right behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see Eowyn coming up behind, pale green skirts flying as she ran.

“Come on, Pip, we’re winning this game!” she gasped, and they ran on together.

Soon enough, they were well away from the ballroom, turning into a long empty hall that neither had been in before. There were windows with heavy-looking drapes at either end, and the dark shapes of paintings on the walls. Moonlight streamed though one set of windows, giving everything a strange blue light. Pippin and Eowyn walked down the corridor slowly, looking around.

“What is this place?” Pippin whispered.

“A portrait gallery,” Eowyn replied. “We have none in the Mark, but I’ve heard of them before. The portraits of royals and their families hang on the walls, so that they will not be forgotten.”

Pippin nodded. “Yes, we have one in the Smials. My home in the Shire,” he added quickly, seeing Eowyn turn to look at him. “We have paintings of our ancestors going back for generations, but I won’t bore you with the details. We should probably find a hiding place.”

‘Yes, we should,” Eowyn murmured, looking at the pictures as they continued to walk down the gallery.

There were a great many portraits, all of well-dressed people from days gone by. Kingly men and beautiful women stared down at the two newcomers in haughty pride, their painted eyes shining. Eowyn shivered and grabbed Pippin’s arm. “Come on, let’s walk faster. I’m almost positive that Gandalf’s five minutes have passed.”

“Most likely,” Pippin replied, speeding up to match her longer stride. “I think I see an alcove or something over there.”

He pointed to the left side of the gallery; there was indeed an alcove. They ducked into it, pressing back until they were in the very darkest corner. Pippin found that he had the added advantage of hiding behind Eowyn’s skirts, and arranged them to suit his liking.

“Stop that,” muttered Eowyn, laughing softly. “Using me to hide, are you?”

“Yes, but it isn’t that comfortable. I’ve a hinge digging into my back,” Pippin replied.

Eowyn looked down at him, and then at the wall he was leaning against. “There’s a door here!” she whispered in surprise. “Where in Middle-earth can it lead to?”

Pippin felt a strange sensation in his stomach, half of excitement, half of fear. He knew exactly where that door led. “It’s probably to the unused part of the Citadel,” he whispered. “Strider said it hasn’t been used in ages.”

Eowyn was silent for a moment, and then there was a rustling sound and Pippin felt a lock of her hair fall down and brush his cheek. Eowyn had taken a hairpin out of her fancy bun.

“What are you doing?” he whispered nervously. “Are we going to get in trouble?”

“Pippin, from all of the stories Merry has told me about you, I thought that was the last thing you would ask,” Eowyn muttered, leaning forward and inspecting the door’s handle. “I’m going to pick the lock.”

Pick the lock she did, with a few choice pokes and one good twist. Pippin watched in silent admiration, mentally noting that he would have to get Eowyn to teach him how to do that before she went home. The lock clicked loudly in the silence of the gallery, and they both jumped. A tread further down the gallery caused them both to jump again, and Eowyn prudently pulled back from the door. She and Pippin ducked back into the shadows again as Gandalf came walking slowly down the gallery. He paused when he got to the alcove, and looked in on them with a wry smile on his face.

“Why am I not surprised that the old portrait gallery attracted the two of you?” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve won, by the way. I’ve found everyone else. Come along, they’ll be wanting to play another round. Oh, and I should warn you against hiding in the same place twice. It would not be a wise choice.”

Pippin and Eowyn glanced at each other guiltily behind his back. Had he heard the lock click? The wizard said nothing, though, and they continued back up the gallery in near silence. Pippin gazed at the portraits again as they passed, staring back at the noble faces. One suddenly caught his eye, and he stopped.

“Gandalf, who is this?” he called.

Gandalf came back to him, followed by Eowyn, and they stood gazing at the portrait. It was of a young woman with long dark hair and piercing grey eyes. She was a beautiful woman, one with obvious spirit, for she gazed at them with a mysterious, mischievous smile playing on her lips and a light in her eyes. She was wearing a lovely red and gold gown, one that looked very exotic, and her dark hair was pulled back in a low bun on the back of her head. She stood next to a large open book, before a window that looked out to the sea. She was different from the other portraits in a way that Pippin could not explain.

“That is the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth, who died before her time,” Gandalf said. “She is the mother of Faramir and Boromir. Now come along.”

He strode off, and Eowyn and Pippin stared after him for a moment.

“Is he being vague on purpose?” Eowyn whispered.

“Probably. Come on,” Pippin muttered back, and they hurried to return to their friends. Behind them, wind shook the dusty drapes on the windows.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done. I don’t own the poem, either; it was written by A. S. Byatt for the romance “Possession”.

Author’s Note: This chapter contains my stand-alone fic “The Room of Tears”, which has been slightly altered to fit “Masquerade”. Readers were asking questions about future reactions and clamoring for a sequel when I wrote it several months ago, and so I thought that this would be a prime time to go into it. My thanks to Pipwise Brandygin for the beta.

Chapter Four: The Secret Room 

  “There’s some places, you know, that will never be fully rid of the Shadow.”

  Pippin came out of his thoughts with a start and looked around him. He had been taking his afternoon meal at the butteries with the guards, lost in thought about both the door that Eowyn had opened, and the portrait of Lady Finduilas that they had seen. He looked around the room curiously, searching for the scratchy old voice he had just heard.

  The speaker was an older soldier, retired now from fighting. Pippin looked sideways over at him, amazed by the scruffiness of the man. He had long gray hair and a scarred face, but he carried himself with a strange sort of dignity. He was leaning over some of the younger guards at the next table.

  “Why do you say that, Targon?” one of them asked him.

  “Well, why do you think that part of the Citadel is closed? The shadow lies heavy there. Not the Dark Lord’s shadow, before you ask, though perhaps that’s a part of it. I can’t rightly say,” Targon replied. He scratched his head thoughtfully, and Pippin edged a little closer. “There’s something over there, something not right. The Stewards knew about it, but the common folk didn’t. Lady Finduilas knew, and the knowledge aided in the killing of her.”

  Pippin’s insides flopped over. Aragorn’s words came back to him. “Know when to let things lie… I once knew a young woman who refused to do so, and she could not bear the knowledge of what she found.”  Had the young woman been Finduilas?

  “I thought she died of a fever,” the young guard said.

  “The Shadow in the East filled her with horror,” Targon replied sadly. “She was a free thing in a house of secrets, and she could not muster the strength to survive her illness. Mark my words, lads, something dark lives in the closed part of the Citadel. Ghosts of ages past.”

  His heart pounding, Pippin stared into his ale. This old soldier knew more than he was saying. Should he ask him to go on? Oh, he was curious! Pippin took a gulp of ale, and promptly choked. His coughing alerted the men to him, and Targon hastened to say, “Aye, but these are old tales. Nothing but tales. Nothing to talk about. We don’t want any trouble, now, do we?” And he swept out of the butteries.

  Pippin leapt off of his bench and rushed after him. Targon had moved quickly though, and by the time Pippin reached the door, the man had disappeared into the rain that had come out of the West that morning. 

  “Well that’s a bother,” Pippin muttered. “I’ll bet he ran off because he knows I’ve got friends in high places. Well, there’s only one thing for it.”

  He had finished doing his guard duty that morning, and the rest of his day was empty of duties. Moving quickly, Pippin left the butteries and returned to his own room. Wearing the surcoat of the Guard, he could go anywhere in Minas Tirith without question, but the mail shirt had to go. He undid the clasps and let the coat slide to the floor, flexing his shoulders in relief at the lightness of wearing only cloth. He did not know how Faramir and Eomer could have handled wearing such heavy armor for years on end. It was unbearable.

  Exploration called for several things; this Pippin knew from long experience of excavating the old rooms back at the Great Smials. He grabbed the new leather pack that Faramir had sent him in Ithilien, and stuffed candles, flint and steel, and a few apples into it. He knew that he could abscond with a lantern closer to the unlocked door. Now he only needed one more thing.

  “Frodo, have you seen Lady Eowyn?”

  Frodo looked up at his cousin from his seat in the armchair before the fire. There was a huge old book perched in his lap, and he had that look on his face, the one that always made Pippin flush guiltily, even when he was totally innocent.

  “And what do you want with the Lady Eowyn, Peregrin Took?” he demanded. “What are you up to?”

  “Up to?” Pippin yelped. “Frodo, you wound me. I’m looking for a great lady whose friendship I have been fortunate enough to win, and you ask what I’m up to. Where is the trust, Frodo?”

  Frodo raised one eyebrow, a perfect arch over his stern eyes, and Pippin knew that he had to leave as soon as possible. It had been stupid to babble on.

  “I’ll just go look for her myself. Thank you, cousin,” he said quickly, and backed out of the room.

  He had forgotten that Frodo knew everything.

  Pippin strode across the Citadel, knocking on doors and asking if anyone had seen Eowyn. The answer was a unanimous no, but they would all be so grateful if he would take this letter to Aragorn, or this document to Faramir, or run this pretty potted rose to Arwen’s chambers. Pippin turned tail and fled when he saw Gimli advancing upon him with a dull axe in one hand. He did not think about the rudeness of such an act. He merely thought about preserving his freedom.

  If no one had seen Eowyn since breakfast, there was nothing to do but go on without her. Pippin did not particularly relish the thought of exploring the haunted Citadel by himself, but what were a few ghosts after Moria, and nearly being squashed by a cave troll? He could do this.

  Pippin found the portrait gallery with very little difficulty, re-tracing his steps from the night before. Everything looked different during the daytime, less shadowy and mysterious. That is, everything was normal until he reached the portrait gallery. The portrait gallery was just as shadowy as it had been last night, though dull light filtered through the crack in the drapes and lightened the gloom. Pippin hesitated before starting through the dim gallery.

  “They’re just paintings. They can’t hurt you,” he muttered. “Come on, Pippin, show that famous Took spirit.”

  He found the door shortly, and looked both ways before opening it and stepping through. There was no one to be seen, but the drapes at the far window were waving slightly, as though the window was open slightly. Pippin shivered and let himself through the door.

  If anything, it was colder in the unused part of the house. Pippin shivered, looking around him. He was standing at one end of a dusty corridor that was lined with windows. He could see no other rooms, so he began to walk.

  Fifteen minutes later, Pippin found himself at the top of a sweeping staircase. It was carpeted in red velvet, and led down to a magnificent ballroom, much grander than the ballroom where the masquerade parties were being held. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling, draped in dusty ropes of cobwebs. The floor was thick with dust, as were the tall windows that lined one wall. Pippin felt very small and lonely as he walked down those stairs and started across the ballroom. He felt that if he listened hard enough, he would be able to hear the faint strains of music and murmurs of past balls. He did not want to listen hard.

  Fortunately, there was a door leading out of the room at the opposite end of the dance floor. Pippin turned the large knob and let himself into another dusty hallway. He felt rather ashamed at the nervousness that fluttered in his stomach, and resolved to begin opening doors soon. He just needed a moment to gather himself together. It was so quiet over here.

  It was still raining. Pippin stared glumly out of the window, annoyed at how tense he was feeling. The rain was not doing anything to aid his mood, if anything, it made him feel even more depressed. Maybe Targon had been right, and there really was a sort of Shadow over here. It certainly made sense. He wished that he had been able to find Eowyn. Maybe he would go back and wait until dinner, then ask her to accompany him tomorrow.

 Besides, he mused, there were things that he could do to keep himself occupied, even if his curiosity was not sated. He could stay with Frodo, who was busy reading all of the books in the Great Library, or help Sam and Legolas with their precious heated greenhouses. Even learning to speak Rohirric with Merry was preferable to being in this dark and lonely place all alone.

  “Yes, indeed I am a proper Took,” Pippin muttered, thumping the wall disgustedly with one small fist. “Scared of the dark like a teen.”

  All at once, he heard a loud crash and a shriek. Pippin jumped a foot high and whirled about, heart pounding like a Haradric drum. Strangely, it came from somewhere above him. But how could that be, Pippin wondered. As far as he knew, he was completely alone in this section of the Citadel. What was this, the ghost that Targon had mentioned?

  “Half a moment,” he muttered, glancing up as flakes of white plaster drifted down onto his shoulders. What he saw startled him greatly.

  A leg hung from the ceiling. It had not been there a moment ago, and it was moving, so Pippin realized that someone had probably been unfortunate enough to fall through the floor. But who? Who else was mad enough to go exploring alone?

  “Um, hello?” he called up to the leg. “What’s going on?”

  “Pippin?” yelled a faint, distinctly harried voice. A female voice.

  Pippin started. “Eowyn?!”

  There was a sound of scrabbling, and the leg kicked wildly. “Yes! Can you get up here and help me?”

  Well, that was where she had been, then. Exploring without him. Pippin looked around; there didn’t seem to be any way to get up to the next floor.
  “Yes, but how? The nearest stairs are halfway across the Citadel.”

  “Are you by the window, the one that looks out over the garden? Yes? All right, go to the room on the left side of the corridor, which has blue walls. There is a hole in the ceiling, and below it, a table with a chair on it. Come through there, and you’ll see me,” Eowyn instructed.

  Pippin hesitated, then set out. Curiosity killed the Took, he thought resignedly, and perhaps the Lady Eowyn.

  The blue room was easy enough to find, and Pippin was soon climbing onto the table, and hauling himself up through the hole in the ceiling. It was a tight squeeze, and he was very glad that he was not wearing his chain mail under his livery. Once he was in the room above, he looked around.

  “Hullo,” Eowyn said, sounding both petulant and relieved. A fallen lantern lay nearby. “Good to see you.”

  Pippin grinned at her, crawling carefully over to her. “Hullo, Eowyn. What are you doing up here? Exploring without me?”

  “You were on duty, and I got bored of waiting,” Eowyn said, “ I expected you to turn up eventually. I walked most of the first level, but I wanted to see what the rooms on this floor were like. There was no way up, though. It looked like a staircase had been removed. I came in here to look around, and there was a very convenient hole in the ceiling, so I climbed up. I’d just made it up here, but the floor gave and my leg went through. Can you help me?”

  “I can try,” Pippin replied, setting her lantern upright. “What is this place?”

  They were in a large room, one with several windows, the drapes of which were shut tightly. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, a wide blue rug in front of it, and a slender bed with a dusty white canopy was set kitty-cornered to it. There was a desk and a chair across the room, and a large, glass-fronted cabinet on the other side of the fireplace. Paintings and sketches decorated the walls, and there was a stack of much-loved books next to the hearth. Decades worth of dust covered every surface.

  “I don’t know,” Eowyn said softly. “It’s very grim in here. It’s cold.”

  Pippin shivered. “I’d noticed. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

  Gripping Eowyn under her arms, Pippin inched backwards. Slowly, her leg came free of the hole, and she was able to stand and put her red dress to rights.

  “Thank you, Pip,” she said. “Careful of the floor, now. Walk lightly. I want to see the rest of this room.”

  Stringing Pippin’s long belt between them as a link in case the floor gave again, the lady and the hobbit went to a window and drew the heavy velvet drapes back. Weak light illuminated the room, and they were able to see more clearly, though not clearly enough, for there was much still lying hidden in the shadows. Holding the lantern high, the two of them began to explore.

  It had been a girl’s room, Eowyn thought. The paintings on the walls were of rolling green hills, and a great expanse of water that could only be the sea. The tattered books on the floor were all in Elvish, so neither she nor Pippin could read them, but the illustrations inside were stunningly beautiful. Inside the top book was a painting of a lovely Elvish lady dancing under the trees, and a man watching her.

  “Beren and Luthien,” Pippin murmured. “We heard that lay sung at Rivendell. It’s beautiful.”

  “Look in the front cover,” Eowyn replied. “Maybe she wrote her name inside.”

  Pippin looked in all of the books, but there was nothing. He sighed, and Eowyn stood and looked around again.

  “Oh, there’s something on the bed. In the bed, I should say,” she said.

  Pippin stood up and seized her hand. “You don’t think…” he began.

  Eowyn hesitated, then gasped, grasping his meaning. “No! No, there couldn’t be…no, we’d have had some sort of feeling…”

  “I feel sad,” Pippin whispered. “It’s sad in here, Eowyn.”

  Eowyn took a deep breath and straightened her spine. “There can’t be a body in the bed, Pippin. There can’t be. I’m going to take a look.”

  Pippin nodded, but he neither said anything nor released her hand as they went to the bed. It was a single person’s bed, covered with a white quilt and white curtains over the canopy. There was a slight bulge in the covers near the pillow, as if something small were hidden there. Eowyn and Pippin traded a glance, then Eowyn reached out and flipped the covers back.

  “Oh,” they breathed in unison.

  It was a doll. A porcelain doll dressed in a dress of faded red velvet, her hair a soft, silky black. Her glass eyes were green, and stared up at them, unseeing. She had obviously been lying there, hidden, for years.

  The silence was so thick that Pippin felt that he could have reached out and touched it. He looked up at Eowyn; she was staring at the doll as though entranced. After a moment, she spoke, her voice a soft, deep, rhythmic murmur,

“Dolly keeps a Secret
Safer than a Friend
Dolly's Silent Sympathy
Lasts without end.
Friends may betray us
Love may Decay
Dolly's Discretion
Outlasts our Day.”

  “Eowyn?” Pippin whispered, squeezing the White Lady’s hand, and finding it suddenly cold. “What was that?”

  Eowyn shook her head, frowning. “I heard it in a tale once, when I was very small. I can’t imagine why it came to my head now. Unless…”

  She let go off Pippin’s hand and reached for the doll. Lifting it up, Eowyn raised its gown, revealing delicately sewn underclothes. The lifted shift showed a porcelain body…and the corner of a piece of paper, sticking out from the embroidered drawers. Eowyn gently pulled it out and handed the doll to Pippin, to rearrange. Pippin, however, just clutched the doll to his chest and gazed up at her apprehensively.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  Eowyn unfolded the small square of paper slowly. It was brittle with age, and yellowed at the edges, but other than that, it was in good condition. “It’s written in Westron,” she began. “It says ‘I am locked away here in my chamber, under the orders of my father. None may serve me, not even for the slightest thing. I have only one pitcher of water, and one basket of food. My room is heavily guarded; none may leave or enter. And so, I await my death. Perchance, the Overheaven will look kinder on me. Perchance there, I will not be condemned to death for the treason of not wanting to marry an old man. If any should find this after my death, I want them to know that I died here, in my bed, in the year 2848, at the age of fifteen. My name until the day of my death is Alatarial, daughter of Belecthor the Second, Steward of Gondor.”

  Eowyn lowered the paper and met Pippin’s gaze. The hobbit’s green eyes were huge, and he clasped the doll tightly.

  “Fifteen, Eowyn,” he whispered, tears starting in his eyes. “She was fifteen.”

  Eowyn nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. She looked around the room again, and this time, saw two things that made her already hammering heart rise to her throat. The first was the empty, dusty pitcher and basket sitting on the desk. The second were the marks on the door, the door that she knew would be locked, if they tried it. The marks of someone desperately trying to escape from the room, scrabbling at the door, beating and kicking it as though life depended on it. As it had.

  “We must leave this place,” Eowyn whispered to Pippin. “Come. Leave the doll.”

  Pippin nodded at her, but kept the doll, hugging it closely. “I want to keep this,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with unshed tears. “She deserves her freedom, after being in here for so long, and seeing her lady die. She was this girl’s only friend, she deserves to escape even if Alatarial couldn’t…” he trailed off and looked up at her, his low voice growing clearer. “Yes, let’s go. I want Merry and Frodo and Sam. And I want a hot drink.”

  Eowyn nodded, and together, they climbed from the dusty room and hurried back to the inhabited section of the Citadel. Pippin led Eowyn to the Company’s house, and sat her down in front of the fire in the parlor. There was a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table in the kitchen. Pippin didn’t care who had made them, or for what, and so took them back to the parlor with him. He and Eowyn had more need of tea than anyone else did.

  “I think I need to tell you a few things,” he said. “They may be important.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I tend to use pictures and paintings to help me get a character’s look, and I thought that it might interest my readers to see the painting that I based Finduilas’ portrait on. You can find it at jwwaterhouse.com/paintings. It is called “The Crystal Ball”. My thanks to Pipwise Brandygin for the beta.

Chapter Five: The Great Library

  They had gone through the entire pot of tea by the time Pippin finished telling Eowyn about Targon and his words about Lady Finduilas. Eowyn was holding the doll, absently stroking the faded velvet of its dress as she listened. When Pippin finished, they sat in silence for a time.

  Finally, Eowyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Should we tell anybody? Or should we try to find out more about Alatarial first?”

  Pippin shrugged. “I don’t know. Who could we ask? And what can we do about it?”

  “Well, nothing. The girl is dead,” Eowyn replied. “But we can at least find out what this has to do with Finduilas.”

  Pippin nodded, and reached for the doll. Eowyn handed it over, and he contemplated it for a moment. She needed a name, but whatever Alatarial had called her was probably lost to time forever. He bounced the doll on his knee; she was about the size of a hobbit bairn. Eowyn watched him with a tiny smile on her lips.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “Just that she needs a name. We shouldn’t keep calling her ‘the doll’,” Pippin replied.

  Eowyn nodded, seeing the wisdom in that. “Give her a nice name, a simple hobbit name. What are hobbit girls’ names like, anyway?”

  Pippin regarded the doll seriously as he answered. “They’re named for flowers or jewels. This dolly is wearing red, and she has black hair, so I think we should name her Poppy.”

  “Poppy,” Eowyn repeated. “That’s a pretty name. But, oh!” She jumped up and started pacing before the fire, her ruby colored skirts rustling. “I can’t stop thinking about that little girl! In Rohan, she would hardly be of marrying age at all! Still just a child. Growing more mature, true, but a child nonetheless. What madness to kill her for not wanting to marry!”

  Pippin nodded in agreement. “We’d think of her as a baby in the Shire. Hobbits age differently to Men, though. I think a Mannish fifteen would be about my age, maybe younger, and I’m far too young to marry.” Eowyn sighed again and plucked the doll from Pippin’s hands. “Well, Poppy? Are you going to keep your secrets, or will you tell us what happened to Alatarial?”

  Poppy just stared at her with solemn, green glass eyes. Eowyn set her down on the table and turned back to Pippin. “Well, do we tell anybody what we found, or do we keep it to ourselves for now?”

  “I think we should keep it to ourselves until we find more out. But how can we find out more? I can’t imagine that there would be any record of it.”

  Eowyn was silent for a few moments, gazing at the floor in deep thought. Finally, she looked up. “I can. You cannot hide the death of a noble from the populace; they notice things and speculate. Belecthor would have had to come up with some sort of story for the death of his daughter, to settle any rumors.”

  “Where do we look then?”

  “In the annals of Gondorian history.”

*****

  The Great Library of Gondor was one of those places you could get lost in. It was almost always chilly and dim, lit only by several high windows and a few lanterns. Over the past decades, the library had fallen into disrepair as focus had been placed increasingly on maintaining Gondor’s future freedom, and knowledge of the past had dwindled. As a consequence, the high windows were fogged with dust, and many of the bookshelves were dusty. As Pippin and Eowyn stepped into the great room, they were reminded strongly of Alatarial’s locked up bedroom.

  They had left the Citadel wrapped in great cloaks against the wind and rain, but both were rather wet and cold by the time they gained the Library. Eowyn shut the heavy oak door behind them; it squealed on rusty hinges and shut with a crash like thunder. Pippin jumped a foot high, and Eowyn smiled sheepishly at him.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, than looked around. “I wonder if anyone is here. Hello?” she called out, raising her voice. It echoed dimly across the great walls of books, even as their whispers had. “Is anyone here?”

  There was a shuffling sound from a small room to their right, than a small man appeared, gazing at them quizzically. He bowed when he recognized them.

  “Good day, my lord and lady,” he said. “How may I be of service to you?”

  Pippin and Eowyn glanced at each other. Eowyn spoke. “We are looking for a history of the Stewards, sir. Are there any we could read?”

  The librarian nodded, beckoning them to follow him. “Yes, there are. Are you looking for any particular Steward?”

  “Belecthor the Second,” Pippin replied. Was it his imagination, or did the librarian glance at him sharply? It must have been. The man was looking away, striding towards the bookshelves at the back of the great room with a vigor that belied his age.

  They were led to the back of the library, to a long wooden table that gleamed with polish and sat before a huge marble fireplace. A fire roared cheerfully in the hearth and the lady and the hobbit both stretched their hands out thankfully. Nearby, the librarian was peering at a shelf of books. His fingers hovered, than he reached out and took a thick old tome off the shelf and brought it back to them at the table.

  “Here you are,” he said. “This contains the history of Gondor, and especially the City, in the time of Belecthor the Second. I hope you find what you are looking for. Please bring it back to me when you are finished with it.” He bowed and took himself away.

  “Thank you,” Eowyn called after him, but he was gone, lost in the shadows of the dusty shelves. She turned back to Pippin and sat down at the table. “Well, shall we begin?”

  Surprisingly, it was not difficult to find what they were looking for. As Eowyn had said, one could not hide the death of a noble from the populace, and in the year 2835 of the Third Age there was a record made of the death of the Lady Alatarial, daughter of the Steward.

  “ ‘This spring, our City was cast into mourning by the slow death of Alatarial, who passed beyond the mortal realm by means of a great fever, which took her slowly yet suddenly. A great funeral was held for the lady; she was buried in the Rath Dinen, the Silent Street. Her body was laid out in the great hall, dressed in fine clothes made of gold brocade. She appeared small and wasted, greatly diminished by the fever. There was great mourning for her in the City and the surrounding countryside.’ Well. What do you think of that?” Pippin lowered the book and gazed at Eowyn. The White Lady was toying with a pen, an indescribable look on her face.

  “I think…I want to know whom she refused to marry.”

  Pippin looked back at the book. “It says here that she was set to marry the Prince of Dol Amroth, a very old man who already had had three wives.”

  “Ugh! That’s horrid, no wonder she didn’t want to marry him!” Eowyn said, shuddering. “I wonder what happened to his other wives.”

  Pippin shrugged. “It doesn’t say. Anyway, now we know how they said she died. This all happened…” he paused,  “One hundred and eighty-four years ago. So. Is there anything else we ought to know?”

  Eowyn shook her head. “Not really, no. Let me copy this down.”

