Prologue:
The Wish of a King

“I thought I had made myself perfectly clear, Master Ilian,” the quiet, a little hoarse voice from behind the table said.

The room was dim and very silent. All the old merchant from Dol Amroth could see was a shadowy figure beyond the bright circle of light from the six-armed candelabra, the tray with the black velvet cloth and those long, slender hands, pushing away the precious treasures he had brought to the palace. Pearls in the soft, iridescent colors of dawn… gentle pink, creamy white and the mere hint of a rosy apricot, marvelous enough to please a king. Which exactly was the reason why he was here… only that his treasures had to pass the eyes and hands behind the table first. And this turned out to be much more difficult than Master Ilian had dreamt it would be.

„But they are exquisite, Lady Artanis!” he said. “They are the best quality I could get so fast, and it took many preparations and not a little risk to bring them here in time!”

“I am sure that this is the case,” the woman replied in a dry tone. “But you certainly remembered that the thing I was asking for were gray pearls – and only gray pearls?”

“You told me that you need three hundred gray pearls,” the merchant said, swallowing nervously. What had he been thinking? He should have known better than trying to move around her clear order and to offer her something she hadn’t asked for. “I must admit – to my greatest regret, of course – that I could only find seventy-five pearls of that shade, due to the lack of---”

“— the lack of time, I know.” Now the sound of the woman’s voice was a little tired. “The fact that I ordered so many of them doesn’t necessarily mean that I will actually use all of them… as you should know, Master Ilian.” One pale hand moved over the tray, and a pearl, formed like a perfect tear, appeared between its fingertips. The soft, silvery luster shimmered in the flickering light of a candle and was gone when the lady slipped it into a small bag beside her. “The creation of a string of pearl may turn out to be the task for a lifetime. Sometimes you need years to find only two matching pieces, let alone enough of them for a whole, perfect necklace. I don’t have this time. The new King of Gondor trusts me to collect enough pearls to create a gift for his queen within the next month, and I have to rely on your experience and skills to grant his wish. How long will I have to wait?”

“Give me two more weeks, Lady Artanis,” the old merchant said, bowing deeply. “Only two more weeks and you will have what you wanted.”

“Thank you, Master Ilian. I can only hope that you are right.”

She watched him as he put the bags back into his heavy, wooden chest, carefully and slowly as if laying half a dozen children to rest. Then he bowed once more and left, silently closing the door behind him.

The woman stayed behind her table, lost in thoughts, while her hands neatly folded the cloth on the tray. The candles were burning with quiet flames now, mirrored in heavy-lidded eyes exactly the color of the pearls she intended to use to fulfill the new King’s order.

A string of pearls, she thought, perfect in size and form, from the smallest size at both ends of the necklace to the biggest ones exactly in the middle, each of them precious enough to fight a war for.

The war was still going on, though he didn’t know that, this Aragorn, this Telcontar, this Ranger from the North… this usurper of Gondor’s throne.

A string of pearls for the usurper’s queen.

Chapter 1
Mishap in the garden

“What the h… ouch!!”

There. One moment of carelessness with those enormous clippers – though the warden of the palace gardens had assured him that these were indeed the smallest ones he had been able to find – and he had managed to hurt himself. He didn’t even want to think about what the Gaffer would have to say about this. You have hooves where others have hands, Samwise Gamgee. Something of that kind, and no mistake.

He gazed down at his right hand. The second and third finger showed ugly, deep cuts, and the dull pain of the first moment was slowly turning into a fierce, sharp burning. He sighed, fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief and wrapped it around the wounds. The effect was disappointing; the white cloth colored to a wet, crimson red and now the blood started to trickle down over his wrist.

There was no use in playing the hero… he would have to get some help. He stood in the palace garden, right beside the rose bush he had intended to prune with those oversized shears, desperately trying to remember where the Houses of Healing were located. At least I’ve already been there, he thought with a lopsided grin, it would be terribly easy to get lost in this noble, white mountain of stones. Not the right place for hobbits, not at all.

He would try to find that friendly, elderly lady he had met in the Houses when Mr. Merry had brought him there a week ago to show him the place where the King had called his spirit back from wherever it had been after the battle on the Pelennor fields. Iorwen? No… Ioreth. She would certainly be able to stop the bleeding and to bandage the fingers before Str… before Aragorn heard about this stupid mishap. Not to speak of Mr. Merry. Or Mr. Pippin.