  She took a piece of parchment and ink from a nearby writing stand. The paper was dusty; she blew on it and a sheet of grey rose into the air. Luckily, the pen was not broken and the ink was fresh, so she was able to copy down the words exactly as Pippin had read them. She had a fine hand, her letters thin and spindly with slight loops at the top of some letters and small curls at the tails of others. The scratch of the pen across the parchment was loud in the quiet library. When she was done writing, Eowyn shook the paper gently to dry it.

  “Come on, it’s almost dinnertime,” she said. “We mustn’t let anybody think we’re up to something.”

  Pippin laughed softly at that, and followed her out of the library. From where he had been sitting on a small balcony above them, Gandalf shook his head and sighed.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Pipwise Brandygin for the beta.

Chapter Six: A Midnight Excursion 

  Pippin woke up to find someone shaking him. For a moment, confused by sleep, he thought they were being attacked in the night and must flee as quickly as possible. Sitting bolt upright with a gasp, he raised an arm to beat off his attacker. Someone swift and strong caught his arm and clapped a hand over his mouth before he could scream.

  “Shh, Pip! It’s just me!”

  Pippin went limp with relief, and Eowyn took her hand from his mouth. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “She came to fetch us off for an adventure.”

  Pippin turned his head; Merry was standing beside his bed, wearing his Lorien cloak, trousers pulled on over his nightshirt. He looked back at Eowyn; she was similarly dressed, with a dark cloak over her white nightgown.

  “I woke him when I knocked on the door,” Eowyn said before Pippin could ask. “I told him all about what we found. I felt that he ought to know.”

  “Oh. Good,” Pippin smiled. When they had had so many misadventures together,  it felt strange not telling Merry about their discovery. “What adventure are we going on?”

  “Dress and I’ll explain,” Eowyn replied as she tossed him his trousers, which had been lying folded over a chair. She sat on the foot of his bed, her back to him.

  Pippin scrambled into his trousers, blushing even though Eowyn could not see him. As he did, Eowyn spoke.

  “I couldn’t sleep for a long time tonight, and I began to think about the portrait gallery. It occurred to me that if there are portraits of all the kings and stewards and their families, there might be one of Alatarial. I thought we could go looking for it now.”

  Merry was grinning slightly. “I take it back, Pip. Let’s get into trouble,” he said, and Pippin laughed. At Eowyn’s confused expression, he explained how he had tried to talk Pippin of poking his nose into the past. Eowyn shook her head at him.

  “My dear Brandybuck,” she said. “Whatever were you thinking?”

  “Ready,” Pippin announced, clasping his cloak. “Shall we?”

  “Wait,” Merry said. “I want to see this doll, first.”

  Pippin shrugged and ducked into his wardrobe. Before he went to bed, he had settled Poppy on a bed made from his ceremonial mantle. Now he took her out, fluffed her faded gown, and passed her to Merry. Merry held her up to the light of the dying fire and examined her.

  “Poor little thing,” he said at last, and set her down in Pippin’s bed. “All right, now we can go.”

  Quietly, so as not to wake the entire household, Merry, Pippin and Eowyn tiptoed down into the main corridor. Merry stole a lantern and candle to accompany the one Eowyn had brought, and they set out for the portrait gallery.

  Everything was dark and silent in the cold marble halls. The rain had ceased around dinnertime, and had not started up again. Pippin rather wished for the soothing sound of raindrops on the roof. It would take away from the utter silence of the sleeping Citadel. The only sounds were their soft footsteps and the little murmurs made by their clothes. Soon enough, they were entering the gallery.

  It was colder here, and Pippin pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. Both he and Merry kept close to Eowyn; the gallery was rather frightening, more so at night than in the daytime. Eowyn held her lantern aloft, clutching the mantle of Finduilas tightly around her body. Merry’s light added to hers, and they walked along slowly, lighting up each portrait as they came to it.

  “Goodness,” Merry whispered, his voice wondering. “I wish you’d told me about this place sooner. It’s fascinating.”

  It was. Each of the portraits was covered with a thin, oily sheen of dust, and there were tarnished brass name placards at the base of each. Some were so faded that they could barely read the names etched on them. Finally, Eowyn stopped in front of one painting, one that was covered by a heavy black curtain. It stood almost next to the alcove where Pippin and Eowyn had found the door.  They all stared at it, knowing that this was the one they were seeking, but none of them wanted to touch it. Finally, Merry lifted the curtain far enough to reveal the brass placard. Alatarial daughter of Belecthor II, 2835, was etched into it.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” Eowyn said, grasping the curtain and wrenching it back.

  Whoever painted Alatarial must have taken into consideration the marriage that her father had arranged for her. The girl in the painting was standing before a round mirror that showed the sea, and a large ship sailing on it. Behind the mirror was a balcony looking out onto  a country scene with a river running though it. Alatarial was dressed in a pale red dress with a white chemise peeping through the collar and a deep purple girdle knotted around her hips. Her hair was brown and her eyes were green. She was gazing to one side of the painting, a small blue bowl held almost to her lips. There was a large book propped open on a lectern at her side.

  “She was very beautiful,” remarked Pippin.

  “She was a baby,” Merry said thoughtfully. “Just a baby.”

  Eowyn frowned at him. “Why do you say that?”

  Merry shrugged. “She looks like a very young lass to me, like she should still be playing truant or something. But she is afraid of something. Do you see her eyes?”

  They all looked again. Indeed, Alatarial was peering nervously off to the side of the painting, as though she was watching the approach of someone she did not trust. Eowyn said grimly, “Her father.”

  At that moment, several things happened at once. A cold breeze blew down the gallery, making the curtains at both ends dance heavily, and there was the sound of someone running.

  “No! No I won’t!” a young voice cried, and the lady and the hobbits leapt together. They could see no one.

  “You cannot make me!” shrieked the voice, desperate and slightly hysterical.

  The footsteps ran right past them. They seemed to come from the main hall where the throne was, and continued until they reached the alcove where the once-locked door stood. Then they were gone. 

  Eowyn and the hobbits stood silent for a moment. Then, “We’re leaving. Now,” announced Eowyn, and seizing Pippin by his cloak, began to haul him up the gallery. Merry had the presence of mind to yank the curtain back over Alatarial’s portrait, than followed them at a run.

*****

   Frodo was alone in the parlor when he heard  a hurried knocking at their main door. He jumped up, setting his book aside, and went to open it. Really, it was too early for visitors; the time was just past elevenses. Still, everyone was gone, to his knowledge, so he couldn’t leave it for Sam to answer.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” he called as the knocking continued. “Hold on for a moment!”

  He wrenched the door open to see Arwen standing there, a soft blue version of the Lorien cloak covering her.

  “Are Merry, Pippin and Eowyn here? I’ve been looking for them all morning, but no one has seen them,” she said after greeting Frodo and entering.

  Frodo frowned. Now that he thought about it, he had not seen his cousins since he went to bed the night before. “I don’t know, my lady. The lads may be still abed. Let me see.”

  He turned and strode upstairs, followed by Arwen. The door to Merry and Pippin’s room was shut, and Frodo opened it to see one big lump in Pippin’s bed. He traded a bemused glance with Arwen and went over to it.

  Curled up in the bed, all together, lay Eowyn and the lads. Merry and Pippin lay rather protectively on either side of the White Lady, Pippin curled back to back with her. Frodo leaned over and poked Merry in the shoulder.

  “Merry-lad!” he said loudly. “Wake up!”

  Merry opened his eyes and groaned. “Go ’way, Fro. Oh. Good morning, Queen Arwen.”

  At this, Pippin and Eowyn both stirred. Pippin pulled his blanket over his head with a grumble, but Eowyn opened her eyes and stared at them for a moment.

  “What happened?” asked Arwen, looking utterly confused. “Why are you sleeping in here?”

  Eowyn sighed and climbed out of the warm bed regretfully. “I…got scared of something. I came here.”

  “I’m sure,” Frodo replied, folding his arms and giving her an even look. “As I recall, my lady, you killed the Witch King. Now you tell us that a bad dream made you come running to my cousins. Come on, lass, I want the truth.”

  Eowyn smiled a little and shook her head, giving them an earnest look. “Really, Frodo, I promise I just had a small scare and came in here. That’s all, truly.”

   Frodo didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. Pippin breathed a silent sigh of relief from under the blanket; he was utterly thankful that Frodo’s stern face had not worked on Eowyn. He knew that if it had been him, he would have told his cousin and the queen everything, and that would not have been the best thing that would have happened. He could tell that Merry felt the exact same way.

  “Well, come on, Eowyn,” Arwen said. “We’ve lots to do today, for tonight’s ball. Pippin, are you willing to help us later?”

  Pippin sat up at that, pulling the blanket away fromhis face and bowing as best he could. “Yes, of course, my queen. When would you like me to come?”

  “Eat some lunch,” Arwen said with a smile. “An hour should do it.”

  Pippin nodded. Eowyn climbed out of the bed and smiled her thanks at them.

  “I’ll see you both later. I’m off to dress, Arwen, then I’ll go straight to your rooms,” she promised.

  The group dispersed as the women left the room, followed by Frodo. The Ringbearer paused at the door and looked back at Merry and Pippin.

  “You know, lads, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were up to something,” he said, and left.

  Merry and Pippin exchanged a guilty look. Then they both climbed out of the bed and went to dress and eat. They did not have the time or the courage to discuss what they had heard last night. It was going to be a busy day.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.

Author’s Note: I have decided to start titling the chapters. Accordingly, all of the previous chapters now have titles. Thanks to Pip Brandygin for the beta.

Chapter Seven: A Poppet for Queen Arwen 

“Eowyn, my dear, I don’t think you were being entirely truthful with Frodo back there.”

Eowyn ducked her head and avoided the queen’s gaze as she walked into Arwen’s room. After washing and dressing in an apple-green satin dress, she had made all haste to the queen’s rooms, fully aware that Arwen would want to know exactly what she and the hobbits had been doing the night before. She was not sure if she should tell Arwen about last night’s frightening adventure; it was such a wild tale that Eowyn doubted Arwen would believe it.

As if reading her thoughts, Arwen said, “Eowyn, I’ve been alive over two thousand years. I know when someone is hiding something from me. Don’t make me seduce Pippin into telling me.”

Eowyn laughed aloud. She could only imagine the look on Pippin’s face if Arwen were to flirt with him until he spilled the whole story. As amusing as the mental image was, she could not let it happen. Eowyn took a seat opposite Arwen at the small table set with luncheon and helped herself to the food laid out.

“All right, it begins like this. Several days ago, Pippin pointed out to me that there was an unused part of the Citadel. We found the door leading to it in the portrait gallery, and we went exploring…”

It was, fortunately, not a very long tale, and Eowyn finished it in no time. Arwen was silent for a long time when she had ceased to speak. Eowyn began to eat the roast chicken and salad on her plate as she waited for Arwen to reflect upon the story. She had barely taken one bite before the door opened and Pippin swung into the room. He took one look at Arwen’s white face and shook his head.

“I see you told her, Eowyn. I’ll go get some tea,” he said.

Tea was promptly fetched and forced upon the queen, who drank it without complaining. Pippin and Eowyn helped themselves to cups as well and felt themselves calm down as they drank the sweet liquid. . They spent several minutes sitting in silence, waiting for Arwen to compose herself enough to talk to them about Alatarial and the secret room. At last, she set her teacup down and looked across the table at them.

“I want to see the doll you found,” she said. “Could you fetch it, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded. “Yes, I’ll go get her now.”

He stood up and trotted over to the door, fully intent on going straight to his room for the doll, Poppy. As he opened the door, though, he very nearly ran straight into a small lad -- well, a lad just his height, to be exact. Bergil, Beregond’s son, jumped back guiltily, blushing. There was a medium-sized box in his hands.

“Sir Pippin!” Bergil said, sketching a hasty bow. “My Lord Faramir sent me up to bring this box to my lady queen.” He held the box out to Pippin.

Pippin took the box and began to grin. Here was a lad to have on their side. “Here, I’ll take it. Bergil, would you mind running an errand for me?”

Bergil nodded, as Pippin had known he would. Bergil was a page, of course. “In the wardrobe in my room there is a doll dressed in red velvet. Would you kindly wrap her in my black mantle and bring her straight here? Thank you.”

Bergil nodded, looking slightly puzzled, and turned to go, but then hesitated as Pippin suddenly called out to him, “Oh! If you see the king, run away from him, would, you lad? Don’t show him the doll.”

“Certainly, Sir Pippin,” Bergil replied, now looking even more puzzled. Pippin grinned at him and let him go on his way.

The Citadel was teeming with servants and decorators getting ready for that night’s ball, and Bergil was not disturbed as he hurried across it to the Company’s house. He ducked inside and went up to the room that Merry and Pippin shared. He knew where it was because the two knights and Legolas had smuggled him away to teach him to play conkers and cards several weeks ago. He climbed the stairs up to the rather messy room, and went straight to the huge wardrobe. Inside, lying on a pile of clothes was the mysterious doll that Pippin wanted. Bergil picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It was certainly very old, and a very fine doll like the one several little girls he knew of would just die for. Shrugging away his curiosity, he wrapped it in Pippin’s fancy cloak and tucked it under his arm. This was certainly an easy errand, he thought.

He left the room at a trot. Down the stairs, across the front hall, out the door…Bergil turned from shutting the door behind him and ran full force into the last person he had ever expected to literally run into. King Elessar caught Bergil before he could fall over and steadied him on his feet.

“Steady on there, lad,” he said, looking down at Bergil in amusement. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You aren’t playing conkers with Merry and Pippin now, are you?”

“N-no, my lord king,” Bergil stammered, and bowed low. “I’m running an errand for Sir Pippin.”

Aragorn nodded, eyes darting to the wrapped bundle under Bergil’s arm. “What is that, may I ask?”

It wasn’t a question and Bergil knew it. He also knew that he was caught in a precarious situation, and one wrong word could land Pippin into trouble. This was the king, though, and you could not lie to a king. It was best to go with the truth, as best as he could.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Bergil said, bowing again. “Sir Pippin asked me not to tell anyone. It’s nothing bad, though, just a toy.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. He highly doubted that Pippin was up to anything dreadful, but he had to admit that he was slightly worried. He had learnt to be wary after all the pranks the hobbits had played on him in Rivendell.

“I’m sure he will show it to me later,” Aragorn said. “Where is Pippin?”

“With my lady queen,” Bergil said quickly. “They’re looking at masks that were sent up for the ball tonight.”

“Well, thank you very much. I’ll let you go to him now.”

Bergil nodded and bowed again, and Aragorn stood aside to watch him dart away. Something was going on here. Where in the Citadel had Pippin found a toy? There was Faramir and Boromir’s old nursery, and Finduilas’ old sitting room most likely had some playthings left in them. He highly doubted that Pippin had gone to either of those places, though, and besides, the young Took was surely too old for most toys. He would just have to find out later. Shrugging to himself, Aragorn turned and walked away to find Legolas and Gimli.  

*****

Bergil arrived back in Arwen’s rooms a few minutes later. He handed the bundle to Pippin and hurried back to his post at the end of the hall, grateful that he did not have to be sneaky anymore. He was not good at sneaking.

Inside, Pippin unwrapped the doll that was Poppy and handed her to Arwen. The queen took her and gazed at her for several minutes, like one entranced. Then she sighed and put it down on a chair.

“Poor little poppet,” she said. “What a horrid thing to happen. I feel very gloomy now, but I want to see that room.”

Eowyn bit her lip. “You must shake the gloom, Arwen, or someone will suspect something. We cannot go to Alatarial’s room today; it’s too sad for the day of a grand ball. Come; let’s look at our masks for tonight. Do you like any of these?”  

*****

The sun shone brightly on Gondor that day, a boisterous westerly wind having blown away the last of the rain clouds the night before . There was a festive mood in the air as the city prepared for another great ball. Few noticed a small group of well-dressed travelers enter the city and make their way to the Citadel.

“I am looking for the Lord Steward,” one of the travelers said to the guard on duty.

The guard, recognizing her, let the woman and her companions pass.

Up in the empty portrait gallery, the heavy drapes danced as though caught in a strong wind.  

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Pip Brandygin for the beta! Note June 13th, 2005: Pippin's song has been edited with the proper English lyrics. Anyone who can guess where I got it recieves two extra brownie points. :)

Chapter Eight: In the Mask Maker’s Shop

“Pippin, what was that song you were telling me about? The one you wrote for Arwen last week?”

Pippin choked on his tea and glared at Eowyn. The Lady of Rohan was grinning smugly at him, content in the opinion that she had found a way to alleviate Arwen’s gloom. Indeed, the queen was looking over at Pippin with a little smile on her face, looking interested.

“You wrote me a song, Pip?” she asked. “Can I hear it?”

Pippin blinked at her, trying to think of a way out of this predicament. It was true that he had written a song last week, but it was a silly song, a mockery of the Gondorian minstrels that he had cheekily dedicated to Arwen, quite sure that she would never hear it. Ever. And now Eowyn just had to bring it up. Arwen was looking at him expectantly, her eyes wide and hopeful, her lower lip pouting in a way that meant she was trying to seduce him into singing for her. It was a look that he had seen on his little nieces’ faces many times before. Pippin sighed.

“Very well, but it’s not supposed to be serious,” he said.

Arwen smiled at him, eyes dancing. “Come on, sing it for me, Pippin.”

Pippin stood up and set his cup on the table, then turned to face the ladies nervously. He took a deep breath and began to sing. “Tell me what love is, what can it be? what is this yearning burning in me?…”

It wasn’t a very long song, and Pippin sang it quite well, adding a little trill to the end. Eowyn and Arwen applauded loudly when he was finished, and the young hobbit bowed with a flourish.

“That was nice, Pippin,” Arwen said with a laugh. “A very good mockery.”

Pippin grinned. “I hope it’s taken your mind off things, my lady.”

“It has,” Arwen assured him. “Oh! I’ve had a very wicked idea. I’m going to fetch something; do not go anywhere.”

Pippin and Eowyn nodded, watching curiously as Arwen jumped up and hurried from the parlor. A moment after she had left, there was a knock on the door. The two friends looked at each other in surprise; they weren’t expecting anyone and had dismissed the maids. Still, Arwen was the queen, and so interruptions were to be expected. Pippin jumped up and went to open the door.

“Oh, hullo, Faramir!” he said delightedly, smiling up at the Steward. “Are you looking for Eowyn?”

“Indeed I am,” Faramir replied, smiling at the hobbit. “Is she here? I have someone to introduce to her and Arwen.”

Eowyn stood up and smoothed her skirts. “Come in, Faramir! We were just listening to Pippin sing.”

Pippin stood away from the door, allowing Eowyn’s beloved to enter the room. Faramir was followed by a pretty young woman who appeared to be Eowyn’s age, or close to it. She had long chestnut-colored hair and green eyes. Her skin was tanned, as though she spent her days in the sun, and she wore a simple but elegantly cut blue dress. She smiled shyly at Eowyn.

“This is my cousin, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” Faramir said. “She arrived in the City just today, and I thought that the two of you might be friends. Lothiriel, this is my betrothed, Eowyn of Rohan.”

Lothiriel smiled again and bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Eowyn.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eowyn replied, smiling back at her. “Did you come for the ball tonight?”

“No, I came to study at the House of Healing, although I do plan on attending the ball,” Lothiriel said. She then promptly dropped a deep curtsy, bowing low. “Queen Arwen.”

She said it in such a respectful tone that Eowyn turned around in confusion. Arwen had come out of her bedchamber, and was looking at the small group with interest. Eowyn was slightly amused at the respect; she had become so used to Arwen that she found it slightly odd to see others of their standing defer to her.

“Hello,” the Queen said politely, depositing a bundle of fabric on the bed. “What have I missed?”

Introductions were swiftly made. One of Arwen’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly when she learned that Lothiriel was from Dol Amroth, and Eowyn wondered nervously just how many people they were going to tell about their little adventure. Arwen did not say anything, though, but simply asked Lothiriel what she was planning on wearing to the ball that night. That was Faramir’s excuse to excuse himself and he took it, pausing to hug Eowyn and whisper in her ear, “I think you’ll like each other. Lothiriel is not as meek as she seems.”

Eowyn grinned at him, and the steward winked at her and left.

“What was your wicked idea, Arwen?” Pippin asked once Faramir had gone.

Arwen smiled at him, laughing slightly. “It won’t work, alas. I was going to dress you up as a girl and make you go to the ball tonight like that. I have a better idea now, though.”

“Thank goodness,” muttered Pippin, acutely relieved. The idea of parading himself around the ballroom dressed as a lass was one of the most horrifying things he had ever heard of.

“What is your ‘better idea’, Arwen?” Eowyn asked warily. In an undertone to Lothiriel, she added, “Be wary. This is a woman with a millennia of practice in bad ideas.”

“I heard that,” Arwen said dryly. “However, this is a good one, I believe. Lothiriel, do you have a dress and mask for tonight?”

*****

Arwen would take any excuse to go out into the lower circles, Eowyn thought in amusement an hour later as they walked through the Fifth Circle, searching for the mask maker’s shop. They had been forced to surrender Pippin to his duties as a knight and guard, but Eowyn doubted that he really wanted to wander about looking at gowns with a group of giddy women.

Lothiriel was turning out to be a great deal of fun. She had the same sort of pertness that Eowyn possessed, and seemed readily inclined to laugh. Eowyn quite liked her.

“I remember the mask maker’s,” Lothiriel told them. “Faramir and I would come down here when we were children and play in the empty houses. We had to pass the mask shop on the way there.”

For some reason, Eowyn’s insides turned over. Empty houses, empty rooms, and covered murders. Why were the houses empty? She forced her curiosity down relentlessly; there was not time today to dwell on Alatarial. There were more important things to do, like dressing Lothiriel up and showing the people of Gondor that she was a good match for Faramir.

Still, as they walked on to the mask maker’s shop, Eowyn felt the tiny flutter of mischief lurking, waiting for the right opportunity to manifest itself. Ah well, she reasoned, I am a grown woman; I can control myself.

They found the shop a few minutes later, nestled between a fabric merchant and a bakery. It was small, and filled to bursting with fanciful masks of every color and design. After wandering the shop for a few minutes, Lothiriel went to a stand covered in masks worked of green and blue painted leather, selecting a mask that was made to look like a strange butterfly. She held it up to her face; it covered her eyes and cheekbones and most of her forehead with its fancy wings. It was a green mask, with gold filigree tooled into it. There were tiny flashes of other colors on the wings, pinks and yellows, blues and orange. It was very exotic, and Lothiriel had clearly found her mask for that night’s ball.

“This is perfect,” she announced, and took it to the merchant, who had been bowing and assisting them as best he could from the moment they had walked into his shop.

While Eowyn waited for her new friend to purchase her mask, she glanced out the side window. It looked past the bakery down a narrow side street. The street looked deserted, the houses unused, and Eowyn had the suspicion that she had found some of the empty houses. Yes, they were decidedly empty, she saw as she leaned closer. There were none of the great tubs of red flowers that had been planted all over the city to commemorate the fallen soldiers. Eowyn smiled to herself; she would have to mention this to Pippin. Perhaps tomorrow they would be able to sneak away and explore the ruins.

“Truth be told, your highness, there has not been a masquerade party in Minas Tirith since the last birthday of the Lady Alatarial, nigh two hundred years ago.”

Eowyn was jerked back to the present moment so suddenly that it was as if someone had doused her with cold water. She turned back to the merchant sharply, staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

The merchant looked over at her, seeming puzzled. “She was the daughter of the steward Belecthor the Second. He was steward when the White Tree died, you know. His daughter held a masquerade ball to celebrate her fifteenth birthday. She died shortly after.”

Arwen was giving Eowyn a stern look from behind Lothiriel’s shoulder. Eowyn nodded at the man, giving him a small smile.

“I see,” she said vaguely. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lothiriel, however, was still gazing at her with mild curiosity. “She would have been a great-aunt of mine, I believe. She was supposed to wed one of the Prince’s sons, an old man whose name I cannot recall. It’s an interesting story.”

“Indeed,” Eowyn said, nodding weakly. “Perhaps you can tell me some evening.”

“That sounds like a fine idea, Eowyn,” Arwen said quickly. “But we really must hurry along now. We still need to complete Lothiriel’s outfit. Come along.”

The merchant gazed at them quizzically as Arwen bustled the two younger women out of his shop. More customers came in as they left, however, and he soon forgot them.

Eowyn’s head was reeling. It seemed odd that anyone now would know of Alatarial, much less call her an “interesting story”. It was also curious that the White Tree had died during Belecthor’s reign. The way this was going, all she would have to do would be to put the doll on display and let people come to her. That would be something.

As they walked back up the street towards the Citadel, Eowyn noticed a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. Looking to her left, she saw Gandalf striding towards the stables. He caught her eye and jerked his head for her to follow. Eowyn gave a slight nod.

“Arwen, Lothiriel, I must excuse myself for a short time. I have something that needs to be done. I’ll see you later,” she said, and strode off in the direction of the stables. Gandalf had already disappeared from sight.

The interior of the stable was dark compared to the brightness outside, and Eowyn stood blinking in the doorway for several moments before she could see properly. When her eyes had adjusted, she set off down the row of stalls, looking for the wizard. Unsurprisingly, she found him with Shadowfax.

“My girl, you’re being very silly,” Gandalf said without preamble, not even bothering to look at her as he smoothed the horse’s gleaming flanks.

“What do you mean?” asked Eowyn, frowning at him.

Gandalf gave her a surly look. “You know what I mean. You are meddling in matters you know very little about, you and that young rapscallion of a Took. Some things are better left alone.”

“If you are speaking of Alatarial, I don’t know why we shouldn’t learn more about her,” Eowyn replied. Her hands began to nervously pleat her skirt. “The poor child was murdered.”

Gandalf sighed. “I’m only warning you, my lady. You do not know what could happen, especially here. If anything strange begins to occur, I want you to come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

Eowyn nodded, confused. “Yes, but I don’t understand. Did something happen?”

Gandalf looked her straight in the eyes and replied, “Why do you think Faramir’s mother dwells in the Overheaven?”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I owe an explanation for why this chapter is so late. I’ve been very busy with college and various projects, and when I finally sat down to write, I found that my muse had pulled an Alatarial and died on me. I finally got this written, though, so I hope you all enjoy it. Let me know! Thanks to Pip Brandygin for the excellent beta :)

Chapter Nine: The Ballroom

The dancers that night were tinged with an air of enigmatic darkness. They moved about the ballroom mysteriously in their stately dances, as though every glittering jewel, every fine leather mask was hiding a secret that had lain hidden for decades. Even the air smelled of mystery as fine perfumes mingled with the wax of a thousand candles and the cool night air from the mountains.

The same wind fluttered the fabric of Eowyn’s gown as she stood by the Steward’s seat, watching Arwen and Aragorn dance. A simple masked ball. Was there any such thing, really, in all honesty? So much planning had gone into this ball, into all of them. Eowyn knew that the Elves who were still in the City saw this as an excuse to hold one last ball for their Evenstar, and they had helped to plan the masquerades with gusto. The thought made Eowyn sad, and she pushed it out of her head. She wondered instead where Faramir had gotten to. The last she had seen him, he had been playing a riddle game with Frodo. Perhaps he had lost and was performing some task for the hobbits. The thought made her smile a little.

“Masquerade, paper faces on parade,” Lothiriel commented, coming to stand beside her.

“Only, I believe these are all leather,” Eowyn replied with a grin. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Lothiriel nodded, her eyes gleaming. “I am, although I daresay I would be enjoying myself more if this unbelievably handsome man would stop staring at me and ask me to dance.”

Eowyn laughed aloud; Lothiriel had her pick of all of the men there but for those married or betrothed, and she was worrying about the one who would not dance with her. It was an entirely new concept to Eowyn, though it was amusing.

“Which one is he?”

“That one, with the long golden hair. He is standing next to the Ringbearer.”

Eowyn looked over towards Frodo and the gathering around him, and bit back a snort of laughter. “That’s Eomer. My brother. Has he really been staring at you all evening? Come, I’ll make him dance with you.”

She took a protesting Lothiriel and half dragged her across the hall towards Eomer. As they got closer, she realized that he was indeed sneaking furtive glances at the pretty woman beside her. Eowyn grinned broadly at him, relishing Eomer’s look of horror when he realized what was about to happen. To think that her fearless elder brother was indeed nervous to meet a woman. It was definitely an evening for learning experiences, if nothing else.

“Eomer, dearest brother, this is Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” Eowyn said, presenting Lothiriel to Eomer with a grin. “Lothiriel, this is my brother, Eomer.”

The two nodded at each other politely, then stood there awkwardly. Frodo took his attention from his game and nudged the Rohir gently.

“Ask her to dance,” he whispered loudly.

Eomer nodded and took Lothiriel’s hand. As soon as they were gone, Eowyn sat down in a nearby chair and laughed.

“Was I that silly when I met Faramir, Merry?” she asked.

“No, you were much worse.” Eowyn turned to smile up at Faramir as he walked up behind her. “Come, dance with me.”

Pippin watched them go with a grin. “Ah, young love,” he sighed, and Frodo snorted.

“What would you know about it, lad?” he asked.

“Only what I see in other people,” replied Pippin easily.

Frodo grinned and turned back to Gimli. “Bacon,” the dwarf rumbled at him, and Frodo laughed. It was a beautiful sound to hear.

Pippin turned his attention to the dancers. He, too, sensed the strangeness of the evening, but he could not put his finger on the source. The air is positively crackling with something, Pippin thought. I wish I knew what it was.

It was in that moment when something very strange happened. Pippin was standing with his fellow hobbits and the nobles, who had joined them, and he could just see part of the far corridor door from there. It was not a commonly used door, so it caught his eye when a young woman dressed all in gold stepped through it. For half a moment, Pippin thought it was Eowyn. But no, it couldn’t be, Eowyn was wearing white that evening. He took a closer look at the newcomer and felt his stomach drop down to his toes.

There was something chillingly familiar about the girl. She was very young, hardly out of childhood, and her pretty brown hair was pulled into a soft bun. Her mask was gold and black, tied to her head with ribbons. As Pippin watched, an older man came up and bowed, then led her onto the dance floor. The man, dressed all in black, did not seem to belong there any more than the girl did. Oh, dear, Pippin thought, this cannot be good. Those are ghosts!

So they seemed to be. Pippin had not seen that man all evening, and he was certain that he would have remembered anyone with a mask like that. It was a full-faced mask in the shape of a leering skull, and it would have terrified him if he weren’t so interested. The girl could only be Alatarial. He would have gotten down on his knees and sworn it before the king.

The couple danced in time with the rest of the company, but they never came close to touching the others. Pippin advanced towards the dance floor and stared after them earnestly. When Eowyn and Faramir went past him again, Pippin caught Eowyn’s eye and pointed towards the ghostly couple. Eowyn turned her head to look at them, but was soon lost from Pippin’s sight as Faramir whirled her away.

Eowyn soon spotted the couple Pippin had pointed out. She felt her stomach clench as soon as she laid eyes upon them, the dark man and the golden lass. Something is not right! Her mind screamed at her as she danced.

“What are you looking at, love?” Faramir murmured, turning to gaze in the same direction.

“The man with the skull mask and the girl dressed in gold,” Eowyn replied. “Over there. Do you see them?”

Faramir frowned, eyes darting around as he searched for the couple she had spoken of. He could not see anyone matching the description, which worried him. Eowyn was not the sort of woman who made things up to make a situation more interesting. If she said something was there, it should be there. Shouldn’t it?

“I do not see anyone with a skull mask, Eowyn,” he said finally. “Nor any girls dressed all in gold.”

Eowyn stared up at him in shock. “What? Why not? I swear they are there, Faramir, I am not lying!”

Faramir looked again, following her eyes this time as Eowyn looked back at the couple. No, he could not see anything. When he said so, Eowyn stopped short so suddenly that Faramir was forced to pull her off of the dance floor to avoid her being trampled by the other dancers. Still waltzing, he hauled Eowyn into one of the small side chambers that had been designated as a refreshment room. Across the hall, several pairs of eyes watched the Steward and his lady move away. The owners of these eyes quickly dropped their previous activities and followed.

In the refreshment room, Faramir sat Eowyn down in a chair and knelt down in front of her.

“Now, what is the matter?” he asked softly, looking into her eyes.

Eowyn frowned, wondering if she ought to tell him that she had seen two ghosts. He’ll think I’m mad, she thought sadly. I shouldn’t say anything.

Aloud, she said, “I thought I saw something that could not have been there. I must have had too much wine.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow at her, but smiled slightly. “Perhaps you’ve seen shades of a past ball, lured by the thought of another party. That happens sometimes, you know, though they would have had the ball in the other ballroom, long ago. Do not let it disturb you. I don’t think it was the wine, which I know you haven’t touched all night.”

Eowyn smiled back at him; she knew she should have known that Faramir would take her seriously. I wonder if I should tell him who it was. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the other people in the room with them.

“Are you all right, Eowyn?”

They both looked up; Aragorn and Arwen had followed them into the room and were looking concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Eowyn hastened to assure them. “I just got a bit of a fright. It was nothing serious.”

Faramir rolled his eyes slightly at that, but didn’t say anything. Aragorn looked unconvinced, gazing at her shrewdly.

“Eowyn, did you see them, too?” Pippin burst into the room, followed by Merry, Eomer and Lothiriel. All of them looked concerned. Pippin stopped short abruptly when he saw Aragorn.

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost out there,” Lothiriel added. She looked worried. “Your face is still pale.”

“What did you mean, Pippin,” Eomer asked the hobbit, frowning, “by ‘did you see them, too?’”

“Is there anything I should know?” the King asked, his voice stern.

“No,” Pippin and Eowyn said together. “I pointed out a man with a funny mask to her,” Pippin added quickly.

“Really, all of you, I’m fine. I just need to sit for awhile,” Eowyn said firmly. “Go on back to the ball; you needn’t worry about me. Go, enjoy yourselves.”

She hoped it would work, and also that no one would think that she was submitting to feminine vapors for the first time in her life. For a moment no one spoke, then Arwen took Aragorn’s hand and turned him away gently. “Come, Estel. Eowyn speaks the truth, and we should not neglect our guests. I’ll talk to you later, Eowyn.”

“I can stay with the White Lady if you wish, my lord king.”

Everyone turned to stare at the pageboy who had spoken. Bergil blushed scarlet at his boldness and bowed deeply. “I can fetch you if anything happens.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Arwen said. “Thank you, Bergil. Now come along, all of you.”

Eowyn gave Arwen a grateful look as the queen herded everyone out. Arwen returned the look with one of her own, which clearly said, you are going to tell me everything later. Eowyn nodded slightly to her.

Soon enough, she was alone in the room but for Bergil. The lad bowed to her shyly, and Eowyn smiled at him.

“Thank you for offering to stay with me, but I fear I will bore you,” she said.

“You won’t,” Bergil assured her. “Can I get you a drink, my lady?”

Eowyn nodded, and Bergil hurried over to the laden table, returning with a porcelain teacup filled with a thick black liquid.

“It’s coffee,” Bergil explained, noting Eowyn’s puzzled look. “It came with some traders from Dol Amroth last week. It’s very good, actually.”

Eowyn took the cup and sipped at the hot liquid. At once sweet and bitter, it was rich and smooth. It was an acquired taste, but she liked it. Eowyn leaned back and sipped her coffee. For the first time all evening, she allowed Gandalf’s words to return to her mind. She had blocked them out of her mind during her bath earlier that evening, unable to make head or tale out of them. Why do you think Faramir’s mother dwells in the Overheaven? The wizard had not answered his own question, leaving Eowyn standing puzzled and slightly frightened in the stable. And what was it that Faramir had said about there being another ballroom in the Citadel?

“Bergil,” she said, looking at the lad. “Do you know of another ballroom here in the Citadel?”

Bergil looked surprised, but he nodded. “Yes, I do, but it’s in the empty part. I can show you the way, if you like.”

“I would like that,” Eowyn replied, standing up. “Let’s go, then.”

Bergil took her cup and set it down on the table, then led her out of a back door. It went to the servants’ hallway, he explained, but it was the only way he knew. Eowyn nodded and followed him through the door.

Pippin walked nonchalantly through the door of the refreshment room, looking around for Eowyn. He had only just now been able to get away from his cousins, and was coming to talk to the White Lady again. He wanted to know if she, too, had seen the ghosts, and if that was why she had gotten so upset. Merry had not seen them, but then he had been very interested in Frodo’s riddle game. The Brandybuck was waiting in the ballroom as a look out, in case the mysterious couple showed up again.

Once in the room, Pippin saw that Eowyn was gone, and Bergil with her. He looked around in consternation, than noticed the servants’ door in the far corner. A flash of white was disappearing around the corner, and Pippin knew at once that Eowyn had gone adventuring without him. Can’t allow that to happen, he thought, and set off after them.

The passage he found himself in was narrow and scantily lit. Up ahead, he saw Eowyn being led by Bergil. She had a candelabra held high in one hand. Pippin broke into a run to catch up with them.

“Hoy! Eowyn, Bergil, wait!” he hissed, and was gratified when they paused and turned to him.

“Where are you off to?” Pippin asked, arriving breathlessly.

“Did anyone see you come?” Eowyn asked in response, looking worried. “Aragorn looked suspicious.”

Pippin waved a hand. “I think that’s in his nature. No, nobody saw me come, and Merry is going to tell anyone that asks that I’ve gone to the privy. He’s waiting in the ballroom. Where are we off to?”

“The old ballroom,” Bergil answered. “Lady Eowyn wants to see it.”

Pippin frowned. “Didn’t you see it when we were exploring the empty wing before, Eowyn? I walked right through it; it was very scary.”

The White Lady shook her head. “No, I must have taken a different route than you. Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to get caught.”

It was, as Pippin had remembered, a very long way to the old ballroom. Either the servants’ passage twisted more than the normal corridors, or the Citadel was simply bigger than he had ever thought, but it took them a good twenty minutes of walking to get there. It may have been because of the darkness of the passage; the candles were unlit the farther they went, and the darkness pressed in around them so that they huddled in the faint light of Eowyn’s candelabra.

“This passage runs parallel to the old portrait gallery of the Stewards,” Bergil whispered, his voice echoing like the rasp of a moth’s wings. “Have you seen that? It’s rather frightening.”

“We’ve been,” replied Eowyn, trading a glance with Pippin. “Are we almost there?”

“Yes,’ Bergil replied. “Just a few more turns.”

They emerged into the great ballroom a few minutes later. Floury clouds of dust rose as their feet hit the marble floor. The passage was located in a far corner of the room, and the three explorers tiptoed out into the main expanse of the hall with wary curiosity.

They were in the middle of the ballroom, opposite the huge sweeping staircase that Pippin had walked down several days before. The ballroom was not as dark as it could have been, for starlight shone through the tall and grimy windows. They halted in the middle of the room, and Eowyn turned a slow circuit, looking around in amazement. Pippin turned to, unable to shake the strange feeling that had come over him when they stepped into the ballroom. Like the last time, he felt that if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear strains of balls long past.

Eowyn gave a sudden gasp; Pippin jumped and whirled around. He found that he was looking at the opposite wall, where three figures, one tall, two short, stood in the glow of a candelabra. Pippin let his breath out in a rush as he realized what had frightened Eowyn.

“They’re mirrors!” he cried. “How strange!”

The mirrors ran the entire length of the wall, and were as grimy as the windows. Eowyn turned her attention from them and looked up towards the ceiling. Three chandeliers, all covered in ropes of cobwebs, hung there, their jewels glittering dimly through the dust. Bergil sneezed behind her, and the noise echoed like a clap of thunder. Pippin shuddered, remembering Moria.

“It’s fascinating, in a creepy sort of way,” Eowyn said, patting Bergil on the shoulder. “Look, there are tapestries above the staircase. I want to take a look at those.”

Pippin and Bergil traded a look as Eowyn strode towards the worn velvet of the great staircase, leaving them standing in the darkness. There was nothing for them to do but follow her or be left behind, and they both knew it. Bergil was the first to hurry after Eowyn. Pippin grinned a little and hurried after him.

Eowyn climbed the stairs, holding her white skirts up to avoid getting them too dusty. Her candles flickered dangerously in the wind of her movement, and she slowed to keep them from going out. Dust, roused from years of slumber as she moved, tickled her nose and made her sneeze as explosively as Bergil had. One of the candles flickered and went out. A great black shape rose out of the shadows at the head of the staircase.

For half a second, Eowyn was certain it was the Witch-king, returned to take revenge upon her. The figure, tall and dark, advanced down the stairs with a fluid grace, and she heard Pippin and Bergil cry out in terror. Eowyn gripped the candelabra, ready to use it to beat off this shadow, taking a deep breath to steady her shaking hands. She could hear the lads running towards her. The shadow advanced down the first tier of stairs and stepped onto the landing with her. It was taller than she was, and Eowyn was preparing to strike when it spoke to her.

“What are you doing here, Eowyn?” The voice was familiar and spoke sternly.

“Aragorn?” shrieked Eowyn, nearly dropping the candelabra in her relief.

“Strider!” cried Pippin, sounding furious, and Bergil gasped out, “My lord king!” in relief.

Aragorn stepped into the candlelight and frowned at them all. “What are you three doing here?”

Eowyn glowered at him; now that the scare was over, she was beginning to feel the rush of aftershock adrenaline. “I asked Bergil to show it to me,” she said. “Pippin came, too. What of it?”

Aragorn sighed and took the candelabra from her shaking hands. He used his other hand to turn her around and haul her down the staircase, jerking his head at Pippin and Bergil to follow.

“It is not that safe down here,” he said. “I’m not angry, but you will leave the ballroom alone, please! I don’t want there to be any accidents.”

Pippin rolled his eyes at Bergil, who looked distinctly worried. “The only accident would have been taking you to the Houses of Healing after Eowyn clobbered you with her candlestick,” he retorted. “I’ve been through here before, and nothing happened, except for a few good scares! You needn’t yell at us; you’re scaring Bergil.”

Aragorn paused halfway through the ballroom and looked at the page. Bergil’s pale face looked back at him.

“I apologize, Bergil,” he said. “I am not angry at you for taking them here; I know that these two can be impetuous. Now come along, all of you.”

They didn’t speak again until they were almost back to the refreshment room, retracing their steps through the servants’ passage. Aragorn halted before they were fully there, however, and turned to face them.

“Pippin, what were you saying about being in that wing before?” he asked, directing his most penetrating stare at the youngster. “Tell me.”

Pippin bit his lip in consternation. Drat, I hadn’t meant to tell him! “Oh, I-I went exploring a few days ago and passed through the ballroom. That’s all. Why?”

Aragorn gazed at him for another minute, than shook his head. “Never mind. Just don’t go back over there, any of you. Something tragic happened over there many years ago, and I don’t want there to be any accidents before that wing is restored. Do you understand?”

“No! We don’t!” snapped Eowyn. “Would you care to explain away your ambiguity, my lord?

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.
Author's Note: Well, if this story hasn't made an unexpected turn, I'm a dwarf. Forgive me if my dates aren't correct; this story is rapidly becoming AU. Once again, my thanks to Pip Brandygin for the beta.

Chapter Ten: A Story

Aragorn gave Eowyn his very best stern look. Pippin privately thought that the ranger king had been practicing it for years, and stifled a grin. Eowyn, however, glared at him with all the tenacity the shield maiden possessed, well and truly nettled.

“If I am to live here in peace, I’d like to know what you are being so ambiguous about! There are more secrets in this place than people; I thought that secrets and deceit would die with the Shadow. A girl was murdered up there, I know that, but I somehow doubt that you are old enough to have met her. Something else happened, you said, so tell me what it is!” Eowyn broke off and glared at him, her chest heaving with emotion. Bergil looked awed by her, as awed as Pippin felt. Eowyn glanced over at them and noted their open mouths. “Yes, I am going to yell at the King. Some things just must be done. Now look, you-”

“Viper?” Aragorn suggested dryly. “Peace, Eowyn, I will tell you what I know. But first I need a promise from Bergil.”

Bergil jumped at the request, and bowed low. “Anything, my lord king.”

“First of all, stop calling me that. ‘Sir’ will do nicely. Second, I want you to swear that you will not repeat what I say, nor tell anyone what went on this evening. Do I have your word?” Aragorn asked, deadly serious.

“Yes, sir,” Bergil said. “I swear never to tell.”

Aragorn nodded at him and smiled. “Good. Come back with me a little, all of you.”

He led them a few feet back down the passage so that they would be safely away from any prying ears. Once there, he set Eowyn’s candelabra on an empty shelf and leaned against the wall.

“A long time ago, there was a young princess from Dol Amroth. Her name was Finduilas, and she and the Lord Denethor were deeply in love. They were wed, and Finduilas came to live in the City. In time, she had a son named Boromir. Are you with me so far?”

They nodded wordlessly. Aragorn returned the nod with one of his own.

“Very well. When Boromir was perhaps two, the lady left him in the care of a nurse and went off to seek solitude from the court. She was with child again, and she wanted some peace, as well as some exercise. She thought that perhaps walking in the empty wing would be an amusing way to spend the afternoon.

“When Finduilas did not return for the evening meal, Denethor and the currant steward, his father Ecthelion, sent out a search party. They spent hours searching, until at last one of the Tower guards, Thorongil, thought to look in the unused wing. He led his party to it. There, they found Lady Finduilas lying on the floor at the far end of the old ballroom, a pool of blood around her. She was sick and in shock, for something had frightened her so badly that she miscarried. They took her back to her rooms, and she lay ill for a long time.

“Shortly thereafter, Finduilas confided to Thorongil that she had found a bedroom in which a young woman had been murdered by her father, the steward Belecthor. The horror that it awoke in her was acute, and it never fully left her.”

Aragorn stopped and looked at them all. Three grim faces stared back at him, pale in the flickering candlelight. “More may have happened,” he admitted. “I do not know everything that Finduilas saw that day, and I left before Faramir was born. I do not doubt that the knowledge preyed on her, and aided in her demise. I do know that I would prefer you not to have the same sort of experience.”

Pippin was frowning at him. “I thought you said that a man named Thorongil was there?”

Aragorn smiled, a sly look in his eyes. “A man may travel under many names. Strider, Elessar, Aragorn. Thorongil. Now, we really must return to the ball.”

*****

“Where were you?” Merry demanded, striding across the room towards Pippin as the young Took emerged from the refreshment room. Pippin had been gone for a long time, nearly an hour to Merry’s mind, and the Brandybuck had been worried.

Pippin gave Merry a wane smile, reaching up to pull his mask down from the top of his head. The ribbons hung loosely around his ears. “It’s a very, very long story. I’ll tell you later on, but all I can say now is that Aragorn is lucky that Eowyn didn’t bash his head in with a candlestick.”

Merry grinned and nodded agreement, despite his rampant curiosity. “Well, nothing much has happened here. Lady Lothiriel has been dancing with Eomer since you left, and he seems quite besotted with her. Frodo has kept up his riddle game, and there’s been no sign of your ghosts.”

Pippin nodded, taking his mask off. “Good. I don’t think that I could handle ghosts right now, not after the story Aragorn just told us.”

“Where is Eowyn?” Merry replied, looking around curiously. The White Lady was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom.

Pippin grimaced, smoothing the ribbons before tying the mask on tighter. “She’s in the refreshment room, trying to wrestle a bottle of wine from Bergil without causing too much of a fuss. I was just coming to fetch you to help me keep her from drinking herself into oblivion.”

Merry immediately started across the ballroom, his green eyes gleaming behind his own mask. “As amusing as that would be, we can’t have it happen. Eomer would kill us both.”

Pippin hurried to follow him, glad to have shifted responsibility onto his elder cousin. There was only so much he could handle, and a drunken Big Person was not one of them. Merry marched straight to the refreshment room, Pippin trotting at his heels, and could only laugh aloud at the sight that met their eyes.

The refreshment room was empty but for Bergil and Eowyn. Bergil was dancing around the table, holding a wine bottle deftly out of the way of Eowyn’s reaching hands. Eowyn looked about ready to dive over the table at him.

“Give it here, lad, and I won’t be forced to throw things at you!” she snarled, and Bergil had to duck under the table as she rushed around it.

“That’s what Father’s friends say to me when they want more ale,” he panted, hugging the bottle to his chest. “The king said I mustn’t let you have any!”

Eowyn sighed and leaned against the table, putting on her most convincing and reasonable voice. Bergil stayed out of her reach, giving her his most polite glower. Merry and Pippin glanced at each other, curious and amused.

“Bergil, lad, I am a princess in my country,” Eowyn said. “After my brother, I have the most power. If you give me the bottle, I will grant you lands in the hills of the Westfold, and horses, too.”

Bergil thought about it. His eyes darted around the room at the other tables, and the hobbits saw a hobbit-like twinkle in his eyes.

“Any wine bottle?” he asked.

“Any,” replied Eowyn.

Bergil nodded. “And do I have your word for the house and horses in the Westfold?”

Eowyn nodded back at him. “Yes, or in Ithilien, if it pleases you. I give you my word of honor as the White Lady of Rohan and the future princess of Ithilien.”

“This is going to be either good or bad,” whispered Merry. Pippin nodded, trying hard not to laugh.

Bergil paused a moment longer, then said, “I’ll give you a wine bottle if you shut your eyes.” Eowyn acquiesced, putting her hands over her eyes to show him she took him seriously. Bergil marched around the table, replacing the unopened wine bottle for an empty one that the servants had not cleared away yet. He stashed the full one under a cake stand.

“Here you are, Lady Eowyn,” he said, and set the wine bottle in her hands.

Eowyn’s eyes flew open, staring in horror at the empty bottle. Merry and Pippin collapsed in chairs screaming with laughter, and Bergil grinned up at her, giggling a little.

“You said that I had to give you a bottle of wine. You didn’t say that I had to give you a full bottle,” Bergil said.

Eowyn looked from the lad to the roaring hobbits and back again, reviewing their conversation in her head. “That’s… that’s…”

“Semantics,” a voice in the doorway supplied. Eowyn groaned; it was Faramir.

“Good work, Bergil,” Faramir said, laughing a little. “That was quick thinking. I believe we owe you a house somewhere?”

Bergil grinned and nodded. Eowyn muttered something unflattering under her breath, and Merry came to the lad’s aid with a chortle.

“Really, Eowyn, that was terribly funny. You have to admit that he has you. Why do you want wine, anyway?” he asked.

Eowyn grimaced at him. “Because I need a drink. That’s all. Hello, Faramir.”

Faramir nodded at her, coming to her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Where have you been, dearest? People have been asking after you.”

“We went exploring,” Pippin said quickly. “But Aragorn found us before we could go too far, and he made us come back. Then he told us a scary story to make sure that we stayed here.”

Faramir glanced at them all, Merry, Pippin, Eowyn, Bergil. Of the four, only Merry looked entirely innocent; Faramir doubted that he had been along on the adventure, and recalled seeing the hobbit in the ballroom just a few minutes before.

“You didn’t happen to see anything bad, did you?” he asked. “Or anything that you shouldn’t have?”

They all looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?” Eowyn asked sharply.

Faramir shrugged; he had been trying for a joking tone. Obliviously the merry mood of a moment ago had become tense and was now gone. “Illicit trysts, wrestling matches, the like. That’s all.”

“Oh,” said Eowyn. “No, we just had a bit of a scare.”

“She almost killed the king,” Bergil said, nodding towards Eowyn. “With a candlestick.”

Eowyn gave Bergil a sharp glance; he returned it with a comical look of his own. Despite herself, Eowyn had to admit that she liked the lad.

“I thought that he was the Witch-king; he appeared so suddenly out of nowhere,” she admitted, and Faramir laughed aloud.

“And so you want to drink wine to drown out the embarrassment,” he guessed.

Pippin rolled his eyes at Merry; Faramir had missed the point completely, but he was trying. Faramir seemed to sense this, for he quickly became serious and held their gazes like the captain he was.

“Look, I don’t know what is going on tonight, but if it makes you naturally merry folk so tense, it cannot be good. You can tell me anything, you know, but I will not press the matter,” he said. “Just please do not do anything stupid.”

They could only nod. Faramir nodded back at them, gravely. There was a long moment of silence, so quiet they could hear the candles dancing and guttering in the lamps.

Then the silence was broken by a blood-curdling scream from somewhere outside. Faramir turned and dashed out of the room, closely followed by the others. They hurried into the ballroom, where the music had stopped playing and there was a general murmur as the nobles demanded to know what was going on. Aragorn, who had resumed dancing with Arwen, was parting crowds as he rushed across the room towards the outer doors. He was closely followed by Legolas and Gimli, and the sons of Elrond were rushing to join them. Faramir fell into step behind them, and Eomer joined him.

“Eowyn!” shouted Arwen, running to them and grabbing her friend’s arm. “Where have you been? Do you know what is happening?”

Eowyn shook her head, dragging Arwen with her as she battled the surging mass of people around her in order to reach the door. It had shut behind their men, and two guards stood in front of it. They stood aside for Eowyn and Arwen.

“I was bargaining with Bergil; wine in exchange for land,” she said to the queen. “I’ll explain later; it’s a long story. Come, all of you!”

Pippin, who had pressed close to his friend, looked back over his shoulder to see that Frodo and Sam had joined them, as had Lothiriel. They all looked as tense as Pippin felt. He wondered what the scream had been about, and what could possibly have happened. Then, the doors opened and they emerged into the warm summer night.

The men were standing in a small, silent circle at the far end of the courtyard, close to the empty wing. They were all staring at something that lay at their feet. As they neared, Pippin felt his stomach roll over. Lying on the cold stone of the courtyard was a woman in ball dress. She was dead.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: This chapter is why I shouldn’t read Gothic novels when attempting to write a fanfic. I do not recommend reading this in the dark, as it is a tad disturbing. Two points go to the person who can tell me what talethis reminds them of, and where the chapter title comes from.

 My thanks, as always, to the wonderful Pip Brandygin for her insightful beta.

Chapter Eleven: For Never Was a Story of More Woe

  The soup was fish that night, fish in the sort of chowder that was typical of  Dol Amroth. Alatarial gazed at it quizzically as the servant set it down in front of her; her father rarely ate fish soup as he considered it to be too light for real men. Still, she did not speak. She liked the Dol Amroth soup.

  The Steward’s dining room was quiet as they ate, the only sounds being the crackling and snap of the fire and candles, and the soft rattle of cutlery. They had finished the soup and were moving on to the main course (more fish) when Belecthor finally spoke.

  “Daughter, I have found you a husband,” he said.

  Alatarial’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face straight. The daughter of the Steward must keep her composure. “Oh?” she said softly. “Who is it to be, my father?”

  Belecthor gave her a strange smile, as if he regretted his words but could not hold them back. “It is Seregon, son of Terunya of Amroth.”

  Alatarial dropped her fork with a clatter. It bounced off the table and landed under her chair, but she did not heed it. “Father, you have heard the same tales I have of Seregon’s debauchery! I cannot marry him!”

  “My daughter, I have no choice in the matter. I made an oath to Terunya long ago that one of my children would marry a son of his. I had rather hoped for Amroth himself, seeing as Seregon was already married, but it seems his wife has died. He wants you. I cannot break my vow to my cousin; therefore, you must marry Seregon.”

  Alatarial stood up, staring at her father, chest heaving with emotion. “I ask you, my lord, to please rethink your choice. Ask Amroth for his hand, instead. I would take Amroth over Seregon, for Amroth is young at least.”

  Belecthor sighed and sipped his wine. “Peace, Alatarial. I will try to negotiate with Terunya for Amroth. I will warn you, though, that I think it is a lost suit. But come, let us finish our meal. We will speak of this later.”

  Alatarial accepted the new fork that the servitor gave her and automatically finished her supper. With the clear foresight of her people, she saw a small door at the base of a tower. She saw a figure lying on the stone floor in seeming repose. She saw a door being slammed in her face and locked.

*****

  Aragorn knelt next to the woman and reached out a hand to her. A moment before he touched her, one of Elrond’s sons hissed, “Stay your hand, Estel!”

  Aragorn’s hand stopped, hovering just above the woman’s shoulder. A breeze blew out of the West, riffling their hair, and the woman suddenly faded away, until there was nothing left of her. Aragorn sighed heavily and stood. The others looked at him, amazement, fear, and consternation written on their faces. Aragorn glanced over Legolas’ shoulder at the huddled group of women and hobbits before speaking.

  “This was no living woman, my friends. It was a ghost, and we can do naught for? it. We will tell the crowds inside that one of the servants had a scare. Come.”

  And he led the way back inside.

*****

  “This castle is haunted.”

  “Well we knew that,” Pippin said pragmatically, stuffing his mask into his pocket. “I think we realized it about two hours ago, at least.”

  Eowyn threw a tasseled pillow at him and laughed. “You know what I meant.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Arwen, going about the room to light the candles. She could reach the tapers that Bergil could not. She gave them a swift look, reminding them that Lothiriel was with them, and did not know what they did. “Are you setting up to tell us a tale?”

  “No,” Eowyn replied. “I find that I am lacking in creativity tonight.”

  Lothiriel was watching them all curiously, seemingly aware that some undercurrent was passing through the gathered company. They had retired from the ball a short time ago, although the dancing was still going on. Aragorn was still out there, as were the rest of their friends, but Arwen had made it clear that she wanted to hear about the events she had missed, and so Merry, Pippin and Eowyn had trailed in her wake. They had not expected Lothiriel to join them, but apparently she did not want to be left behind by the women, and so had followed them. It was very difficult for them to talk with her in the room, not knowing at all what was going on.

  “I have a tale for you,” Lothiriel said at last, to break the silence. “I recall that you said something about Alatarial in the mask shop this afternoon, Eowyn. I said it was an interesting story. I can tell you it now, if you like.”

  Arwen sat herself down and leaned forward in anticipation. “That sounds like a wonderful idea! Please tell me it’s dark and intriguing. Bergil, darling, sit down with Merry and Pippin. I have not had a page in centuries, and I don’t like making you hover. Sit.”

  Bergil sat. Pippin moved over on the hearthrug to make room for him, and grinned at the lad. Poor Bergil looked confused at the easy way he was accepted into such high company, but Pippin knew that Arwen was treating him just like she would treat a hobbit. It was doubtless that she liked the lad; if not, he would have been long gone.

  Lothiriel made herself comfortable, folding her long legs up under her skirts. Arwen kicked her shoes off and settled back for some mortal entertainment. Eowyn caught Pippin’s eye and grinned.

  “It’s a strange story,” Lothiriel began. “Rather horrifying, really.

  “Once, long ago in Dol Amroth, there was a prince with three sons. The oldest was kind and wise, and made a good heir. The youngest, named Amroth, was intelligent and capable, a good captain of the coastal men. The middle son was of few words, and possessed a melancholy disposition. This man was called Seregon.

  “Now, Seregon was one of those men whom the blood of Numenor had missed entirely. He was dark of hair and beard, and he was strange, keeping to his small estate and often going on long travels. He had been married many times, but each of his wives had died. Many inquired as to the reason of this, as each wife was very young compared to Seregon. He would say that one had died of a fever, one had fallen from her horse, one had drowned in the sea, and so on. This seemed odd and very unfortunate to some, but many feared him, and so no further enquiries were made.

  “About two years after the death of his fifth wife, a girl who was only twenty or so, Seregon called upon the Steward of Gondor, the second Belecthor, to fulfill an old promise. This promise was that one of his daughters would marry into the Prince’s family. Seregon wanted her.”

  Lothiriel paused and surveyed her audience. They were paying rapt attention to her, all listening closely. The flickering fire traced strange patterns on the walls, adding an edge to her scary story that her bardic side adored. Growing up, Lothiriel had wanted to be a wandering bard. That had faded with age, but she still told stories, and knew how to work an audience.

  “Seregon propositioned Belecthor for his daughter, and Belecthor agreed. He had intended to wed Alatarial, his only other child besides his heir, to young Amroth, but Seregon was more affluent. Alatarial was furious. She flatly refused to marry him, and managed to delay the setting of a wedding date for several months.

  “During this time, there was a masked ball, much like the ones going on here. Seregon came from Dol Amroth with his brothers and parents to attend, and to see his young betrothed. Alatarial was not pleased, by all accounts, and she avoided him enough to show her displeasure over the match to all of the nobles in the city. No one really liked Seregon, as you will recall, and so Alatarial’s behavior was encouraged. Seregon’s own brother, Amroth, kept her close to him most times. And so, Seregon went after another maiden.

  “At the time, no one could place the blame for what happened: there was no proof.”

  “What happened? There’s a hole in your story!” yelped Pippin.

  Lothiriel grinned at him. “I’m getting there, young sir; just wait.”

   Amroth had not let Alatarial out of his sight since he had arrived. They were not lovers; just friends who cared enough to look out for one another.

  Consequently, Amroth spent much time in the presence of the ladies. He accompanied them on hawking excursions as well as tours around the lower circles of the City. They could not prevent Seregon from taking part in their activities, but they could, and did, ignore him to the best of their abilities. By the night of the great ball, Seregon seemed almost to be bored of Alatarial, and turned his attention elsewhere.

  Several days prior, a smaller party had ridden in from Dol Amroth. With them was a lovely young woman named Illyria, a friend of the lady Alatarial. She had spent the past month at the sea, and Seregon found her youthful beauty captivating. She would not do for a wife-she was one of the lesser nobles-but she would make excellent quarry nonetheless.

  Amroth, too, fell for Illyria’s charm. She was as dark of hair as he was golden, and they made a lovely pair when together, watched by a smiling Alatarial. Seregon watched, and felt his desire grow.

  The night of the ball, the Citadel was packed with a thronging mass of people. The nobles of Minas Tirith did not like Seregon, and were careful to keep their lady Alatarial dancing at all times. Seregon cared little for this. He took the opportunity to dance with the lovely, lowly Lady Illyria.

  Seregon was skilled at the art of seduction. He had always gotten his own way with women, and so Alatarial infuriated him. Imagine his surprise, then, when the lady Illyria rebuffed him.

  Seregon was not in the mood to be put off, and he persisted in his sweet words until Illyria jerked back from him and walked out of the room at a stately stride. Seregon smiled; this was probably the most unwise thing the girl could possibly have done.

  Illyria made it as far as the portrait gallery before she realized that Seregon had followed her. She was now far from anyone else, and her heart beat with terror, but her pride demanded that she did not show it. 

  “What do you want, sir?” she asked haughtily. “I must ask you to leave me alone.”

  Seregon smiled, calmly backing her into a corner. “I doubt that  will be possible, lady. I want you, and I will have you.”

  Lothiriel paused to scan her audience.

  “Go on!” they shrieked.

  Amroth had seen Illyria storm out of the ballroom, followed so closely by Seregon. He did not trust his elder brother and followed them, thankful that he had a sword with him.

  He followed them to the portrait gallery, drawing his sword and increasing his speed when he saw Seregon push the protesting Illyria against the wall.

  “Leave her alone, brother!” he cried, bodily shoving the older man out of the way.

  Seregon spat at him and pulled his own sword out. “You whelp! Leave me to my business!”

  The fight that followed was long and intense. Both brothers, despite their great difference in age, were accomplished swordsmen, and the clash of their weapons echoed up and down the portrait gallery. Amroth, being lightly built and well knit, was able to dodge and get in closer to Seregon, but Seregon was not afraid of throwing his whole weight into each swing of the sword. They danced erratically up and down the gallery, while Illyria cowered in the corner.

  It was a fight to the death. Seregon put all his fury forth in a display that astounded Amroth. The younger man seemed to be gaining the upper hand though, when Seregon abruptly kicked the sword out of his hand and stabbed him through the chest.

  Amroth froze, the look on his face one of indescribable amazement and horror. He looked from his brother’s triumphant face to the sword embedded in his chest and back again. Seregon stepped back, thoroughly pleased with himself. Amroth blinked, then fell to the floor as his knees buckled. Illyria stood against the wall, paralyzed with horror.

  Seregon frowned, suddenly. He reached forward and pushed his sword deeper into his brother, who moaned on the floor. Seregon knelt down and scooped his brother into his arms.

  “So it ends, lad,” he murmured. “No one opposes me. I suppose you understand that now.”

  Amroth blinked, struggled to speak. There was blood on his lips. It slid down his cheek and streaked into his golden hair as he gasped out, “They know. She’ll tell. Everyone will know what you are…”

  “I very much doubt that, brother. Good bye.”

  Amroth coughed once, and was gone. Seregon set him back down on the bloody stone floor and wiped his bloody hands on Amroth’s cloak. A sob of horror brought him back to the present.

  Illyria shrank further against the wall as Seregon turned his icy gaze to her.

  “Well now,” Seregon said softly. “We can’t have this, can we?”

  She ran. Seregon sprang up and grabbed her, catching her and holding her tight as she struggled. He reached down and pulled the dagger from Amroth’s boot, where he had known it would be. In a moment, it was wrapped in her hand, which was in turn wrapped in his. He held her arm above her heart, and spoke contemplatively.

  “Let me think. We’ll make this look like a double suicide. You two flirted all week, so it will seem like you died to be together. I’d say that is romantic. What do you think, my lady?”

  “Please,” she gasped, eyes wide with horror.

   But Seregon was ruthless and pitiless, and he knew that to let her live would destroy his very existence. A moment was all it took. One moment, and she had stabbed out her own heart by his hand. One moment and she was shuddering out her last breath in his arms.

He waited until she lay still, lifeless, then he dropped her onto the marble floor next to Amroth, and went to tell the peoples in the ballroom of the double suicide that he had tried, and failed, to stop.

  It was not the end of the tale, but Lothiriel stopped to let the effect of her words sink in. Her audience was white-faced, staring at her in terror. Eowyn had put her arm around Bergil, having scooted closer to the lad and the hobbits.

  “Is this a true story?” Arwen asked in a low voice.

  Lothiriel nodded. “Yes, but I must finish it before I answer questions. Are you all fine with me finishing it?”

  Bergil and Eowyn nodded; Pippin squeaked an affirmative. Arwen and Merry just looked stoic, so Lothiriel continued her tale.

  “Seregon convinced his father and the steward that Amroth and Illyria had killed themselves for love. Minas Tirith went into mourning, but many believed the truth-that Seregon had killed them and lied about it.

  “Belecthor, at this time, began to negotiate with the Prince to change his oath. He offered to pay money instead of his daughter, to fulfill it. The prince agreed, but neglected to make the announcement before they went to council with Rohan for horses. When they returned, they learned that Alatarial had died of a fever, only the day before they arrived.

  “Belecthor was devastated. The girl was buried with great ceremony, and the prince withdrew his claim on the oath.”

  Lothiriel paused for breath, and Merry seized the opportunity to ask, “But what happened to Seregon?”

  “Ah, that’s interesting. A year after Alatarial’s death, a maid in Seregon’s estate found a locked room in the tower. Curiosity overcame her and several other servants, and they opened the door one day while their master was out. In the room, they found the bodies of all of Seregon’s wives. He had murdered them with his own hands. The servants immediately told Belecthor’s son and the remaining brother of Seregon, who had come for a visit. Seregon was put to death for serial murder, and he confessed to the killings of Illyria and Amroth before he died. And that, my lords and ladies, is my tale.”

  Silence. The shadows seemed to press in on them closely, the room utterly still.

  Eowyn’s heart was pounding. She felt a curious horror, and wanted the room to be brighter than the dim light provided by the candles. Arwen seemed to feel the same, for she stood and lit the lamps. 

  “That was a terrifying story, Lothiriel,” Merry said reproachfully. “I’m not going to be able to sleep for a month.”

  Lothiriel giggled. “It’s just a scary story, Merry, even if it is true. It can’t hurt you.”

  Eowyn traded a glace with Pippin, but the hobbit didn’t say anything. He was patting Bergil’s back, trying to calm the younger lad down. What with Aragorn’s story earlier, and Lothiriel’s story now, the lad was white faced and trembling.

  “It’s very late,” Pippin announced. “Merry, would you come with me to take Bergil back to his family? We can stop by the kitchens for a snack.”

  “Right you are. Let’s go,” agreed Merry.

  They thanked the ladies, bowing, and left the room, Bergil between them quite protectively. Eowyn did not doubt that they looked upon the lad as a little brother.

  “I must go, as well, I think,” Lothiriel said, stifling a yawn. “Good night, my ladies.”

  She stood, bowing gracefully, and left the room to their murmured farewells. When she was gone, and the door safely shut behind her, Arwen turned to Eowyn.

  “I want to see that room.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Not a very long chapter this time, I’m afraid. Sorry for the long delay; my beta and I have been leading increasingly busy lives of late. Thanks, Pip, for the beta! And this chapter title does have something to do with the chapter, but keep in mind the full quote.

“What we need right now is some warm milk. I find that always helps me sleep.”

Merry steered Bergil into the kitchen of the Fellowship’s house. The lad went easily, more than willing to stay with the hobbits. They had returned to his small house in the lower circles only to find that Beregond was still up at the ball, keeping order in the Citadel, and Bergil’s mother was helping in the kitchens that night. The lad would have been home alone, and while that was not unthinkable, Merry deemed it irresponsible of himself and Pippin to leave him alone after the night’s events, and so Bergil had come home with them.

“Sit, both of you,” Merry instructed. “I’ll make the drinks.”

Pippin and Bergil sat silently at the table, waiting until Merry brought them steamed and spiced milk. Both had had a good scare, Bergil more so than Pippin, and the drinks were welcome and relaxing. He drank his until it was all gone, and felt warmer.

“May I ask a question?” Bergil asked. The hobbits nodded in unison. “What is going on here?”

Pippin laughed a little. “That’s complicated, Bergil, lad. Lady Eowyn and I found a locked up room a few days ago, and the story of it is beginning to drive us all quite mad. It’s a mystery that we’re trying to solve. Lady Lothiriel’s story tonight gave us some more information on it.”

Bergil nodded. “And that’s what the King was talking about, too, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Pippin said. “But I still don’t really understand what any of this had to do with Faramir’s mother. I suppose we’ll begin learning about that part, next.”

Bergil looked as though he didn’t want to know anything more, but he did not say so. They sat in silence for a few minutes, until they had finished their drinks, and then Merry gathered the mugs and tipped them into the sink.

“Bed, lads. I think there’s an extra feather mattress in the closet for you, Bergil,” he said.

An hour later, Legolas opened the hobbits’ door to see if they were in. He smiled at the sight of the pageboy bedded down before the fire, and went to tell Beregond where his son was.

*****

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Eowyn protested, even as she followed Arwen up the corridor.

Arwen shook her head and did not bother to reply. She was not one to give in to nighttime scares. She was an Elf, and did not readily fear the shades of Men. Still, Lothiriel’s story had unnerved her, more than she wanted to admit. This was rapidly turning from adventure into terrifying mystery.

“I’ll take you through the portrait gallery tomorrow some time,” Eowyn said. “It’s too close to the ballroom right now for comfort; someone may see us and ask difficult questions.”

Arwen nodded. They would be going through the portrait gallery anyway, but she knew that Eowyn meant they would not linger to look at anything. As it was, they were both swathed in long dark cloaks, and appeared to be little more than shadows flitting through the night.

They gained the door to the portrait gallery by means of another servants’ passage. The sounds of the ball were fading from the ballroom as they passed; by this late hour, most were retiring to their beds. The two women hurried up the gallery and dashed through the alcove doorway.

“I don’t suppose that I can convince you to turn back now?” Eowyn said as Arwen lit a candle in a lantern. “We could do this tomorrow, when half the City is asleep and Aragorn is busy with some meeting.”

Arwen glanced sideways at Eowyn, a sly smile on her face. “Are you very tired, or just afraid of the dark?”

“Both, rather,” said Eowyn dryly. “That, and your husband will be wondering where you are.”

“Then we had best do this quickly and get back,” Arwen replied, and handed Eowyn the lantern. “Lead the way.”

She had been through this section of the palace enough times now that she knew how to get to the ballroom. They came down the same steps where she had nearly killed Aragorn several hours earlier, and Eowyn vaguely considered finding a map of this place in the library the next day. There were so many entrances and exits here that it was near impossible to come out in the same place. It was worse in the dark; Eowyn could not even see the servants’ entrance in the shadows of the room. She seized Arwen by the arm and led her to the far entrance.

From there, it was a short walk to the room with the hole in the ceiling. She and Pippin had put the room back to rights when they had hurriedly left before, setting the chair back on the floor and dragging the table back to its original spot. Now Eowyn dragged it back under the hole as Arwen pulled the chair over. A momentary climb, and they were in Alatarial’s room.

“Here, tie this around your waist,” Eowyn murmured, handing Arwen one end of the long girdle she wore around her waist. “Just in case the floor gives again.”

The room was just as they had left it, Eowyn’s and Pippin’s footprints already obscured by several days’ worth of dust. When she noticed that, Eowyn bent the lantern’s light towards the floor, searching for any other footsteps. Over thirty years worth of dust had obscured Finduilas’ steps, though, and Eowyn soon gave up the attempt.

Arwen was studying the pictures on the walls, and the books before the hearth, her face contemplative. “I wonder who came to clean up after her,” she said. “Her note said she was locked in, but the story everyone else gave is that she died of fever. It doesn’t make sense.” She paused, flipping through the dusty pages of the bound Lay of Luthien. “You know, two hundred years ago, I sent a packet of books with a traveler from the South, as a present to the lady of Gondor. She was just a child, he said, so I gave her very pretty books with lots of pictures. These are they.” She raised the book and tapped its spine, where the crest of Rivendell was still faintly visible. Eowyn stared at her, amazed. Arwen set the book down and got to her feet. “Did you ever keep a journal, Eowyn? Many Elvish women do, and many of the men, as well.”

“No, why?”

“Because Alatarial may have kept one, right up until her death,” Arwen said musingly. “I wonder. Look around, see if you can find a notebook of some sort.”

Eowyn looked, but nothing came to light. “I doubt she would have left it on her desk. She would have burnt it or hidden it well, knowing it would have been used against her. Hunted women know survival. I speak from experience.”

Arwen nodded. “Well, then. Let us look in concealed places.”

Eowyn set the lantern on the desk and began to riffle through its contents. Arwen searched by the bed, constantly at the end of her tether. At last, Eowyn gave up her search of the desk and allowed Arwen to drag her across the room to the bed. The queen got down on her knees and crawled under, exclaiming and sneezing at the amounts of dust. When she emerged again, she was dusty and empty-handed.

“It’s no use, not now. One cannot search well in the dark. Let us go,” she said.

Eowyn opened her mouth to tease Arwen lightly, when they heard a sudden crash from below. Both women jumped together in fear, but there was no other sound. Eowyn walked to the edge of the hole and peered down into the room below. Nothing.

They climbed down quickly, looking around in the meager light. Eowyn was desperately wishing for her sword, or any sword. What if some traitor had followed them and meant to kill them in this deserted place?

“Oh, dear,” Arwen said, breaking into Eowyn’s increasingly panicked thoughts. “Look.”

Eowyn looked to where the queen’s finger was pointing. The bedroom door was shut tightly. She advanced and tried the handle, but it was firmly stuck shut. They were trapped.

*****

Pippin awoke to bright sunlight and a surly king staring at him. He jumped and squawked, but Aragorn only sighed.

“Have you any idea where my wife and Eowyn may have gone?” he asked. “They’re missing. No one in the palace has seen them since you lads and Lothiriel left them last night.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I seem to have developed the habit of titling my chapters with Shakespeare. Woes. Anyway, my thanks to Pip Brandygin for the beta; she really whipped this chapter into shape for me. Please let me know what you all think; I love getting your feedback!

Chapter Thirteen: Something Wicked This Way Comes

“This is your fault! We could be safe in our rooms, sound asleep if you hadn’t insisted upon coming out here in the dead of night! What if we die? Did you know that I actually wanted to get married and have children? And now we are trapped up here in some forsaken haunted bedchamber, and I am never going to see my family again!”

Arwen gazed at Eowyn with infuriating calm as the White Lady vented her frustration by stamping around their tiny circle of light and waving her hands. Hysterics were something experienced by most mortals, Arwen knew, and had to be dealt with accordingly. She waited until Eowyn had calmed down. It took several minutes.

“Have you gotten hold of yourself?” she asked. “Good. I’m going to try the door again.”

Eowyn stood with her arms folded, glowering at Arwen as the queen pulled at the door again. It was no use; the door was shut tight, and there would be no escape. Not from that route, anyway.

“I’m going to smite something when I get out of here,” muttered Eowyn. “I wonder if my brother will be up for a fight.” A sudden thought gripped her, leaving her cold with horror. “What if we never get out? What if we end up starving to death in here like Alatarial?”

Arwen all but rolled her eyes, raising the lantern and heading back to the table. “You would die sooner than I, my friend, but have no fear. We can break a window if it comes to it. Nasty things, windows. They keep the air out.”

They climbed back into Alatarial’s room, and Arwen went to pull the dusty drapes back. Dust sprang into the room like two great wings, enveloping them both and making them sneeze. When their fits were over, they stood together at the window and gazed down at the scene below them.

It was not yet dawn, and the night was as dark as could be. The section of the city that the window looked down upon was darker than the others, however, and Eowyn recognized the gardens of the Houses of Healing with a start.

“Well, isn’t that an insult added to injury,” she remarked. “Imagine being locked away and staring out of the window at the people getting well again. I’d have been furious.”

“What I want to know is why she didn’t call for help,” Arwen said. “I can understand that no one would have aided her if Belecthor had killed her, but no one liked Seregon, if Lothiriel’s tale is true. Surely they would not have aided him in killing their lady. Which story should we believe, do you think? Alatarial’s or Lothiriel’s?”

Eowyn had no answer for that. This tale was pressing on her more than she wanted it to, and they still knew very little about Finduilas’ part in it. It was altogether too much for her tired brain, and Eowyn fought to stifle a yawn. Arwen saw, and grimaced in sympathy.

“I’d say we’re safe enough here, even if this place is haunted,” she said. “Why don’t we sit down and rest awhile? There’s not much we can do to further our escape in the dark.”

“I wish you’d thought of that before we set out,” grumbled Eowyn, but she joined Arwen in sitting below the window. Their candle was getting low, she noticed, and they did not have a replacement with them. That would be a problem.

The two women sat in silence, the minute night noises of an abandoned castle making themselves manifest. The candle sank lower and lower, and at last, it went dark.

*****

“Are we in trouble?”

“No more than we usually are, Bergil, and Pip and I get in trouble a lot. Don’t worry about it.”

Pippin grimaced at Bergil from behind Merry’s back, and the lad gave him a nervous smile. Aragorn had left them only minutes before, looking grim and annoyed at their lack of knowledge. Pippin had been tempted to placate him with pipeweed, but had not had his pouch close enough at hand to do so. He hurried to finish dressing.

“Don’t worry, Bergil, there’s a sort of merry war between good old Strider and us hobbits. He dragged us through the Midgewater Marshes, and we put a frog in his bed when we learned he hadn’t needed to,” Pippin said.

“Aye, and then he put some hot spice in our tea, and we put a water snake in his bath,” Merry agreed, grinning at the memory of Aragorn dancing away with a roar of surprise. “But he got us back, eventually.”

Bergil was curious in spite of himself. “What did he do?”

“I put pins in their chair cushions to poke them when they sat down, and I was repaid with ink in my tea,” Aragorn said, re-entering the hobbits’ room. “My teeth were black for a month. Fortunately, the stuff faded by the time we left Rivendell. Are you three ready yet?”

“We’re heroes of the West,” snapped Pippin. “You could wait for ten minutes.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes and sat down on Pippin’s bed. Bergil was torn between standing there and laughing helplessly, and dropping to his knees to show his respect. The giggles were winning the fight; every time he pictured the king with black teeth, they crept closer to the surface.

“I am rather worried about the women, lads,” Aragorn said. “They took their cloaks with them, and a lantern. Do you have any idea, any idea whatsoever, where they might have gone?”

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other, sharing a silent communication. They both had an idea, and knew they were right. But why would the ladies still be there, after all this time? There was only one thing they could tell Aragorn, though, if it concerned their safety.

“I think we might know,” Merry said at last. “At least, Pippin does. They may have gone exploring the secret room.”

“What secret room?”

“The one where a little girl died,” Pippin clarified. “It’s been locked up for two hundred years. Eowyn and I found it a few days ago. Queen Arwen may have wanted to see it, too.”

Aragorn stared at them all, a look of utter horror on his face. “Are you serious?”

The hobbits shared another of their glances, and Bergil settled in for a wait. The way they were hedging, this would take awhile.

“If I show you, will you promise not to stop us from going there?” Pippin said at last.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn said, after a long pause. “I know the room you are speaking of, and I mistrust it. The important thing right now is to find Arwen and Eowyn. Come, let us go.”

*****

When Eowyn awoke, a flood of sunshine met her eyes. The room was lit by a bright beam of sunlight, and it made the place seem less somber. She pushed herself up and looked around in bemusement.

From the slant of the sun, it was mid-morning. Eowyn was lying on her side under the window, and Arwen was half slumped against her, still asleep. Eowyn shook the queen, amazed that they had managed to safely spend the night in a haunted bedroom. Arwen yawned and stretched as Eowyn climbed to her feet.

In the light of morning, it was easier to see. She pulled another set of drapes away from the windows, dispelling more dust, and Arwen groaned as the light poured into the room.

“It’s far too early,” she moaned.

“Your own fault,” Eowyn reminded her. “Come, look around now that we can see properly.”

They went back to their search of the room, Eowyn at the fireplace and Arwen back at the bookshelf. There was nothing much to see, not unless there were letters of some sort hidden behind the drawings on the walls. Eowyn turned them over to look, just in case. Nothing. She put the drawings to rights with a shrug. She did not even know what they were looking for.

“Eowyn! Come look at this.”

She crossed to Arwen. The queen stood before the bookcase, staring at one of the shelves curiously. She pointed when Eowyn was within her range of sight.

“The dust here is lighter, and one books leans against another. Something was here, and it was taken away within the last half century,” she said.

“A book?” Eowyn guessed.

“Perhaps. The space is wide enough for either a book or a thin, tall box,” Arwen replied. She frowned at it, as if willing the object back into its place. “Judging by the dust, I think it was taken in the past half century, or so.”

Eowyn looked at the shelf, her mind racing. “Well, remember that Finduilas found this room. Maybe she took it, and it is somewhere in her possessions. She would fit the time period, methinks.” There was something else weighed on she remembered now, too, something both long past and far more recent than a missing artifact. “I remember that the last time I was here, during daylight, I saw signs that a staircase had been removed near to here. And what do you think made the downstairs door slam shut?”

Arwen shrugged. “I highly doubt that the wind slammed the door on us. Maybe we should try the door again.”

Eowyn nodded and climbed down through the hole. Arwen followed, and stood on the table watching as Eowyn turned the doorknob and pulled on the door.

It opened, creaking on rusty hinges. With gasps of relief, the two women fled the room.

*****

“What is it about this side of the palace that attracts you lot?” Aragorn asked in consternation, staring around the worn corridor. “There is nothing here but dust and old furniture.”

“And mysteries,” Merry piped up. “You said yourself you didn’t like what was over here. Isn’t there an inquisitive bone in your body, Strider? Pippin and I found an old sitting room in the Great Smials three years ago, and we were just fascinated by it. That was just one room. Here you have an entire wing that people just left, and you show no interest. Amazing.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. Hobbits.

At that moment, the sound of footsteps pounding on the ceiling above their heads made them all glance up. There was a small staircase nearby, and it hardly surprised them when Arwen and Eowyn came hurtling down it, looking as if they had seen a ghost. When the women saw Aragorn, Bergil, and the hobbits, they slid to a halt, looking chagrined.

“Hello, dear,” Arwen said, trying to look calm and poised. Aragorn just strode across the space between them and hugged her.

“Where were you? I was so worried!” he cried, glowering at her fondly. “I didn’t make it my life’s work to become king, just to lose my wife to some mad midnight excursion!” Arwen laughed kindly, patting his cheek. “I’m quite all right, Estel, never fear. Eowyn and I just forgot to prop a door open, so we spent the night in a little room until we could get out again. What we want now is some breakfast.”

Aragorn looked at both women curiously. “Talk to me later, all right? I’ll have you know that all of our friends are searching for you both.”

“Yes, Aragorn,” Eowyn said. “Shall we go?”

*****

“Why would they have come down here? There were healers up at the Citadel for any who were ill,” Eomer said.

Faramir shrugged. “I don’t know, but we may as well try. It’s the only place we haven’t looked yet.”

Eomer sighed. Faramir had a point, as loath as he was to admit it. The Houses of Healing held a special place in Eowyn’s heart, and she had ever since resolved to learn the healing trade. It was as good a place as any to look for her and Arwen, and between themselves and the Company, they had covered everywhere else.

They weren’t there. Discouraged, the two men left the Houses and retraced their steps to the Citadel. Perhaps the ladies had returned there, or been found. In any case, it was getting on towards the noon meal, and Aragorn would be in a panic if they weren’t all back to reconnoiter and devise a new means of searching.

As they walked, Eomer looked around himself, and up. He had seen Minas Tirith plenty in the past months, but this was a new section of the City for him. On the way down, Faramir had mentioned a shortcut back, and Eomer supposed that this was it. It was a narrow lane beside the gardens, curving indirectly around the wall of the seventh circle. Eomer looked up at this side of the citadel; it was not one he had really looked at before. Many windows stared back at him, dark and sad, and he felt a flutter of curiosity.

“Faramir, what is that?” He pointed.

“What? Oh, the empty wing? I don’t know; I’ve never been over there. Why?” the Steward replied.

“I thought I’d ask, that’s all.” Eomer looked back at the lifeless windows, and suddenly gasped. “Faramir! Look there! Do you see that?”

Faramir looked where Eomer’s finger was pointing. When he saw what the man was pointing at, he gasped himself.

At the window stood a girl. She was staring down at them, a tiny figure wearing a red dress. She was neither Arwen nor Eowyn; even from this distance, they could see that she was too short to be either of them, and her hair was an indiscriminate shade of brown, too fair or dark for either of the ladies. She stood at the window for a few moments, and then vanished.

“Spirits portend death,” Eomer heard himself say from a distance. “That’s what we believe in the Mark.”

Faramir began to sprint up the road. “Hurry! We must return!”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I’m terribly sorry for how long this chapter took! They will be coming faster from now on, I promise!

Chapter Fourteen: The Librarian

Ignoring startled exclamations from the tower guards, Faramir and Eomer sprinted through the Citadel towards the King’s private dining room. They skidded to a halt upon entering the room; after long years of battle training they were only slightly out of breath. They both stared at the assembled group in speechless amazement and relief.

“Where were you?” Eomer burst out, crossing the room and seizing Eowyn in a fierce embrace. “We’ve been searching since dawn!”

Eowyn squirmed, laughing dryly. “I was off having an adventure, brother. Arwen and I decided to do some exploring and ended up trapped in an empty room last night. We managed to break out just a few minutes ago, and here we are.”

Eomer put her down, and Faramir took his turn at hugging Eowyn fiercely. From across the room, Eomer heard Pippin whisper to Merry, “D’you suppose she would let me hug her if I ran at her like that?” The young king suppressed a grin and adopted a stern expression.

“Don’t ever do that again. Someone could have found your bones a hundred years from now,” he said.

Eowyn glowered at him. “They would have done no such thing! The room looked down on the Houses of Healing.”

There was a pause as both men surveyed her. Eowyn frowned at them, fully aware that she had only had time to don a plain brown dress before she and Arwen had snuck off the night before. She was also aware that the three of them were being studiously ignored by the rest of their friends.

“What is it?” she asked, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “Tell me!”

It was Faramir who answered at last, looking hesitant. “We saw, Eomer and I, a girl standing in one of the windows in the abandoned wing. She was wearing a red dress, and neither of us thought that she was you or Queen Arwen. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”

“It was a ghost,” Pippin said cheerfully, popping up by Eowyn’s elbow. “Must have been. And Queen Arwen was wearing blue when she left a few moments ago.” He turned to Eowyn, adopting a serious look that Eomer recognized with a start as a mockery of his own stern face. It was disturbingly accurate. “Now Eowyn, you’ve been out all night and are in no shape to be with people. Merry and I think that you should go bathe and take a nap, and Cousin Frodo will insist upon it if he comes in and sees you looking so sleepy. You have circles under your eyes! Off you go now!”

Eowyn found herself being bundled out of the room, pushed by hobbit hands. She glanced back at her brother and fiancé, calling, “I don’t know who it could have been. I’m sorry to disappoint you! Oh, and we owe Bergil some land in the Westfold.”

Then she was gone.

Aragorn, from where he was standing near the buffet table, raised his glass to the younger men. “It was a wise, if uneducated man who once said, ‘don’t mess around with women, boys, they’ll never let you be.’”

“What are you saying?” asked Eomer, very rightly confused.

“I’m telling you that they won’t tell you anything they don’t want to, so don’t press them,” Aragorn said, and downed his drink.

Perplexed, Eomer turned to Faramir. “What did Eowyn mean, we owe Bergil land in the Westfold?”

*****

“All right, lads, our mission for today is to comb the Great Library for maps of the abandoned wing. Queen Arwen asked us to find them so that we will know where we are going when we explore the place again,” Merry said.

He paused, hands on hips, to survey Pippin and Bergil. The younger lads gazed back at him expectantly, standing at attention in slightly mocking attitudes. Merry was glad that he and Pippin were not on duty that day, and so could move about unbothered by their obligations. The fact that Eowyn had informed them that she intended to sleep until dinner made it easy to keep Bergil with them. “Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death? Bergil! Answer me!”

Bergil stared at him for a moment, than began to giggle. “Aye, sir! For there is great peril to be found in the Great Library! There are pirates in the corners, you know.”

“And bats in the belfry!” Pippin added gleefully. “Come on, let’s go before Strider catches us and puts us to work doing something boring.”

Laughing, the hobbits and Bergil left the Citadel and hurried down into the sixth circle, back to the vicinity of the Great Library. The day was warm and sunny, and a gust of warm air blew their hair back as Merry pushed the heavy wooden door open. Hushed by the stately darkness inside, their laughter faded.

The library was the same as it had been on Pippin’s last visit there, only a few days before. This time, however, they did not have to call the librarian out, for he was sitting in an armchair reading from a huge tome, as stately in his throne as any king. When he saw them standing there, the little man set aside the heavy book and rose to his feet.

“Ah, it’s the young perian who was interested in Belecthor the Second,” he said, his voice as dry as rustling parchment. “How may I assist you today?”

Pippin stepped forward and bowed to the man, seeing as he was the one who had been addressed. “We are looking for maps of the abandoned wing of the Citadel for my lady queen today, sir. Would you happen to have any?”

The librarian gazed down at Pippin, his eyebrows drawn together in a way that strongly reminded the hobbit of Gandalf. He wondered if the two of them could possibly be related.

“I have the maps you are looking for,” the librarian said at last. “And some other things that I think you lads might be interested in. May I enquire as to why you need them?”

Pippin hesitated, glancing back at Merry for help. Receiving none, he said, “We are interested in learning about the history of Gondor, and so are Queen Arwen and Lady Eowyn. That’s all.”

“Ah,” said the librarian, obviously unconvinced. “I see. Good. For a few moments I was worried that you would be looking into the affair of young Alatarial.” And he turned and swept away.

Pippin stared after him for a moment, then hurried to catch up, running a little. The man may have been small, but he took great strides. Pippin could hear Merry and Bergil struggling to keep up.

The librarian did not speak again, but led them through the tall shelves to the same table that Pippin and Eowyn had sat at days before. Passing that, they walked through a small arched doorway that led to a narrow passage, that in turn led to a tightly curling staircase and on up to the first level of the library. There, only a slender iron railing kept them from tumbling down to the large room below. Pippin glanced at it uneasily. It looked far too flimsy to be trusted, even if it was be too high for a hobbit to hold onto.

“What did you mean, you were worried that we were looking into ‘the affair of young Alatarial’?” Pippin panted, gratefully coming to a stop as the librarian turned to scan a shelf of books.

“I meant what I said. You and the Lady Eowyn had me in mind of another young lady who looked into that story and came to grief over it. Some things are best left asleep, young sir,” the librarian replied, and pulled a thick book off the shelf. It was nearly as large as Pippin, and the librarian did not bother handing it to the hobbit, instead setting it on a funny sort of lift. Then he turned back to the shelves.

“You’re not going to be like everyone else here and tell us to stay out of trouble, are you?” Pippin demanded. “Because I’m fairly certain we will ignore you. We’re too far into this adventure to back out now.”

The librarian gave Pippin a funny little smile. “I did not ask you to, Master Perian. I worried about you, yes, but I did not doubt that two such persons as yourselves would investigate, and perhaps bring your friends into it. I knew when you came in here asking for information on Belecthor the Second. I believe I have some information that might be useful to you.”

He pulled several more books off the shelf, set them on the lift, and strode away. The hobbits and Bergil shared a confused glance and followed him.

“What sort of information?” Merry asked guardedly. He wondered what this strange little man could possibly know that no one else did.

“I work with books, sir. For the past fifty years, I have guarded and preserved the past for they who will come in the future. I was never strong enough to be a soldier, and so I spent my time safely in here, reading, while great men performed valiant deeds. I have learned a few things in my time,” the librarian said calmly. “But I am a humble man, and I have learned when to keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

Merry glowered at the man’s retreating back, fists clenched. “Everyone talks in riddles! What was so bad about Alatarial that we cannot possibly reveal who was responsible for her death? If Belecthor didn’t kill her, who did?”

The librarian returned with an armful of books, herding them in front of him as he walked back towards the lift. He settled the last of them atop the others already in the pile, making the lift squeak in protest. He pulled a rope and sent the whole thing gliding down to the long table below. Merry made a mental note to install such a useful invention in Brandyhall’s library when he got home.

The librarian, now finished with his task, turned back to face them, brushing the dust from his hands. “Oh, Belecthor killed Alatarial, make no mistake about that. But there are other things you must learn for yourselves. To your books, lads! I’ll be in the front if you need me.”

And he swept majestically down the staircase and back across the library to his throne.

Pippin turned to Merry and Bergil, at a loss as to what to say or do. After a few moments of staring helplessly at one another, Bergil decided to take charge.

“Well, I suppose we may as well look at those books,” he said, and led the way down the twisting staircase.

*****

There was something strangely enticing about digging through the books that the librarian had given them. As a rule, Pippin did not enjoy sitting indoors book-learning when the day was beautiful, but this research was far more interesting than learning how to calculate the amount of barley each field at home would yield. The books they were looking at were very old, and ranged from written histories of the stewards to the maps they had requested, to gossip pages bound together in fat little books. These the lads found vastly amusing, and they wasted an hour reading aloud to each other tales of fine balls and the nobles who attended them. Gossip pages, Bergil informed them, were something he was unfamiliar with, and must have dwindled during the past several decades. They yielded great amounts of perfectly useless information.

As it was, they found their first scraps of information in one of these fat little books. Merry read aloud to them about a man who angered Belecthor and was ordered to pay extra taxes for that year. Pippin grabbed a sheet of dusty paper and blew a huge cloud of dust into the air. Then he grabbed a pen and ink and copied down the account. It never hurt to take notes, after all, and he was certain that Arwen and Eowyn would want to hear everything they learned that day.

“I think that Belecthor was a bit mad,” Merry announced a while later, as he set down the last of the gossip books. “How many reports are there of his being angry at people for little things, Pip?”

Pippin surveyed his note-covered paper. “Thirty eight. And they’re all for stupid things, too.”

“My favorite one is about the youths who rode their horses in the great hall for entertainment,” Bergil stated, grinning a little. “I can understand him being angry about that.”

The hobbits had to concede that point. “It’s the other things, like forgetting to bow to him at a meeting and having to pay a fine for it that I don’t understand,” Merry said. “That strikes me as being wrong, somehow.”

Pippin pushed the little books away and heaved a larger book off their pile. “Let’s see what else there is in here.”

This next book contained a detailed map of the Citadel. The unused wing was well detailed, its floor plan sketched out and all of the rooms identified. They found the old ballroom, the servants’ passage, and Alatarial’s room straight away. The staircase that should have led from the main floor up to Alatarial’s room was also easily located in a corridor that none of them had ever been down. Tracing a line with his finger from the portrait gallery door to Alatarial’s room, Pippin found the route that Eowyn had first taken in that part of the house. It was so obvious that he was slightly confused as to why he had taken the roundabout way through the ballroom.

“This place is even more complicated that I’d thought,” Merry said in amazement as he studied the map. “I’m going to copy it down.”

Spreading a sheet of paper over the floor plan, Merry traced a copy with the stub of a pencil he found further down the table. Bergil and Pippin watched as he did so, silently awed by Merry’s precision. When he was done, Merry paused, frowning at the map.

“Lads,” he said. “I know we have lots more research to do, but look at this.”

He pointed at a large room several corridors away from Alatarial’s room. It had no door, no windows. And yet, it was clearly marked.

“ ‘Alchemy Room’,” Bergil read aloud. “That’s strange. Something like that should have been down at the Houses, I should think.”

Merry nodded, grimly rolling his copy of the map up. “We’ll ask the librarian to hold onto these books for us a while. I have a sneaking feeling that this is important. We’re going to go find that room.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Once again, I must apologize for the long gap between updates. And once again I must blame computers, for technology likes to die on my beta and I. That being said, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Thanks Pip, for the beta!

Chapter Fifteen: To the Alchemy Room

  “Well, I think it’s a silly name. ‘Alchemy Room’. Who could take a place like that seriously?”

  “ Somebody obviously did, Pip, because it’s there,” Merry replied, leading the way towards the librarian’s seat.

  The librarian was obviously of excellent hearing. “No you don’t. You lads go straight back there and continue your studies.”

  The hobbits and Bergil froze, surprised by the powerful tone in the wizened little man’s voice. Pippin began to think he was right in supposing that the man was somehow related to Gandalf. The White Wizard was the only other person Pippin knew who had perfected that sort of commanding tone.

  “W-why, sir?” Bergil asked, voicing Merry and Pippin’s thoughts. He was gazing at the librarian in alarm.

  “Because,” the librarian replied sternly, “I did not get out all of those books and maps for you to go off gallivanting at the slightest little notion. Go back to that table and don’t come back up here for two hours.”

  Cowed, they slunk back to the huge table, and resumed their places in front of the books.

  The next book in the pile was an account of the City during the year of Alatarial’s death. This book was bent open in one section, which fell open naturally when Pippin laid the book flat.

  “ ‘A young tower guard was found raving this day, the fifteenth of April. He is presumed to be insane, and has been sent to the asylum in the Fifth Circle’,” Pippin read aloud, and looked up at Merry and Bergil. “Well, that’s interesting. I wonder what this has to do with anything.”

  “It’s probably something that we’ll have to piece together before the end,” Merry said, shrugging. “Best write it down, Bergil. What else is there?”

  Pippin looked back at the book as Bergil scribbled the note of the mad guard down. There were several other notices of the kind, all dealing with the affairs of the Citadel. Pippin got the feeling that some things were written down as though they had actually happened, but he could not be certain. It was annoying, that feeling. It made him frustrated because he did not know what to believe.

  “Nothing else jumps out at me,” he said eventually. “Is there anything in your book, Merry?”

  Merry was leaning both elbows on the pages of a huge tome. It was by far the newest of the books on the table. He was biting his lip in a way that told Pippin that he was concentrating very hard.

  “I think I can tell who that ghost was last night. The one who screamed at the ball,” he said.

  Pippin started. That event seemed so long ago that he had already stored it away in his mind as occurring ‘the other day’. It seemed too easy, that they had found the identity of the woman so soon.

  “ ‘Lady Niriel, long-time companion of the Lady Finduilas, committed suicide during a ball held at the Citadel on the twenty second of March.’ It doesn’t give a year,” Merry added. “It says she had been hearing voices, and that she left a note explaining that she jumped to rid herself of them.”

  Pippin and Bergil stared at him, both shocked to the core. Then Bergil wrote it down on the parchment.

  “You know, I’m beginning to think that Minas Tirith is bad for the health,” Merry said. “You should defect to Rohan, Pippin. It seems so much simpler. You can’t go wrong with plains and horses.”

  Pippin laughed. “Unless there is something they’re not telling us.”

  “I think the Shire sounds much less complicated,” Bergil said decidedly, waving the parchment to dry the ink.

  “Oh, it is. It really is,” Merry said. “And nothing changes in the Shire.”

  They were silent for a moment, remembering simpler times, and Bergil wisely did not interrupt. Then Pippin shook his head and straightened up.

  “How much time has passed? I don’t doubt that the librarian will make us stay for the full two hours. He reminds me of Gandalf,” he said.

  Merry glanced at the pocket watch he had acquired. “It has been forty minutes,” he said. “But we still have plenty of books to go through. Best get to work, then.”

  They each took a book and began searching. The written histories of the city were dusty, but in good condition, and many of them opened naturally to certain sections. They very quickly learned not to ignore these pages. They seemed to yield more information than any others.

  Bergil’s book was about Dol Amroth. He read all about the Prince of Alatarial’s time, and about the man’s three sons. Seregon featured prominently, several pages devoted to chronicling his crimes. He took a piece of paper from the pile, blew the dust off, and took notes.

  Two hours later, they were none the wiser as to why the librarian had given them these books, but they had plenty of information. ‘Tidbits’, as Merry said. They would show them to Arwen and Eowyn later, and perhaps puzzle them out. Now, however, they had an expedition to make.

  “Try not to do anything perilous,” the librarian said dryly as they returned the books to him and headed towards the doors.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be careful,” Pippin said cheerfully to him. “Thank you for helping us today.”

  The librarian inclined his head to them, watching until the heavy door swung shut behind them. Then he sat back and sighed. He had done all he could, for now.

*****

  They stopped in the Company’s house for tea, eating toast dripping with butter and jam in the kitchen. Spending the first part of the afternoon in the library had left them all hungry, and besides, they had missed elevenses. Merry carved them all thick slices of bread and toasted it over the coals.

  “What confuses me is this alchemy stuff. I have never heard of it before,” he said, settling down at the table with the toast in hand. “You’d have thought that some of those books would have touched on it, but of course they didn’t.”

  Bergil munched some toast thoughtfully. “I think I know what it is, Sir Merry. I remember learning something about it in lessons before the war.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something about using a stone to turn plain metal into gold. It was supposed to do other things as well, like make a potion that would make the person who drank it immortal,” Bergil explained. “That’s all I know, really.”

  “What are you lot talking about? Black magic?”

  The hobbits and Bergil looked up; Legolas had noiselessly entered the room as only an elf can, and was regarding them with an expression that was no less quizzical for all its lightness. Pippin smiled in relief at him.

  “We looked at an old map today and saw a room labeled Alchemy Room,” he explained, deciding that a half-truth was probably the best way to go with Legolas. “Merry and I have never heard of it before, so Bergil was explaining it to us.”

  “I see,” said Legolas, helping himself to their snack. “Foolish mortals, trying to have what they were not gifted with. It is one thing to make progress, lads, but it is an entirely different story when you toy with nature in ways that you should not. The Dark Lord extolled the wisdom of trying to get what you cannot. I believe that is the reason Numenor was sunk.”

  The lads all stared at him. Legolas smiled back, seeing the alarm on their faces. “Never fear, the Shadow is departed. I have to wonder, though, why there was a room for alchemy here in the palace. Strange. I suppose you’ll tell me when you find out, though.”

  “What makes you think we’re going to find out?” asked Merry, confused. Why did Legolas have to be so confounded enigmatic all the time?

  Legolas shrugged. “What with the trouble that you are getting into with Arwen and Lady Eowyn, I would be surprised if you did not. That’s all.”

*****

  “Are all Elves like that?” Bergil asked a while later as they hurried through the bustling corridors towards the portrait gallery.

  Pippin laughed. “Enigmatic and strange? No. And Legolas likes to act that way sometimes. He’s not always so dignified. You should have seen him when we blew up a privy around him in Rivendell. It was not a pretty sight.” 

  Bergil tried to imagine Legolas of Mirkwood covered in filth, and failed. Obviously Merry and Pippin were more worldly-wise than he.

  “Hush now, lads, and try to be inconspicuous,” Merry muttered. They were nearing the corridor that led to the gallery, and did not want to be stopped. Quiet and determined, they slipped through the various doorways until they were in the portrait gallery.

  “I’ll never get used to this place,” Pippin muttered as they crept through the stale grandeur of the corridor. “Even if I go through it five times every day. It’s creepy. Unsettling.”

  Merry and Bergil nodded in agreement. The portrait gallery was not a cheerful place, with all of its staring painted eyes. They made it to the alcove door without any problems, a small miracle as they had half expected Aragorn to have posted a guard there to keep them from entering. Merry held the door for them as they hurried through, and shut it softly after them.

  “Right then,” he said, consulting the map he had copied. “It’s this way.”

  It was a long way, through twisting corridors that were wholly unfamiliar to them. Pippin did not recognize anything, and knew that they were passing though places undisturbed by mortal steps for centuries. At one point, they passed an open, oddly sunny room and paused to look inside. Their eyes met with a strange spectacle: a messy nursery that looked as though its occupants had been swept up by their nurses one day while at play, and taken away, never to return. There was even a dusty table that held the remains of a lunch that had never been consumed.

  “Let’s continue,” Merry said after several moments of staring at the ruins. “Come on.”

  Neither Pippin nor Bergil argued with him.

  At long last, they reached the place where the map indicated the Alchemy Room should be. The map was right, however; there was no door leading into the room. Pippin wondered why they were surprised; nothing was as it seemed in this part of the palace. They stood together in a huddle, contemplating the map and the empty wall.

  Empty, that was, except for an elegant sculpture of a man, which stood in a painted niche several feet away. They had passed several such sculptures, all faded and beautiful. Merry’s eyes fastened on it and a small smile grew on his face.

  “There must be a secret passage,” he said. “A secret door. I wonder-”

  As Pippin and Bergil watched, Merry went up to the sculpture and shoved it. Nothing. Merry waved them over to help, and they examined it thoroughly for a hidden spring. A long time passed in which they discovered nothing, only succeeding in rubbing decades’ worth of dust off the sculpture and onto themselves. Then, suddenly, there was a loud clicking sound and the sculpture moved back into the wall several feet, creating a narrow opening wide enough for a fully grown but slender man to pass through. They stared at the dark space behind it. They had found the Alchemy Room.

  “Well, lads,” Pippin said at last, breaking the heavy silence. “Shall we?”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Thank you, Pip, for the beta!

Chapter Sixteen: Accident

“We forgot to bring torches,” Bergil said softly.

The hobbits traded a martyred look; the lad was right. The hole in the wall was gaping like a maw; they had not seen anything like it since Moria. At least there they had had the torches that Aragorn and Gandalf magically produced from their packs. Pippin wondered at their stupidity. How they had managed to set off on an expedition for a hidden room in an empty wing without torches or candles was beyond him. Even back in the Shire he had known to take some sort of light with him when he went exploring.

“Well, there are plenty of abandoned rooms here,” Merry said at last, breaking the heavy silence. “I’d wager Gimli that there are lamps and flints in at least one of them.”

They turned back down the corridor and walked until they reached a door. This door was made of heavily carved black wood, with a handle that was higher than any of them could reach. In the end, Merry boosted Pippin up and the Took pulled the handle down. With a grinding squeak, the door swung open, and Pippin tumbled forward into the chamber, landing with a thud that raised huge amounts of cloudy dust.

“Oi! That hurt!” he complained, standing and dusting himself off. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“I wonder why they made the handle so high,” Merry mused. “I can’t imagine any children wanting to come into a place like this.”

Pippin nodded, gazing about the room. It was a large room, hung with dark tapestries and heavy red drapes. Several sofas and chairs were scattered about, and Pippin realized that this was an apartment like Arwen’s, with a sitting room coming before the bedroom. The windows were covered, reducing the room to shadows.

“It seems they had an aversion to sunlight, too,” he said. “These people! Honestly, it’s no small wonder that everyone was so happy when Strider became King.”

“Was it this bad under Denethor, Bergil?” Merry asked, scanning the walls for candles. “Nothing. How wretched.”

Bergil looked surprised. “Er, I don’t recall it being bad. I mean, we were at war lots, but that was against the Shadow. Things weren’t always scary. And I never actually saw Lord Denethor close up.”

Merry shrugged. Things were being kept quiet about Denethor’s end, but from what Pippin had told him, Merry knew that he had been mad as a March mare. It still chilled Merry to the bone to think of someone trying to burn Faramir to a cinder. Who would do something like that to their own son?

“I can’t see any lights in here, Merry,” Pippin said, breaking into Merry’s thoughts. “Maybe there are some in the bedroom?”

Merry nodded, and they huddled together as they started towards the dark bedroom door. The hangings in here were red as well, but thankfully they did not have to stay long in the room. There was a huge desk in one corner with many large candles resting on it in ornate gold holders. Each of the lads took a long taper and candlestick and lit it with the flint and steel that Pippin found in one of the drawers. The flickering glow did little to illuminate the room, and they hurried to leave it behind them. All three lads did their best to ignore the fact that they were headed towards a room that was even darker.

The Alchemy Room was open, as they had left it. The statue was still there, of course, but now it seemed to glare at them with a forbidding eye. Pippin gulped as he slunk past it. He wondered whom it was a statue of.

The space behind the statue was more of a small passage than a room. They followed it quickly, eager to see what was there and leave. Pippin shivered in the darkness; he had to admit to himself that he felt braver with a Big Person nearby. It would have been nice to have Eowyn with them, or even Strider. Nothing would dare attack Strider.

“Oh!”

The exclamation came from Bergil, but Merry and Pippin also emitted gasps of wonder. This room was unlike anything they had ever seen before. Tall tables were adorned with strange tubes of twisted copper that ended in glass bottles. Some of the bottles were empty, but others were filled to various levels with amber liquids. Charts and sketches covered the walls, stuck anywhere and everywhere with no apparent order. Everything was covered with the layer of dust and cobwebs that was so common to this wing of the house.

“Bizarre,” Pippin announced finally. “Absolutely batty. Belecthor was quite obviously mad as a fish.”

“I see no argument there. And we thought that Frodo was odd,” muttered Merry.

“The Ringbearer?” squawked Bergil, looking thoroughly shocked at the comparison of the ultimate hero to a mad steward.

Merry nodded grimly, raising his candle to penetrate the shadows. “Frodo has rooms full of books and old paintings. He’ll hole up there for days, reading and sketching, which is part of the reason why the neighbors think he’s so strange. It’s a funny world, lad.”

Bergil shrugged, storing that information away and turning his attention the spectacle before them. The room was so fascinating that he was filled with awe. Their candles barely penetrated the darkness of the room, which pressed in at them like a tangible thing, and filled them with a peculiar sense of dread. It was as though something was watching them, an unearthly thing like a remnant of the Shadow. Bergil shuddered.

“Oh, look, it’s a book!” Pippin said suddenly, pointing to a stack on the worktable. “Maybe Belecthor kept a journal.”

He left their tight huddle and strode towards the table. The darkness kept the footstool from Pippin’s line of sight, and the Took, moving quickly, tripped over it and went crashing into the worktable. He threw his hands out to catch himself and only succeeded in crashing into the table before falling to the floor. The equipment on the table shivered, swaying dangerously, then seemed to still. Merry breathed a sigh of relief; Pippin looked to be out of harm’s way. It seemed that he breathed a moment too soon, though, for the gently swaying tubes and bottles suddenly crashed down around Pippin.

“Pip!” bellowed Merry, grabbing Bergil and leaping away as the wreckage came hurtling down around his cousin.

Pippin didn’t have time to move. The last thing he saw was a copper pipe hurtling towards his face.

*****

“Really, I think of all the people in this kingdom, only the two of you have the nerve to disobey me. And you’ve dragged poor Bergil into it as well. How many times must I ask you to stay out of that wing?”

Pippin opened his eyes slowly and blinked. Merry and Aragorn were glaring at each other, planted firmly apart on the floor, looking furious. Bergil sat nearby, looking terrified.

“I should imagine I’ve told you at least four times by now, most likely more. And you keep going over there! Pippin could have died, Merry! Again!”

That, Pippin thought, was a tad unfair. He had not died when the troll fell on him, just been rather squashed, and he did not think that a pipe would do him in after that. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a soft groan came out.

“Meh…”

At once, Merry and Aragorn ceased their quarreling and turned to him. Aragorn bent low over him, and placed a hand on Pippin’s forehead.

“How do you feel, Pip?” he asked concernedly. “How’s your head?”

Pippin considered a moment, biting his lip. “Odd,” he said at last. “It hurts.”

Aragorn smiled a little dryly. “I don’t doubt it. Anyone who has copper pipes come crashing down around them would be lucky to escape with less than a headache. Luckily for you, that’s all you’ve got. Now, how many fingers do you see?”

“Three.” Pippin smiled weakly. “Well, that’s good then. So. Are you going to yell at me like you did Merry?”

“I should,” Aragorn replied. “But I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I daresay,” Pippin replied. “And don’t be angry at Bergil. We dragged him into it.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. He did not doubt the veracity of that statement for a moment.

“Get some rest. I’ve got a potion for you to take that should alleviate your headache within an hour or so. You’ll be fine.”

Pippin shrugged in place of nodding, drank the potion Aragorn handed him, and grimaced. “I do think that your potions will be the death of me, Strider. They’re utterly horrid and always will be.”

Aragorn smiled at him despite himself. “Don’t be melodramatic. Now rest. You need it.”

Pippin shrugged again and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Aragorn straightened up and turned to Merry and Bergil. He was met with looks both defiant and fearful. Wordlessly he beckoned them to follow him from the room.

Once they were in the sitting room, Aragorn sat down in an armchair and turned to face the lads.

“Really, Strider, you can’t blame us for being curious. I’m sure you would have done the same thing when you were young,” Merry said, folding his arms and looking belligerently at Aragorn.

Aragorn rolled his eyes again and turned to Bergil. The lad visibly shrank several inches.

“Relax, lad,” he said. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You’re not?” squeaked Bergil, who obviously was fully expecting to be ridden out of the city on a rail.

“No,” said Aragorn. “I’m not. Slightly annoyed, perhaps a bit chagrinned, but not angry. For some reason I find it difficult to remain angry with Merry and Pippin for long.” He ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “That being said, I am honestly considering putting a new lock on that door and keeping the key on my person at all times.”

Merry gave him a small grin. “I don’t think that would work, Strider. Queen Arwen would just take it away from you while you were asleep and give it to us.”

Aragorn blinked at him. Merry gazed back, grinning from ear to ear. Bergil looked from one to the other, uncertain of how he should react. Several moments passed, then Aragorn threw his head back and laughed.

“You’ve even got my wife in on it, you rascal. Fine. Just be careful. I can’t stress that enough. Come to Gandalf or myself if you have any desire to go exploring, and we’ll make sure you have what you need. No need to go sneaking around anymore. Understand?”

Merry and Bergil nodded. Aragorn could see that Pippin’s injury had frightened them more than they were admitting. It had been an hour since they had fetched him. It had been Bergil who came running to the throne room, covered in dust, his face streaked with tears.

“Sir Pippin is hurt, sir! Sir Merry sent me to fetch you!” the lad had cried, startling several dignitaries, who all glared at the lad in annoyance that he would dare interrupt the King.

Aragorn, however, had leapt up from his seat, ordered Faramir to see to the dignitaries, and had followed Bergil at a run to the Alchemy Room. Too worried about Pippin to pay much attention to the mysterious room, Aragorn had not bothered to ask much about what they had been doing. That had come later, when Pippin was firmly ensconced in his bed with a damp cloth over his head.

Now, though, Aragorn could concentrate on the most burning question in his mind: how they had managed to find that secret room in the first place. When he put it forth to Merry and Bergil, both lads shrugged and exchanged a glance.

“It was on an old map we found in the Great Library, sir,” Bergil ventured at last. “We were curious, so we went to investigate.”

Aragorn nodded. “And Pippin tripped and knocked over all that equipment. Fool of a Took. You were right in coming to me, Bergil.”

Bergil beamed at the praise. Aragorn smiled back at him, liking the lad in spite of himself. He had spirit.

“That being said, I am serious about not exploring that place without myself or Gandalf. I do not trust it at all, not after what happened so long ago. But I am not about to shout at you for it,” Aragorn said, and gave them a small, pitying smile.

“Why?” Merry asked nervously. He did not like that look on anybody’s face; it could only mean one thing.

“Because I think you are about to get the talking-down of your life, Meriadoc,” the King replied, and beckoned to the door, which Frodo had just silently passed through. The Ringbearer was swelling like a bullfrog, and Merry inwardly groaned.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Aragorn said, stepping quickly towards the door. “Come, Bergil.”

Leaving Merry to the furious storm cloud that was Frodo, Aragorn and Bergil made a hasty retreat.

“Poor lad,” Aragorn said to Bergil, shaking his head. “Frodo is a good hobbit, and very kind, but he is not one to be angered.”

Bergil was not certain how to respond to this. He settled for a respectful nod. The King looked down and gave him a kindly smile.

“I keep forgetting you’re not a hobbit, lad. I do apologize,” he said.

Bergil nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

At least it’s not ‘My Lord King’ anymore, Aragorn thought with a smile. They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Aragorn could see that Bergil was working up the courage to ask him a question.

“Er, did Merry and Pippin really put ink in your tea, sir, or were they making it up?” Bergil finally burst out.

Aragorn laughed again. “They did much, much worse before they got to that.”

“They said something about blowing up a privy,” Bergil said shyly, sneaking a glance at the King.

Aragorn snorted at the memory. “Yes, well, let me tell you about that. It all started when Merry found an old map of Eriador…”

*****

Eowyn woke up around dusk, and lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. Something was strange, but she did not know why. Sitting up, she reached for a soft old robe that someone had found her and slipped it on. Perhaps it was the quietness of the corridor: it was a set of rooms arranged for the Rohirric royal family, and it was usually bustling with marshals reporting to Eomer and their friends coming in to visit at all hours. For it to be so quiet now was unsettling.

Deciding that a dress was probably more respectable to wear as it was getting on towards dinnertime, Eowyn discarded the robe and pulled on a simple blue gown. Stepping out into the corridor, Eowyn looked around for someone. There was no one down the corridor, so Eowyn turned and looked behind her. She jumped several inches and emitted a tiny squeak of shock.

“Finally awake then, lass? Good,” Gandalf said, nodding at her. “Young Peregrin has had a bit of an accident. Hit his head, it seems, whilst exploring a secret room in the locked up wing. Did I not tell you to come to me if anything like this were to occur?”

Eowyn blinked at him, startled. “Pippin is hurt? Is he all right?”

“Quite well, luckily. He’s seen worse, that lad,” Gandalf gave her a measured look. “I think it’s time to suggest to you that you stop delving into the ghosts of two hundred years ago and start concentrating on that lady whose place you will shortly be taking.”

With that, Gandalf strode down the hallway and left the Rohirric rooms.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: How do I even express how sorry I am that it has taken me so long to update? Life has been incredibly insane for both me and Pip Brandygin, my beta, and will likely get even mores so with the holidays coming up. I plan on finishing this story, though. I just hope I still have readers who want this fic!

Chapter Seventeen: Finduilas

The only thing to do, Eowyn decided, was to go to Faramir. Doubtless he would not know much, but Finduilas was his mother, and he had known her at least a little, and been around at the time of her death. He had to know something.

She found him in his office, a different one from the traditional steward’s office, and very near to Aragorn’s own. Both men had decided to fly in the face of tradition and locate their studies in rooms they actually liked. Eowyn approved; she could not see Faramir being happy in the room where his father must have verbally abused him over the years. When he answered her knock, Eowyn opened the door and slipped inside.

Faramir looked up from his ledgers and smiled at her. Eowyn grinned back, feeling her anxiety lift a little in the presence of her betrothed. He was so adorable, with his dark hair mussed from where his hand gripped it, and smudges of ink all over his fingers.

“Hullo,” he said. “What is it, love?”

Eowyn perched on the edge of his desk, and picked up a paperweight to toss from hand to hand. “Faramir, do you remember your mother?”

Faramir paused, looking at her curiously. “Yes. Why?”

“I’m curious,” Eowyn replied truthfully. “I don’t know what a lady steward is supposed to do. And I am curious to know what she was like. Tell me about her, Faramir.”

Faramir turned his pen around in his hands, examining it absently. The ink left faded marks on his fingers. There was a small smile on his lips, as though he were remembering a short happy time in the midst of the darkness of his life.

“I was very young when she died, perhaps five years old. I remember that she was very beautiful, and generally very happy. She had dark hair and grey eyes, and she always dressed in colorful clothing. Her eyes were full of laughter, until one day she changed,” he said, and stood, walking to his window and looking out at the darkening City.

“She did not love Minas Tirith. Her heart was in Dol Amroth, where she grew up in the castle by the sea. She came here to marry my father because she loved him, and I know that she was happy for a time, even if it wasn’t a very long one. My father gifted her with her own little room in the Steward’s apartments, and she decorated it with tapestries that showed the seaside, and lots of her own pencil sketches. I remember that she had a big bowl full of tiny colorful fish that someone had brought her from Dol Amroth. Boromir and I loved being in that room: nothing bad could come in. Even my father was happy when he was in it. I actually remember him smiling.”

Faramir looked up and gave her a sad smile. Eowyn smiled back at him, her heart aching. She could tell how difficult it was for him to speak of his family, to think of the past. Once he was finished, she would do her best not to ask him again.

“It was a fever that finished Finduilas. I was too young to comprehend that she had slowly sunk into depression, although I did know that something was definitely wrong with her,” Faramir continued. “For several months before her passing, she became quiet and withdrawn, as though something weighed heavily on her spirits. I know now that she died of depression. The Shadow in the East filled her with horror, and this stone city was not for her. It was a cage, like the one you fear.”

Faramir paused again, his brow knit thoughtfully. Eowyn waited; in her experience you could not rush a man when he was thinking. Faramir was silent for a few moments, hands clasped and head down, as though he was in pain. As he probably was, she reflected,.

“I remember the day she changed,” he said at last. “I had spent the morning learning my letters with my nurse, and mother was in her room when I returned to show her what I had learned. I remember being frightened by the change in her, in her eyes especially. All of the laughter was gone. She was sitting hunched over in her chair with her face in her hands. She was very pale when she looked up, and there were tears in her eyes.

“After that, she was grim all of the time. Her eyes stopped laughing, and she died of a fever that swept through the city a short time later,” Faramir finished. “I still wish I knew where she went that day. I have no doubt that it aided in the killing of her.”

Eowyn bit her lip and went to hug him. She desperately wondered what it was Finduilas had seen that day. Aragorn had said that she visited Alatarial’s room long before Faramir was born, so she must have found something else out, besides the murder.

“Faramir,” Eowyn said at last. “Will you show me your mother’s room?”

*****

Finduilas’ room was unlike anything Eowyn had ever seen before. It was a light airy room, or would have been if the curtains at the tall windows were open. Faramir pulled them open for her, and the early evening starlight flooded the room. They went around together, lighting candles until the room glowed almost cheerfully. Eowyn looked around it with interest.

Tapestries were hung at intervals along the polished walls, each depicting a scene of life by the sea: fishermen with nets on ships, children playing in the waves, a small but lovely castle standing on a cliff overlooking the water. Interspersed were small sketches done in charcoal on expensive vellum, also showing coastal life. There was a shelf of books between two windows, and on the opposite wall stood a tall glass-fronted cabinet filled with miniature ivory mumakil and seashells.

Eowyn was drawn to the mumakil. These little carvings looked far different from the monstrous beasts she had seen at the Battle of the Pelennor. Some of them were almost comical. There was one with a tiny painted tower on its back, and there were two tiny figures inside. Eowyn bent to look at it closer.

“A Haradric wedding,” Faramir said from behind her. “The bride and groom ride on a painted mumakil at their wedding party.”

Eowyn looked up at him with a grin. “Aren’t they terribly big?”

“I suppose that there are smaller ones as well,” Faramir replied. He reached past her and pulled the cabinet open. “Which one do you like best?”

Eowyn pointed at a small, elegant oliphaunt that stood with its trunk raised and its ears flared. Faramir took it in his hand, than gave it to her.

“Keep it. Maybe you can start your own collection,” he said.

Eowyn took the carving and smiled up at him.

“Thank you, dearest.”

Faramir just grinned at her. “Look at the books. Maybe you will find something of interest to read. My mother liked novels, not just gloomy lays and tiresome histories.”

Eowyn nodded and went to the bookshelf. She was not much of a reader, preferring action, but perhaps these books would give her something to do in the coming winter months, once they were married and there was nothing to do in the City, as she doubted that their home in Ithilien would even be begun. There were many books there, some more worn than others, and she pulled one or two that looked interesting from the shelves. Each had a title engraved on the spines, fascinating things like The Midnight Embrace and The Mermaid. As she pulled the latter book down, a small, black bound book caught her eye. It had no title, so Eowyn opened it and looked inside a moment before snapping it shut and turning to Faramir. He gave her a curious look.

“I think I’ll take these ones, if you do not mind,” she told him, giving him a smile to still his curiosity. “They look interesting. May I come back when I am done with them?”

“Yes, of course. You are welcome to any of the rooms in the Steward’s apartments, and may come here any time you like. Just don’t change anything.”

Eowyn laughed and hugged him again. Besides being simply wonderful in his own right, Faramir had just unwittingly given her the right to snoop and explore, and search out the mystery behind Finduilas and Alatarial.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Well, it’s been a long time since the last update! I’ve been incredibly busy, and I’m glad to have this finally posted. Happy New Year, everyone!

Chapter Eighteen: Looking for Answers

The first thing to do, Eowyn knew, was to find someone to read the black book with, for there was no chance at all of her reading it alone. She needed a hobbit or two, perhaps all of them. But no, Merry was probably with Pippin, and it would be unfair to excite the injured Took further. So, to Arwen it was. Right.

She made her way quickly to the royal apartments, clutching her books and practicing her most innocent look in case she met Aragorn. As she rounded the corner, she very nearly ran into a small, unhobbity person.

“Lady Eowyn!” Bergil cried, jumping back. “Oh, good! My lord King asked me to come and find you. Queen Arwen wants to see you.”

Eowyn smiled at him. “Ah. Perfect. Thank you, Bergil. Shall we go?”

The royal apartments were bustling with dinner preparations when Eowyn and Bergil arrived, maidservants bustling everywhere, carrying various articles of clothing to be cleaned in their arms. They paused to let Eowyn through the door, than quickly exited the room, looking thoroughly put out about something.

“Are they gone?” came a shout from the bedroom as the door shut behind the maids, the voice that of Aragorn.

“Yes, but for Bergil and myself,” Eowyn replied, glancing at Bergil in puzzlement. The lad just grinned at her, looking delighted. “Arwen wanted me?”

Aragorn came out of the bedroom, looking frazzled. “First my day is interrupted by the temporary loss of my wife, then by accident prone hobbits with a penchant for sticking their noses where they’re not wanted, and finally by a gaggle of maids who think that Arwen and I are completely incapable of dressing ourselves. As though we haven’t been doing it to years! Things are going to change in this place, Eowyn, I tell you that in certainty! And soon. Help me with this, Bergil.”

Bergil grinned again and helped Aragorn button the cuffs of his fine velvet tunic, a feat which despite his protestations the High King had not yet accomplished. Eowyn wondered at the change in their relationship; the last time she had seen Bergil and Aragorn together, the lad had been walking almost half-bowed and as serious as an old bone. Now he was acting like one of the hobbits. A little more formal, perhaps, but not permanently bent at the waist in respect.

“Arwen’s in the bedroom, Eowyn. Go on, she wants to speak with you,” Aragorn said, nodding over his shoulder at the door across the room.

Eowyn nodded and left him to dressing, ducking through the ornately carved door into the bedroom.

Arwen was standing in the middle of the room, smoothing the long sleeves of her lovely purple dress. She looked regal and beautiful as always, though more elegantly dressed than usual. Realizing that Aragorn was dressed much the same way, Eowyn belatedly remembered that dinner that night was talking place in the Hall of Feasts, the great formal dining hall. She glanced sheepishly down at her own plain blue dress and sighed ruefully. She would be hard-pressed to run back to her room to change before the entrance procession.

“Hullo, Eowyn. Has Aragorn managed to scare off the maids at last? He’s been ranting for at least an hour. Oh, dear, not that dress, not for the Hall of Feasts. I think I have something that you can wear. Let me see.”

Arwen dived into her wardrobe in a way that would have been supremely inelegant for Eowyn, but which looked supremely graceful in the elf, and Eowyn listened to her rummaging around and muttering to herself in Elvish.

“Bergil said you wanted me,” she said to Arwen’s backside, breaking into the musical flow of words. “What’s going on?”

Arwen’s voice was muffled. “I wanted to know if you were able to find out anything while I was asleep. Although you seem to have awakened not long ago, judging from the way you are still yawning.” Eowyn sheepishly put a hand over her mouth as Arwen emerged from the wardrobe clutching something long and velvety. “Here we are. Go behind the screen over there to put it on.”

Eowyn took the gown and went behind the indicated screen. “You’re right, I only just woke up about an hour ago, and went to see Faramir. Actually, I did find something, when he showed me his mother’s room. Gandalf hinted that I might want to find something out about Lady Finduilas.”

“What did you find out? And do you need help with those laces?”

“No, I’ve got them. I found a diary.”

Eowyn emerged from behind the curtain and surveyed herself in the long mirror. The dress Arwen had lent her was ocean blue, a gown with flowing sleeves over a shift of fire red. The sleeves of the blue gown hung loose from the elbows and were embroidered with an intricate flower design. It was ethereal and elvish and Eowyn loved it more than she was willing to admit. Unfortunately, Arwen, who was perched on the bed, bouncing slightly and looking terribly excited, demanded her attention.

“Really? Whose? Alatarial’s?” Arwen asked.

Eowyn shrugged, adjusting the shimmering skirts and tugging at the low bodice, attempting to make it rest a little higher on her chest. “I don’t know, I only just found it and then came straight over here. I thought I’d show you instead of reading it on my own, because I have a suspicion that this was the book that pushed Lady Finduilas over the brink into depression and I do not want to read it alone. And don’t forget that we have to find out what the hobbits and Bergil found today.”

Arwen nodded, bounding gracefully up and striding to her jewelry box at the dressing table. “Yes, though apparently Pippin all but bashed his skull in while exploring the empty wing. They found some sort of secret room, but I couldn’t get much information out of Estel. The man has the ability to be terribly tight-lipped when he wants to be. Even my seductions won’t get much out of him.”

Eowyn blinked at her friend. Seduction was not a word she liked to equate with the King and Queen, as true as they may be. As though she realized her slip of tongue, Arwen beckoned Eowyn to join her and pick out a necklace.

“These people are gluttons. Jewels equal wealth, something I don’t think I like about Gondor. Perhaps Estel will change that custom along with the others he plans on eventually over-throwing.”

Eowyn grinned. The peoples of Gondor had not quite reckoned on getting a force of nature for a king, that was for certain. She was not certain what the customs of Gondor were, but she was dead certain that if Aragorn would not tolerate maids helping him dress, he would not tolerate traditions that had no real purpose.

“What sort of traditions?” she asked idly, picking a necklace of some deep blue stone and clasping it about her neck. She did not think that it was one Arwen had worn before.

Arwen fiddled with a powder brush, anger flashing over her lovely face. “Traditions of the sort where barbarity is hidden behind a façade of decency and civility. Some of them make me wonder why the Valar even keep the mortal race intact. The one that infuriates me the most is that the King’s heir is not supposed to be fed or even held by his mother after his birth until the King has seen him and approved. I told Estel that if he even considers upholding that tradition, I would not bear him children. I will not support such lunacy, nor make my children suffer for it!”

Eowyn stared at her friend, wide eyed. “You’re joking!”

Arwen shook her head grimly. “No, I am not. And I made him swear an oath to overturn that tradition. In light of the things we have been learning lately, I thought it the best course of action, although I know that Estel was just as disgusted by that one as I. But I am beginning to mistrust this place, and I will not conform to it. It is a new age. Now come, let us go to the Hall of Feasts, and let us be merry. We will tackle the book after supper.”

Still speechless, Eowyn followed Arwen back into the sitting room, where Aragorn and Bergil were waiting for them. Aragorn was sprawled in an armchair, smoking his pipe and solemnly staring at an elegantly woven tapestry, while Bergil darted about extinguishing the candles and banking the fire.

“Well, the ladies are finally ready,” Aragorn drawled, turning his bright and sardonic gaze on them. “And just in time, too.” He paused and took a closer look at both of them, the teasing light in his eyes being replaced by own of concern. “Are you two all right? You both look a bit pale.”

Eowyn shrugged, finding few words to describe the lingering tightness in her chest, the result of Arwen’s revelation. Why had she thought that such traditions would have faded with age? Fashions changed, culture did not. It took someone strong and out of legend to change it.

“Don’t worry, dear heart, it wasn’t any past mystery we were speaking of. We were discussing the tragedy of certain traditions, and how fortunate we are to have a wise man as ruler who will change them.” Arwen fixed a strong look on Aragorn. The King grinned at them both, and slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. He looked vastly relieved.

“Don’t worry about that, Arwen, my love,” he said. “I informed the council already that I would not tolerate such. Don’t fret.”

Arwen smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “He would really prefer us running about the empty wing, I think, Eowyn.”

Aragorn set his book on the side table with a snap. “Not without a guard. Now come along, Faramir and Imrahil will be climbing the walls if we don’t arrive soon. And Frodo may be the Ringbearer, but he is possessed of quite a scathing tongue when deprived of food. I, for one, do not feel like being bawled out by a hobbit. Shall we?”

*****

Merry had yet to decide whether it was good luck or bad to be seated beside Gandalf in the Hall of Feasts. The White Wizard certainly was intimidating, sitting there muttering to himself. Merry sent him an anxious look and wished that he were back in the Company’s house with Pippin and Legolas, playing cards by the fire. Unfortunately, Gandalf caught the glance and decided to speak.

“I must ask you, Meriadoc, why you and Pippin feel you must go gallivanting off into the empty wing when you have a perfect source of information at your daily disposal,” the wizard stated, glowering down at the hobbit. “It’s most unnatural, even for you.”

Merry felt a little affronted by that. “I am not unnatural, Gandalf! And we do not go gallivanting off, as you put it. We go on educational detours.”

Gandalf laughed and took a piece of bread from the basket in front of him. It was piping hot, and Merry reached out and grabbed a piece for himself, intending to dip it in his soup. If, of course, the soup was the kind one could dip things in.

“I am talking about the Librarian you have become acquainted with, lad,” Gandalf replied. “He is a gentleman most willing to talk, if you ask the right questions.”

“He just gave us books,” Merry replied, beginning to feel annoyed. “And if you seem to know so much, why don’t you just tell us?”

Gandalf shook his head and gazed skyward. “And what, precisely, do you wish to know?”

That was more like it. Merry opened his mouth to speak, found no words to say, and closed it again with a snap. Well, bugger. This was more difficult than he would have thought. Buying himself some more time, Merry stuffed the bread in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. What did they all want to know? There was so much going on that he felt a little overwhelmed.

“Well,” he said at last, swallowing. “I suppose the most important questions here are: was Lady Alatarial murdered, and if so, by whom; and what does all this have to do with Lady Finduilas?”

Gandalf gave him a look that was far too serene for a wizard about to clear up the mysteries of the past. “In that case, I would ask the Librarian. He knows more about this than you could possibly imagine. He has rooms in the sixth circle, near the Great Library. You can go there after dinner, as I imagine it will not run very late.”

Merry moaned and dejectedly rested his elbows on the table. Not another midnight excursion! He doubted that he had had a real, good night’s sleep in days. He sighed and glanced down the table towards Eowyn. The White Lady was sitting between Faramir and Lothiriel, across from Queen Arwen and Strider. He would have to catch her after the meal and ask if she would like to go with him. And perhaps Pippin would be up to a walk, too. Some fresh air would be good for the lad. Yes, they would go after dinner.

“Which part of the Sixth Circle?” he asked Gandalf resignedly.

The wizard looked strangely pleased. “By the little park. You will not miss it, Meriadoc, I assure you that.”

Merry was not reassured, but as Gandalf would not respond to further inquiry, he had to be satisfied.

*****

“I do believe, Master Merry, that you are bent upon having Aragorn rage at you.”

Legolas stood and watched in amusement and resignation as Merry and Pippin donned their grey cloaks and prepared to go in search of the Librarian. Pippin’s headache had abated with a swiftness known only to hobbits, and the lad had cheerfully submitted to Merry’s idea.

“Nonsense, Legolas, we’re just going out for fresh air and a bit of tea. Nothing wrong with that,” Merry said, giving the elf a look that dared him to tell Aragorn. “Besides, Gandalf told me that it would be wise.”

Legolas sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “All right. But don’t come weeping to me if something untoward happens. All I will be able to say is ‘I told you so’.”

Merry gave him a withering look and swept out of the house. Pippin looked at Legolas and shrugged.

“He’s a Brandybuck, Legolas. They’re worse than Tooks when it comes to being told what to do,” he said with an air of the long suffering. Legolas laughed as Pippin waved and followed his cousin.

“What would you have me tell Lady Eowyn if she comes looking for you?” Legolas called, and Pippin paused.

“Tell her that we will be back and come to find her,” he said, and darted after Merry. Behind them, Legolas shook his head and closed the door.

The night air was chilly, in keeping with the cooler days they had been having. The hobbits hurried along, out of the Citadel and down into the second circle, past the Great Library and the little park near to it and finally to a stand of rich looking row houses. Merry stopped a man who was passing them and asked which was the house of the Librarian. The man pointed the way and Merry and Pippin thanked him and hurried up the stairway indicated to the Librarian’s front door.

“Well, here we are,” muttered Merry, and knocked firmly on the door.

The knock sounded mute on the door, fading almost as soon as Merry pounded. It was as if the door swallowed the sound before it could disturb the occupants. Merry and Pippin glanced at each other, bemused. It was as if the Librarian did not like loud noise even outside of his library.

They waited several moments, but there was no indication that their knock had been heard. Merry shrugged and decided it would likely be best to return the next day, and was turning away when the door was suddenly pulled open behind him.

“Good gracious! It’s the younger heroes!”

The librarian gazed down at them shrewdly, taking in the bruise on Pippin’s forehead, the grey cloaks, and the furtive looks on both lads’ faces, and sighed.

“I see you two have been upon some shenanigans since I last saw you. Come in, then. I’ll make us some tea.”

For such a little man, Merry thought, it was surprising how much power he wielded. Perhaps it was simply his demeanor; the Librarian certainly had an air of authority about him. The hobbits silently followed him into the small flat and sat at the table he indicated.

The flat was small but grand, all polished floors and long windows. There were stacks of books and parchment everywhere, set in haphazard piles that were ordered only to the Librarian’s eyes. There were sketches and paintings tacked to the wall in a way that was distinctly unlike anything to be seen in the noble rooms of the Citadel. It was a lovely, calm place, reminding the hobbits of a cross between Bag End and Rivendell. Cozy and grand at the same time.

“What brings you two out this time of night?” the Librarian asked, crossing to a corner of the room that certainly had to be a kitchen, for it had a stove, a scarred table and an icebox, though it was a smaller kitchen than any hobbit would have handled. He turned his back to them and they heard the comforting sound of a tea tray being prepared.

Pippin looked questioningly at Merry. What were they doing here? The Brandybuck had been decidedly vague back in their house, though that had likely been because Legolas was there. Now Merry was leaning on his elbows, looking slightly nervous.

“Gandalf said that we should ask you about the, er, well, the empty wing. He said that you would be willing to tell us if we asked the right questions.”

The Librarian came back to the table, carrying a tray laden with a teapot and cups and wearing an amused look on his face.

“That I certainly can do. But you must ask me the right question.”

Merry frowned as the enigmatical little man set the cups on the table and began pouring the tea. Steam curled up into the still air, mixing with the smoke from the candles for a moment before fading like a whisper. Question? Just one? What on earth could that be?

It was a moment before any of them spoke. The librarian seemed perfectly calm, stirring his tea and eating a biscuit with care to catch the crumbs. Then Pippin, who had been unnaturally quiet since leaving the Citadel, spoke up.

“I suppose that the only question we can ask you, Master Librarian, is will you tell us what you know about Alatarial and Lady Finduilas?”

The Librarian smiled and inclined his head to Pippin. “They say the White Wizard called you a fool, Master Took. But only a fool could ask the right question. Yes, younger masters, I will tell you. Now.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I can honestly say that this is the only chapter of this story that’s really freaked me out, so far. Maybe because I wrote it during a storm in the middle of the night. Or maybe because of what’s in it. Please let me know what you think about it, in any case!

Chapter Nineteen: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Finduilas leaned against the windowpane and stared out at the grey city. It was raining again, like it had every day for the past fortnight. This rain was unlike the rain at home, too, for it came in icy needles, hammering at the buildings of the White City with such force that she was amazed that no windows had been broken. The rain in Dol Amroth was different, just as fierce perhaps, but wilder and less intently murderous.

With a sigh, Finduilas turned away from the window and walked back to her chair by the fireside. Today was one of her rare days off, when she did not have to associate with the frivolous ladies from the court. She enjoyed these days, and usually spent them curled up in a chair reading. She had several new books today, as well, from an influential bookseller in the sixth circle, who always carried a variety of books and who had no problem with letting any literate person buy his wares.

Today, however, she was restless. Perhaps it was because of the new baby, or because of the rain, but Finduilas had no desire to sit still. She needed to walk, but did not wish to be joined by anyone. Then inspiration struck, as it sometimes did on rainy afternoons. Grabbing her fine cloak, Finduilas left her sitting room at a stride.

The unused wing of the palace was easy to reach from the portrait gallery. She knew that there was a more formal entrance somewhere, but had no idea where. There were parts of the huge Citadel that she had never seen, even in several years of living there, and she had no doubt that she would never learn all of its many secrets. It did not bother her, most of the time.

Ducking through the unlocked door in the alcove, Finduilas stood and looked around. She was standing in a long passage that was lined with windows. It was cold over here, so chilly that she could see her breath floating in the air like a phantom, and Finduilas congratulated herself on thinking to bring a cloak. This would make a nice walk. Smiling contentedly, she wandered slowly up the corridor, not really intent upon any one direction. She was content to follow her feet.

After a time she found herself in an upper hallway, one with thin windows every few yards and a once fine carpet on the floor. She looked out the window; it was still raining, harder than ever, the rain hitting the ground and bouncing up again before falling to join the numerous puddles. She looked away from the window, behind her. There was an oaken door carved in the wall, the only one for the length of the corridor. Finduilas felt a spark of curiosity; she had not yet looked into many of the rooms here. She had been a bit frightened by the quiet in this wing, and berated herself now for not looking into the rooms before. There was no reason not to. What harm could it do?

She opened the heavy door and went inside.

There was nothing remarkable about this large room; the walls were blue, and it was empty but for a table and a chair. There were not even any tapestries on the walls. Finduilas looked around and then up. There was a hole in the ceiling.

Putting the chair on the table allowed Finduilas access to the room on the floor above. She had passed a part of the wall nearby where a staircase had been removed; maybe it led up to this room. She knew it wasn’t the wisest thing to do, being with child and all, but she had awoken her curiosity and wanted to see what was there.

It was a large room, with a fireplace, a fine writing desk and a large bed. There was a cabinet full of books against one wall. The drapes were tightly drawn, and little light stole in between the cracks. Finduilas could just make out that there was something in the bed, tucked up like a baby. Curious, she moved towards the bed to see what it was.

“No.”

Finduilas whirled around, heart pounding, and jumped in terror. Behind her, standing next to the desk where no one had been before, was a very young girl of slender build, with light brown hair and green eyes that glowed in the darkness. She wore a dress the color of flame and stared piercingly at Finduilas. She had not been there a moment before; Finduilas knew that she would have seen her.

“No,” the girl said again, green eyes glowing. “The mirror.”

She gestured towards a mirror on the wall, and Finduilas, partly because she was stunned and partly because of her curiosity, took it off the wall and stared into it. It was not a big mirror, just a simple wooden thing with panels that folded out to reveal the mirrors. For a moment, all she saw was her face, and then the surface rippled and a succession of images flew before her eyes. Two men deep in conversation, looking furious; a caravan from Harad; a tower room. A man holding a young girl in his arms, stabbing her heart out with a knife. Finduilas dropped the mirror with a gasp of horror, feeling cold and sick.

“You looked,” the girl in red said, her soft voice tinged with something akin to glee. She spread her arms and whirled in place, a dance macabre. “You looked, you looked, you looked!” she sang.

Finduilas dropped the mirror and ran. She dropped through the hole in the floor and landed on the table. She leapt down and ran from the room back into the corridor and down the way she had come. Somewhere, though, she took a wrong turning and ran down first one staircase, then another. There was an intense pain in her stomach, and the girl’s words rang in her ears. “You looked, you looked!”

She burst into a huge ballroom. There was dust everywhere, coating the floor and hanging from the crystal chandeliers like long vines or tendrils of smoke. And there were mirrors. Oh, the mirrors! They lined one side of the huge room, reflecting everything in minute detail. For a second Finduilas stopped, gasping for breath and clutching her aching stomach. And then the surface of the mirrors rippled, and she saw the girl in the red dress beating on the door of her room, screaming and crying, and then the same girl lying weeping in her bed. There was a man next, a tall, dark man who looked past Finduilas and said, “Then I will let her die.” And then the tower again, but this time the door was open and she could see inside. And inside there were five women. And they were dead.

Finduilas screamed again, and the pain in her stomach reached a fiery intensity. She fell over with a retch and knew no more.

She partially woke hours later. It was darker now; why hadn’t anyone come? Her maid should build up the fire; it was so cold…why was the ground wet? Finduilas could feel moisture on her fingers, and raised her hand to her eyes, trying to see in the dim light. She couldn’t sit up. Her eyes focused on her fingers after a moment, and she saw blood. There was blood all around her. Finduilas moaned and fainted again.

The next time she awoke, it was because someone was patting her face and calling her name.

“My lady? My lady!”

Finduilas opened her eyes with a gasp. It was brighter; there were lamps shining all around her, but she was still on the bloody floor. She looked around and up; Thorongil was bending over her, grey eyes anxious. He had been the one calling her.

“Lady Finduilas? Do you know me?” he asked, his voice gentle but serious.

Finduilas whimpered and clutched his tunic. “They were in the mirrors; he killed them! You have to save the girl-!”

“Finduilas, I need to you focus,” Thorongil said, putting his hands on her shoulders and staring into her hysterical eyes. “You’re hurt, and we’re taking you home. Now, I need you to tell me: do you know me?”

He was insistent, and Finduilas was in no condition to convince him of what she had seen in the mirrors. “You are Thorongil, a Captain of Gondor,” she said weakly, tears in her eyes.

Thorongil nodded and helped her sit up, wrapping a quilt that someone handed him around her. “Yes, that’s right, Finduilas. You gave us all quite a scare, but we’re going home now. We’re going home.”

He spoke soothingly as he lifted her up, and Finduilas listlessly rested her head on his shoulder, the tears spilling down her face, body wracked with sobs. Thorongil led the way out of the ballroom, the rest of the search party following close behind. They moved quickly, but not quickly enough for her tastes. If she had had the strength to run, Finduilas would have been curled up under her quilt right then.

“I want my husband,” she whispered to Thorongil, and he gave her a comforting smile.

“I know, my lady. We’re going to him right now.”

Behind them, the mirrors watched. And waited.

*****

Arwen leaned over the enamel basin in her room and scrubbed her face. Because of the masquerades, dinners were shorter this week, and she was thankful it was so. The feasts had the power to be completely exhausting. She was grateful to be clad in a simpler gown now, although she would not be going to bed for some time. Eowyn would be back from changing her gown any moment now, and they would be reading the small diary. She grinned to herself; the look on Faramir’s face as he beheld Eowyn in the lovely gown and jewels had been priceless.

There came a knock on the door of the outer chamber; she heard Aragorn call out permission to enter, and then Eowyn’s voice greeting him. Arwen smiled and swept into the sitting room.

“Ready to read?” she asked, and Eowyn held up the little book with a smile.

“Yes, indeed,” the White Lady said. She glanced at Aragorn.

The King smiled blithely at her. “Your hint is taken, my ladies. I’ll be in the bedroom, Arwen, most likely on the balcony, making sure that nothing happens to either Eomer or Lothiriel, both of whom are sitting in the garden, looking at the stars. Enjoy yourselves, and shout if you need me.”

He stood, bowed, and walked into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. Eowyn looked over at Arwen, perplexed.

“What did he mean, Eomer and Lothiriel are looking at the stars together?”

Arwen smiled. “Just that there may be a queen in Rohan sooner that we all thought. Shall we start the journal?”

Eowyn nodded and opened it. “There are no names inside. It begins, ‘My father received a new mirror today, and took it immediately to his chamber without letting me look inside…’”

*****

Merry and Pippin stared at the Librarian in shock. “You mean that mirrors are dangerous? But, but they’re only glass with silver backs!”

“I did not say all mirrors are dangerous. Only some.”

The Librarian gazed at the two hobbits mildly. He had just finished telling them Finduilas’ story, or a part of it. There was more, much more, but he did not know all of it. There were some things that the Lady had not told him, but whether that was because it had been too horrifying or because she did not know, he knew not.

Pippin was thinking hard, brow creased. “So, you’re saying that the ghost of Alatarial got Finduilas to look inside a mirror, and it sparked some sort of magic? How?”

The Librarian shrugged. “I do not know that, Master Took. But I can tell you some of it. Belecthor the Second was an alchemist. He worked with base metals during his rare free time, and there was a rumor that he was provided with chemicals from far off Harad. This rumor was fact, but more complicated than everyone would assume. Seregon of Dol Amroth supplied these mirrors to Belecthor-”

Pippin interrupted with a cry. “We’ve heard of him; Lothiriel told us that he was an evil killer!”

“She was right, but the story of Alatarial and Seregon is more complicated than that. Seregon supplied Belecthor with mirrors from Harad that were supposedly magic. No one in the West knew what these mirrors could do, and Belecthor wanted to find out.

“What he found was more dangerous than anything you can imagine a mortal man can create. It was not as powerful as the Shadow, but it was certainly dangerous.”

He paused and poured himself more tea. The hobbits watched him anxiously, both feeling jumpy as the candles flickered and danced in the darkness. A cold wind whistled around the house, banging a shutter against the wall outside. The Librarian put down the teapot and sipped his tea.

“You must pay attention now. I am going to continue my story.”

*****

Eowyn lowered the book and gazed at Arwen, heart pounding.

“Oh, dear,” was all the Queen could think of to say.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I think I should just add my apology of poor updating to the disclaimer: I do it nearly every time! My excuse this time is that school started and ran away with me, I had big time work drama, and I was sick with various colds and flu bugs for nearly five weeks straight. I can only hope and pray that people are still interested in this fic.

This chapter is a dialogue-lover’s dream. In it we make the necessary trip into the department of back-story. Bear with me; the action will be coming as soon as the questions are answered. And for the record, we’ve officially gone off the deep end into AU territory. The chapter title is from Keats.

Chapter Twenty: Now Is Past

The Librarian got up and made another pot of tea. Until he had been waiting for answers, Pippin had never realized how truly obnoxious it could be to wait while the water heated and was poured, and the tea leaves added. And the Librarian was in no hurry, either.

Finally, the Librarian sat down again and fixed the hobbits with a stern look. “You must understand that while this is nothing like battling the Shadow, it is still very dangerous. People have died because of this secret, innocent people. It needs undoing.

“You said that Lady Lothiriel told you the story of Seregon and Alatarial, and how Seregon killed his brother Amroth because the younger man would not let him have his way with the lady Illyria. That is true, for the most part. But there was more. I will tell you all that I know in as brief a way as I can.

“Seregon had trade relations with several Haradric clans. These relations were largely unknown to the rest of his family, as Seregon was careful to make it seem like he was merely cultivating an interest in stratagems for preventing war with the Haradrim. But these clans were providing Seregon with items that were of interest to him, items that could be used subversively to ensure strife and grieving. Perhaps without knowing it, Seregon had opened a gateway to setting the Shadow into the hearts of many.”

Merry interrupted by waving his hand for attention. The Librarian, who had been staring contemplatively at the teapot, looked up with a flash of resignation. “Do you mean that Sauron was purposely having the Haradrim plant these so-called ‘items of interest’ in Gondor to ensure that the kingdom would fall?”

The Librarian hesitated before answering. “I am not certain, but I want to say that the Haradrim had an idea of what they were giving Seregon, and that their enemies’ moral would break if grievous things came to pass. Sauron may have been influencing them, but there is also the fact that these tools, if not used properly and for the right reason, would themselves be subversive to the people who used them.

“The steward Belecthor, as you have learned, was a man with a secret passion for the sciences. I daresay that if he had been the second son and not the heir to the stewardship, he would have been greatly devoted to furthering the knowledge of the world. As it was, alchemy had to become his private pastime, something to do on the rare occasion when his duties permitted him leisure.

“Many of the items used in alchemy, such as precious metals and chemicals, were shipped to Belecthor by Seregon, who had the tendency to travel, so that his dealings with Harad would not be called into question. One day, a gift arrived from Seregon to Belecthor. It was a set of mirrors; the large oval glasses set in ornately jeweled frames and covered by lids of fine silver. With them came a personal message for Belecthor.”

“He wanted to marry Alatarial,” Pippin guessed, and hissed when Merry kicked him under the table. “Sorry, go one,” he added, glowering at his cousin.

The Librarian smiled wryly. “You are quite right, Master Peregrin, Seregon did want to marry Alatarial. He also knew that the deaths of his previous wives would make Belecthor very hesitant to part with his daughter. So Seregon blackmailed him. He told Belecthor that unless he gave him Alatarial, he would reveal it in Gondor that the Steward had dealings with Harad that would jeopardize the kingdom. Such a thing would not be tolerated, even if it were the ruler who acted, and Belecthor knew it. So he agreed to let Seregon wed his daughter, though it grieved him.”

Here the Librarian paused again and drank deeply from his tea. He was clearly not a man to be rushed. The hobbits could only sit and fidget.

“It has something to do with the mirrors, doesn’t it?” Pippin burst out. “It only makes sense. Seregon sent Belecthor the mirrors because he knew that they would make a problem.”

“Of course,” the Librarian replied, smiling. “And they did, but not until later, when Belecthor began playing with them. I believe that Princess Lothiriel told you this next part already: the ball where Seregon killed Amroth and Illyria, and how Alatarial died of a supposed fever a short time later. Yes? Good. Now, do you know how long it takes someone to die of starvation?”

Two curly heads shook in unison. Such a thing was completely unheard of in their land.

“It takes forty days. Forty days of utter deprivation from food, and only four days separation from any source of water. As Lothiriel told you, Alatarial refused to marry Seregon after the deaths of her friend and cousin, but Belecthor would not stand for that behavior. He had a kingdom to maintain and a secret to keep, and he would have Alatarial marry Seregon, murders or no.”

“So he locked her up,” Merry said.

“Yes,” the Librarian replied. “He gave her an ultimatum: marry Seregon or starve to death. He did not honestly intend to kill his daughter, though, merely scare her into submission. He left her there for a week, a guard outside her door day and night.

“In the meantime, he began negotiating with Seregon to change his blackmail. Perhaps more land in the Belfalas area, or something like that. The details are unclear on that matter. All that we know is, something happened that made Belecthor decide that he could not let Alatarial marry this evil man. The situation was quite out of his control, but he did have power over one thing.

“You may have noticed in your ramblings in the abandoned wing that there are signs of a staircase having been removed near Alatarial’s room. This is a fact. Belecthor had the staircase dismantled and abandoned his daughter to a cruel death by slow starvation.”

He stood up and moved back to the hob to make more tea. Pippin leapt up and followed him.

“But you haven’t told us about the mirrors yet. What do they have to do with any of this?”

The Librarian just smiled enigmatically. “They are the reason why there are ghosts in the citadel.”

*****

“Why was the wing abandoned? Because there were accidents. All sorts of things happened over there that the people didn’t like,” Aragorn said. He leaned back in the armchair and crossed his long legs in front of him. “Let me think. There was a falling chandelier, a fire, talk of ghostly screams and laughter, doors opening and closing when no one was there, a young man going mad after looking into a mirror, images that could not have possibly been there flashing into mirrors-shall I continue?”

Arwen shook her head. “No, Estel, you’ve told us all we need to know. Particularly about the mirrors. I think we may be in trouble.”

Aragorn sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I should have known that this would end in some sort of misadventure. What is it you are talking about, my love?”

“The mirrors are possessed,” Eowyn said bluntly. “The ones over on that side of the palace. Not all of them, mind you, but there are at least two mirrors that are allowing spirits access to our world.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. Eowyn seized the diary from Arwen and waved it at him. “Read this if you don’t believe me! Belecthor had magic mirrors that he called Mirrors of Truth, that could replay things that had happened so that the world would know how things really were. He-”

The door suddenly crashed open and two hobbits burst in, looking distinctly worried.

“Arwen! Eowyn! Strider!” shouted Pippin. “We’ve found it out! We know that the problem is!”

“There are magic mirrors that kill people!” Merry agreed.

Arwen settled back on the sofa, the tenseness of her posture betraying the calm on her face. “I think you had better tell us what you learned.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: School’s out! I hope to finish this poor fic this summer, since it’s been going on for nearly two years this October. Bear with me; we’re almost finished now.

Chapter Twenty-One: Found

     It was dark and quiet in the corridors. She was walking through the walls, silent and watchful, looking for the woman who had looked. Things had changed since she had been locked in her room, since she had been exiled to the mirrors. The wing that had once been so full of people and light was now quiet, dead. There was no one here. She wandered from wall to wall, mirror to mirror, looking, searching.

     Why was it so quiet? Where had all the people gone? They must be coming back soon; there was still food on the tables and flowers in the vases. But the food was old, rotten, and the flowers were brown and dead. The quiet cold of the empty wing had killed them all.

     Then why had the lady who looked been there? And something had been wrong with her. She had been afraid. Why? She had looked; didn’t she understand that this was a good thing? What had happened to her? She had been watching; the lady had collapsed and been very ill. Perhaps she had injured herself; there had been lots of blood. But she had not died. She would know if the lady had died.

     This was her domain. She could not leave the empty wing, could not go past the old portrait gallery. That was not her domain. That was the domain of another, who had her own problems to solve. Still, at least she was able to wander her domain. She could not imagine being trapped in a single gallery for so many years.

     The mirror. The looking mirror that the lady had picked up and dropped. It was gone. It had been on her floor, but now it was gone. She did not remember where it was gone, although she had the vague memory of dizziness. That was the way of it here. Sometimes she slept for weeks, years. Things happened when she slept that she did not catch until later. That was why so much time had passed. She supposed that was what had happened when the mirror was taken. But it had been the opening of the mirror that had woken her when the woman came into the room. She did not understand. She could not remember properly, exactly what had happened. But she knew that wherever the mirror went, so would she. She was bound to it.

     Oh, but she was tired. So tired. Always tired, even after she had been asleep for so long. Why must she be trapped in the walls, always wandering? She did not like it.

     And then there were the others in the mirrors, those hidden in the dark places. She avoided them studiously, though she had sought out their company at first. She did not trust them; they wanted to do horrible things to the living ones. It had been them, she knew, that had so frightened the lady who looked. They had made her ill. They had tried to hurt the lady so that she could not help her.

     At that thought, a wave of anger swept through her. How dare they try to hurt the lady! How dare they try to destroy everything! How dare they make it so difficult for her to escape this terrible waiting, to deny her entry into the bright place, into Mandos’ halls? She had to find the lady. She had to. Everything hinged upon her doing so.

     And so she walked, flitting from wall to wall and mirror to mirror. She had to find the lady. She had to.

     And as she walked, she began to remember.

     Her father had thrown her into her chambers and slammed the door shut in her face. “You will stay in here until you come to your senses! How dare you put your own petty desires before the good of this country, Alatarial! You will stay in there!”

     She had hurled herself at the door, screaming, all dignity forgotten in her horror. “Father! No! Come back, I’ll listen! Don’t you know what he is, Father?!”

     But her father had gone. Alatarial had screamed and beat at the door frantically, beat and kicked at it in terror until she collapsed to the floor in a sobbing heap. Hours had passed, and no one answered her pleading cries. No one had come. She had eaten a little of the food left in the basket on her table, drunk a little of the water. And still no one had come. There was only silence outside her chambers.

     Days had passed. She had had very little food, and so had tried her best to conserve it, hoping that someone would come and release her.

     After three days, her supply of food had run out. There was nothing left of it. The water lasted a few days longer, but in the end, that had disappeared, too.

     After a week, she had written a farewell note and hidden it in the under drawers of her doll. Maybe someone would find it someday. She had hoped so.

     After two weeks, she had become too weak from hunger to do anything but lie in her bed, clutching her doll. The door bore signs of her escape attempts: scuffs and scratches marred it, but the strong oak had held firm. There had been no escape from this fate.

     Alatarial had become wooly-headed from lack of food, no longer angry but apathetic. Her stomach was constantly cramped and her tongue was heavy in her mouth. It became difficult to see and hear, and so she did not try. She had merely lain in her bed and waited for whatever outcome would take her. She had ceased being afraid long ago.

     She was not sure, really, when death took her. She did remember when her body finally gave out, relinquishing its hold on her with a soft popping sound. She had sat up and looked around, prepared to fly off into death and peace. And she had started to, but she had been sent back. She had to fix it, had to stop the evil work begun by the mirrors of Seregon. She did not know how she was to do this, but she had to.

     And so, Alatarial sat on the bed that she had once slept in and kept watch over her pale, wasted body. The girl in the bed was just a child, with lank hair and white skin. She lay in the bed for a long time, unmoving, and Alatarial had waited. At last, after a day or so, someone came and finally opened the door. Servants came in, carrying winding sheets and baskets, and they had silently stripped her body from its bed and wrapped it up. Perhaps, Alatarial thought, they were morbidly amused by the dress she had chosen to wear to die in: a fine red gown of the softest silk, edged in pale gold. It had fit her once, before she lost all of the meat on her bones. It had hung like a sheet from her starved body when they pulled her from the bed.

     Alatarial had watched dispassionately as the servants wrapped her body in a shroud and carried it away for burial. They were not the ones she had needed to speak to about the mirrors. She had had no idea who she ought to seek out, but had known that she would know when they came to her. And so she waited.

     And then the lady had come! She came, and she looked, and Alatarial knew that she could tell her how to defeat the mirrors. But the lady had run in terror, and had been hurt. And so Alatarial had to find her. Had to tell her.

     When she finally found the lady, it was to experience a disappointment so great that it almost destroyed her ability to communicate. The lady was dying.

     After witnessing the pain she was in, Alatarial hurled herself into her mirror, which hung in a corner of the lady’s private sitting room, and sat weeping. The lady died, and Alatarial sank into a vague stupor as the room was shut up and left to collect dust and mourn the happiness that had once been found there. The events of the outside world meant nothing to her. For Alatarial, there was only despair. Until the day that the lady’s son brought another lady to the sitting room. And there, this new lady picked up the book that the other lady had taken from Alatarial’s room. And Alatarial shook herself from her stupor and set about making plans.

*****

     “I need to go to your mother’s sitting room again, Faramir,” Eowyn said.

     Faramir frowned, looking understandably perplexed. “I told you that you could go there whenever you wished to, Eowyn. You don’t need to ask my permission.”

     “Faramir is learning that rigid Gondorian formalities are not always necessary, my dear,” Arwen said cheekily. She was the only one able to maintain a slight cheekiness in the face of such gravity. Perhaps it was in part because she was an Elf.

     “You have the key,” Eowyn replied calmly.

     Faramir made a face and handed her the keys he carried on him as Steward. “It’s the small gold one, my love. May I ask what’s going on?”

     Aragorn smiled slightly at his bewildered Steward. “The ladies have discovered that the mirrors are alive and out to kill us all. Nothing much, other than that.”

     Faramir blinked, and stood. There were some things it was better not to ask too many questions about, and if Aragorn stated that the mirrors were deadly, then the mirrors were deadly. “Right then,” he said. “Come with me.”

*****

     Finduilas’ sitting room was cold, but none of them minded it as they looked around for Alatarial’s mirror. By the light of their candles they searched, peering into the darkest corners in search of it.

     It was Pippin who found the mirror, hanging in a far corner of the room, a corner black with shadows. He called his friends over, and they stood looking at the closed leaves over the glass.

     “Someone should open it,” he said.

     Eowyn stepped forward and reached for the painted panels that covered the glass. “I will. It was me who got us into this mess.”

     Merry snorted. “I believe that’s negotiable, my lady. I argue that it was Pippin.”

     Pippin swatted his cousin, and a general chuckle ran throughout the small group. Grinning, Eowyn opened the panels. And the smiles faded as they watched a scene unfold before their eyes.

     It was a scene that they had heard of before: the history of the mirror. It showed the mirror being made in a distant Haradric workshop, being shipped to Belfalas, falling into Seregon’s hands. It showed the murder of Illyria in the portrait gallery. An argument between Seregon and Belecthor. And finally, it showed the death of Alatarial.

     But this was not all. It showed a woman jumping from a wall-the same whose shade they had seen at the masquerade. It showed a dark haired woman peering into it, again and again. Finduilas. And at last she spoke, as the others had shouted, argued, screamed and cried.

     “This is but the smaller mirror, and it beholds great evil. But the greater mirror is the one which binds the shades of the evil to this world, allowing them to come again to wreak havoc and fear on those living. I pray whoever looks into this mirror destroys the other two. One I have found but been too weak to destroy. It is in a secret room in the empty wing. The other I have not found as yet. I do not think I will find it, in truth, for I am weak and nearing the end of my life. But they must all be destroyed.”

     Then the mirror showed nothing but the reflections of those staring at it.

     “Well,” Eowyn said after a moment’s silence. “There it is, then.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: I should go to my brother’s house more often. It is there that I most generally actually sit down and write a chapter up, even when it’s been planned in my head for a very long time. The chapter title is from Byron’s Hebrew Melodies.

Chapter Twenty-two: I See Thee Weep

“Where do you think it’s hidden?”

“They. She mentioned two of them. Where do you think they are hidden?”

“Stop bickering, you two, it’s only phrasing! And I know where at least one is.”

The hobbits ceased arguing and turned to Eowyn. The lady had one long strand of hair absently twisted in her fingers, a sure sign of deep thought, and her brow was furrowed as she peered into her mug of tea.

“Where?” Arwen asked.

Eowyn looked up. “In that room where Pippin about bashed his skull in. It makes sense; according to the Librarian’s map, it’s the only secret room in the Citadel.”

“Oh, there are others,” muttered Aragorn. When they looked at him, he gave them a peevish look. “But they have nothing to do with this at all. Eowyn is quite right; this has to do with the empty wing.”

Pippin leaned forward, intrigued. “What do the other rooms do?”

Aragorn glowered at him. “That is not important right now, Peregrin. Leave it for a different day.”

The look on the king’s face was enough to make Pippin sit back, although it was with an audible sigh. The conversation turned back to Belecthor’s hidden alchemy room, and where in it the mirror could be. It was decided that an expedition would be mounted to the empty wing, and a search would ensue.

“I’ll send for some torches,” Eowyn said, and went to the door to call for a servant. “Faramir, fetch my sword.”

“Who said you were coming?” replied the Steward, who had taken the images in the mirror to heart. He had spent the past hour brooding into his tea, to which Aragorn had silently added a dose of brandy.

Eowyn turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you seriously think you can make me stay here?”

“I wouldn’t recommend trying,” Aragorn said in an undertone to his steward. “Refusal of anything Eowyn wants can have unforeseen results.”

Faramir glanced between the two of them and shrugged. “All right then. But you’re going to be careful.”

“When is she ever not?” Merry replied with a slight grin, and was rewarded with a snort from Faramir as the steward went to fetch his betrothed’s sword.

*****

It took a half an hour to assemble all of the necessary items for an expedition into the dusty parts of the palace. Namely, old cloths, candles, and various weaponry. Bergil arrived bearing the lights that Eowyn had sent for, and an uncharacteristically determined look on his small face.

“I am going with you,” he announced when Merry had relieved him of his burden. “No, don’t say I cannot, sir, because I am going to!” he added as Aragorn opened his mouth. The King shut it again with a snap. “I can’t bear to be left behind when I already know so much, and I’ve been helping, and I promise that I won’t be a hindrance. But I’ll follow even if you don’t let me come; you’ll have to tie me in a sack if you don’t want me to!”

Aragorn looked at the lad’s earnest, determined face and sighed, smiling. “I’ve heard that before. You may come, Bergil. And when this is all over, we are going to have a few words about employment opportunities for promising lads.”

Bergil beamed.

*****

They set off to the unused wing, a motley troop of nobles. Arwen, Faramir and Bergil carried candles in sconces, and the shadows glowed off the walls in strange patterns. The Citadel was strangely quiet, though perhaps, Eowyn thought that was due to the fact that it was the middle of the night and everyone sane was sound asleep.

As they walked, she dropped back until she was standing next to Faramir. Her fiancé’s face was pale in the shadowy light of his dancing flame.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She put a hand on his arm, stroking gently.

Faramir was silent for a moment. Then, “I always thought that she died of depression. That is what they told me. ‘The Shadow in the East filled her with horror.’ I didn’t even suspect that there was something else. Certainly not this.”

“She was a brave woman.”

“And good. You would have loved her. She was quite a bit like you, only…” He paused.

“Only what?” Eowyn prompted.

Faramir smiled. “Only she was more willing to put up with circumstances she did not like. Somehow I think that you are less likely to do so.”

“Would you have me be submissive?”

“No. Decidedly not. I love you the way you are, sword, unruliness and everything.”

Eowyn smiled. A wise answer.

They reached the so-called Alchemy Room without mishap. The door had been left open after that morning’s escapade; Eowyn saw Pippin touch his head ruefully in memory. She went towards the door and peered inside, and Faramir held up his lamp so that Eowyn could see well. Arwen crowded next to them, brightening the space further, and the room was illuminated.

The tables and tools did not attract Eowyn’s attention, as they did the others. She scanned the walls, looking for anything vaguely mirror-shaped. Finduilas, in the mirror, had explained that they were of different sizes, Alatarial’s being the smallest, and the main mirror being the largest. This was the middle mirror, the one hidden in the Alchemy Room. Where was it?

If I were to hide a mirror, where would I put it? Eowyn mused. Somewhere no one would think to look, but I would be able to use it at will.

And then she saw it. An object leaning against the wall in a far corner, covered with a shroud, and round in shape. Eowyn started towards it, and four pairs of hands reached out and pulled her back.

“Wait,” Aragorn said. “If what happened to Pippin today is any indication, than this room is dangerous. We must go carefully.”

Merry turned to Pippin conversationally. “They forget that you pulled that pipe down on yourself. Funny that, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Pippin agreed, nodding. “The oddness of the big people. Higher up, so I guess they’re afraid they’ll bash their heads like I did.”

“Quiet, you two,” Aragorn ordered, as the hobbits snickered. “Eowyn, the way looks clear, and if you do not wish one of us men to go first in order to protect you from getting your head bashed in, as the hobbits say, then you may proceed with caution.”

Eowyn smiled. “I don’t think your people would appreciate it if I let their king break his head. I’ll go.”

She moved forward cautiously, careful not to touch anything. It was not easy; Belecthor had filled his room with all sorts of odds and ends, some of which had no use, as far as Eowyn could tell. Murky potions in strange glasses and tools that looked like instruments of torture. She shuddered. What sort of man had this been?

She reached the shrouded object with no trouble, though, and reached her hand out to take the cloth. It was heavy with dust; she pulled it down carefully so as not to cause an explosion of dust into the air, which would doubtless leave them all coughing and choking. The dust cloth slip down to the floor, and Eowyn nodded in satisfaction.

A large mirror stood there, dull with age. As she watched, the tarnished silver stopped reflecting her own image and swam a bit, and figures began to appear before her eyes. A tall man with dark silver hair and thick black eyebrows set over piercing eyes looked out of the mirror intensely, as though he could actually see them. Eowyn involuntarily drew back from him and bumped into Faramir, who had come up behind her quietly. He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze and smiled at her.

“Where is she?” the man in the mirror said. “Does he have her? I will not let it be so! I must stop it. But how?”

He withdrew, and Eowyn let out the breath she had not known she had been holding. The image in the mirror changed, and showed the same man, whom Eowyn suspected was Belecthor, working at his table. It was the same room they were in now, although it was clean and lit with a myriad of candles. Eowyn glanced around and saw the same candles, now covered in ropes of dust. She turned her attention back to the mirror.

“Eowyn?” It was Arwen’s voice, close by her. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Eowyn swallowed. “I’m supposed to break it.”
They all turned to Eowyn, looking at her. “I do. I have to; it has to be a steward’s wife, or fiancée. That’s what Finduilas said.”

Aragorn nodded. “Well, I don’t think that should be as difficult as killing the Witch-King, should it?” he said lightly. He motioned for them to back up several feet. “When you’re ready, Eowyn.”

Eowyn drew her sword and took a deep breath. This was it. She raised the sword and rammed it, hard, against the tarnished silver glass.

It shattered.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Sorry for the long wait; I’ve had a hell of a few months. My computer ate itself at the beginning of the semester, it took over a month to get a new one, and then school caught up with me. However, I can proudly say that I’ve been accepted to a university. So here is the new chapter, and I hope it doesn’t disappoint. Chapter title from Byron.

Chapter Twenty-Three: She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night

Eowyn opened her eyes blearily and looked around. For several disturbing minutes, she could not place where she was. Unnerved, she sat up and looked around. And remembered.

She was sitting in her own bed, in her bedroom, where she had retired after the adventure with the mirror. The shards of the shattered mirror were in Aragorn’s keeping now, and as far as Eowyn knew, their power had been lost. That left Finduilas’ mirror and the big mirror, which Eowyn had no idea how to find. She knew that she had to destroy them all.

Fully awake now, Eowyn pitched her downy blankets off and reached for a flint to light a candle. It was still pitch dark outside, and a quick look at the timepiece on her wall assured her that it was barely past three o’clock in the morning. So she hadn’t been asleep all that long, then. She shivered as she remembered the mirror shattering, only a few hours ago. A long, piercing wail had gone up from the broken glass, a scream that pierced her to the very core and that had filled the air around them until she thought her ears should have shattered, and then, so abruptly that her ears rang from it, silence.

“Well,” Pippin had said into the silence, “Now what?”

Now what, indeed? Eowyn wrapped a blanket around herself and went to stir the fire. She had a very vague idea forming in the back of her mind, but couldn’t quite place her finger on it. Sitting down on the hearthrug, she reviewed what she had learned over the past few days as the fire crackled soothingly. Evil mirrors, murderous fathers, mad husbands, ghosts…well, at least Sauron was gone. It must have been relentlessly difficult for Finduilas, having to deal with both the Dark Lord and the evil going on in her own home. Well, she had died of depression. Of course it had been hard on her.

There was one more mirror to destroy. Of that Eowyn was certain. She traced a line in the soft weave of her blanket, thinking. Where could it be? A big mirror was not easy to hide, unless it was behind a wall, or a curtain…or a painting…or both.

Eowyn shot to her feet without thinking. Of course! It was so simple she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it in the first place. The portrait gallery. The place where all this had started. An image flashed into her mind, of a portrait covered in a heavy black curtain. The portrait of a girl who had died a terrible death, and was forever bound to wander these halls…because of a mirror.

Eowyn leapt to her feet, dropped her blanket, and flew towards her wardrobe. There was not much time to be had.

*****

Two dark figures, shrouded in dark cloaks, hurried along the corridors. The taller one led the way, and although they moved with ease, they carried no candles to see by. Through the silent halls they crept, until they reached the old portrait gallery and slipped inside.

“I’m not certain how to be going about this,” Eowyn admitted to Pippin in a whisper. “Somehow I think the crashing of glass will bring everyone running for miles.”

Pippin frowned up at her. “But it has to be broken, right? So we should just do that, and then we should run away.”

Eowyn smiled in spite of herself. “Run away screaming like children, right?”

“Exactly. Glad to know that we think the same, Eowyn,” Pippin replied, smoothing his jacket in a way that belied his nervousness.

Eowyn looked back up at the curtained portrait. I am not afraid. She reached up and flicked the heavy curtain aside. Alatarial’s portrait stared down at them, a furtive looking young woman holding a blue cup to her lips. Eowyn reached up and took the large painting down from the wall.

“It’s very heavy,” she said. “I think I’m right.”

With Pippin’s help, Eowyn pulled the portrait from its frame. As the back came off, something heavy fell backwards. Eowyn caught it, and the silver surface of a mirror gleamed at them.

“You were right,” Pippin said with a grin. “I’m not particularly surprised, you know.”

Eowyn nodded. “Come on, help me put it on the floor. We’ll put the portrait back up.”

The mirror was large, but it was surprisingly lightweight, and they managed to lay it on the floor with ease. Eowyn swiftly put the back on the portrait frame again and leaned it against the wall. She picked up the mirror and looked at it.

“Careful,” said Pippin.

Eowyn barely heard him. Images flashed before her eyes, images so terrible that she knew she would never speak of them to anyone. She stared for a long time, it seemed, before she was able to put it down.

“Eowyn?” said Pippin in a hushed voice. “What is it? What did you see?”

Eowyn felt his small hands on her arm, supporting her. She leaned against the hobbit for a moment, swaying slightly. “I can’t tell you. I can’t ever tell you,” she whispered. “We have to destroy it, Pippin. And soon. Immediately.”

Pippin stared up at her white face, his eyes wide. “All right. We’ll do it now. I have an idea.”

*****

As dawn approached, Eowyn and Pippin mounted the last few stone steps of the tower of the Great Library. Eowyn let the burlap sack she was carrying slip to the floor with a thump and went to look over the balcony to the ground below.

Far below them, a tiny courtyard was empty save for some old crates and some broken bookshelves. The courtyard was only accessible from the library, a tiny yard that some long forgotten architect had added in to give the library it’s own little side yard. Once it must have been beautiful, a small garden that book-weary eyes could have looked upon for relief. Now a drift of junk filled one corner, and the stone planters were devoid of flowers. Eowyn wondered idly if the Librarian would mind her planting flowers there again.

“This will work,” said Pippin, joining her. “It’ll fall straight down, and the sack will keep the shards from getting all over the place.”

Eowyn nodded and hoisted the sack. “It seems an ignoble way to go, and that is how it should be. We can bury the pieces. On three, then. One, two…”

“Three,” they said together, and Eowyn let the sack fly out into the open air. Down, down, down it fell, until it hit the ground with a cracking noise that they clearly heard, even as high up as they were. A screeching noise rose, like that of a creature furious at its defeat, and then it was gone. The wind blew, a clean wind laced with salt, as if it had come from the ocean. The first rays of morning sunlight brushed over the city. Eowyn and Pippin breathed sighs of relief.

“Well, that’s it then,” said Pippin.

*****

Alatarial stood in the portrait gallery, in the sunlight, with her arms outstretched, face tilted upwards. She spun in slow circles in the golden light, feeling its warmth on her skin. The soft silk of her flame colored skirt brushed her legs as it belled out, and the ends of her purple girdle swung out. The moss green drapes had been thrown back, and the gallery was no longer dark and shadowy. Alatarial spun in last circles, singing softly.

All at once she stopped, looked up. Her friend came towards her, the one bound to the gallery for so many years. A dark haired girl in a dress of palest gold, who had not been permitted to leave the long hallway for the many years that she had been there. She had wandered from one end to the other, a relentless cycle, for centuries, hiding in the drapes whenever someone entered her domain. Illyria was standing nearby, smiling. Alatarial went to her, and the two friends embraced, laughing. It was over now, the ceaseless wandering. And then there was a hand on her shoulder, and Amroth was picking her up and swinging her around, laughing. The sunlight made his golden hair shine like a beacon, and Alatarial noted with delight how he embraced Illyria when he set her down. The three of them set off towards the open windows together. Never again would they be seen in the Citadel. They were free.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put then back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Well, it’s been a nice, long haul hasn’t it? A little over two years I’ve been writing this story, and now it’s done. Thank you all for sticking with me through thick and thin, and for putting up with the long pauses between updates. Hopefully my next story won’t take so long to complete! Title from Byron.

Epilogue: Start Not-Nor Deem My Spirit Fled

“I still think that you could have told the rest of us.”

Eowyn smiled and sipped her drink, something fruity and surprisingly nonalcoholic. Arwen had been unsurprisingly grumpy about the way things had turned, with just Pippin and Eowyn breaking the last mirror. “Anti-climactic”, she had called it. “Bloody brilliant” was what Merry had termed it. Aragorn had just smiled and expressed his relief that the whole escapade was over.

“I wonder what else the Citadel is hiding,” Arwen mused, playing with her necklace. “So much of it has been unused for so long.”

“Somehow I doubt it will stay that way forever,” Eowyn remarked.

Earlier in the evening, she had passed through the portrait gallery, wondering if there would be a change worked in it now that the final mirror had been destroyed. There had been. Bergil and a group of children, most likely those of the servants, had been chasing each other back and forth, shrieking and laughing. The gloom that had hung in the air of the long corridor had vanished and late afternoon sunlight streamed through the open windows. Those same children were now running about the great hall, bright beacons dressed in green and gold and scarlet-Elves, they said, although there were fey folk and even a dragon mixed in. Aragorn, once again breaking with tradition, had invited children to this last masquerade.

“What did you do with the shards?” Arwen asked, and Eowyn turned away from gazing at a little girl smiling shyly up at Galadriel, as whom she was dressed.

“What? Oh, we buried them out on the Pelennor,” Eowyn replied. “Near where the Fell Beast was burned. It…seemed fitting, I suppose you could say.”

“Yes,” Arwen replied. “Good.”

Later, Eowyn drifted over to the window and looked out, down towards the brightly lit pavilions further down in the city, where the people were dancing and laughing and eating. She had a gentle underlying suspicion that the Citadel had not yet yielded up all of its secrets; that it would be years before it had completely. Strangely, she found that she did not mind. She welcomed the adventure it would bring. As if in agreement with her, a slight sea breeze gently blew her long hair about her face. What other mysteries would come to light in this ancient city?

An arm slid around her waist.

“You are not dancing, my love,” murmured Faramir. “Will the Lady of the Shield Arm dance with me?”

For now, Eowyn decided, smiling up at her fiancé, they could wait. Just for a little while.
*****

In his crowded office in the Great Library, the Librarian reached for an old leather tome. Smiling slightly, he opened it to a page with a single line of spidery cursive writing.

Alatarial and the Mirrors.

Dipping his quill in the inkpot, the Librarian drew a thin line through the words. Then he moved the ribbon marking the page to a new place, closed the book, and set it to one side. Soon. It would be needed again soon.

Fin.