He opened the ornate garden gate between the high marble pillars and walked down the straight, paved road that led down from the palace to the sixth circle. The throbbing in his injured hand grew stronger while he made his way between neatly clipped hedges, and when he turned around he discovered a long trail of red spots on the white stones. He managed to shake off the silly, childish panic at the sight of his own blood, but he greeted the sight of the gate to the herb gardens of the Houses with a sigh of honest relief. The scent of sun-warmed rosemary, sage and lavender welcomed him and a moment later he reached the huge, heavy door to the entrance hall. He had to use both hands to push it open and was rewarded with a penetrating pain in the wounded fingers that made him gasp.

He still stood in the dim hall, blinking and trying to orient himself, when a door at the far end opened and a tall man stepped in, clad in the gray robes of the healers. His earnest, lined face relaxed to a smile and he bowed.

“What can I do to be of service, Master Per – oh, I see.”

There was not much to explain, indeed. The cloth was white no longer, saturated, and blood dripped onto the clean granite tiles, forming a small puddle.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Sam murmured. “I didn’t want to make such a mess, I really didn’t.”

“Don’t let it bother you, Master… Gamgee?” With a few fast steps the man was by his side, sliding one big hand around the hobbit’s shoulders and under his arm, keeping him upright. Sam felt a vague mixture of surprise and dismay when he understood that he actually was in dire need of a strong, supporting hand. His head started to spin, and suddenly he felt rather dizzy. “We will take care of that,” the man continued in a reassuring tone. “But first we will take care of you. May I introduce myself? I am Oroher, warden of the Houses of Healing. This way, please.”

*****

Half an hour later Sam sat on a low stool in one of the sunlit rooms on the western side. The wounds on both fingers had been sewed with a dozen tiny stitches, and he held a mug with mulled wine in his good hand, thankfully sipping the warm, spicy liquid. Oroher knelt beside him, securing the white bandage with a small knot, when suddenly voices rose outside; steps were approaching. Oroher shot a glance at the door, rose quickly and bowed.

“Oh dear…” Sam murmured, his pale face flushing with helpless embarrassment. “Oh dear.”

The very next moment the King of Gondor burst into the room, his brow furrowed with concern, his lips a tight line. He caught sight of the small figure with the bandaged hand, came to abrupt halt and let out his breath; his broad shoulders relaxed while he peered down at the hobbit on the stool.

“Now, don’t you tell me that you knew it before,” Sam said quickly before Aragorn could even open his mouth. “T’was nothing but a silly accident. Those clippers are clearly not made for hobbit fingers.”

“Oh, indeed?” The warm, deep steel-and-velvet-voice held more than a hint of irony. “My dear Sam… remind me not to fear next time I walk into the gardens of my palace to invite a friend to lunch, only to discover a pair of abandoned, bloody hedge clippers and a dramatic trail of blood leading me all the way down to the sixth circle and to a puddle of blood in the Houses of Healing.” He shook his head. “At least you have found the right place to get the help you needed.” He took Sam’s hand in his, examined the bandage and gave a smile. “Thank you, Oroher.”

“Your Majesty.” The warden bowed again and turned to Sam.

“You should be careful during the next days, Master Gamgee,” he said, “Please keep the bandage as dry as possible, and I would like to see you the day after tomorrow to be sure that there is no inflammation. Master Baggins might perhaps accompany you;; then I’ll be able to check both of your hands.”

“I will be here, too.” the King said quietly.

“Of course, your Majesty. It will be an honor for me to assist you.”

Sam sighed. Out of the pan and into the fire, he thought. This will cause even more pampering than those nasty bruises on the soles of my feet that are finally healed. Well… there’s nothing I can do to keep them from fussing, I suppose. At least it will be me for a change. I guess Mr. Frodo will be pleased to hear that.

He groaned and emptied the mug with a single, long gulp.

*****

Lunchtime had passed and the sun was slowly wandering down to the west. The hobbits’ house looked eastward, over the wide expanse of the still marred Pelennor fields, the river and the blurring chain of mountains that separated Gondor from the Dark Lands. On the left side the grounds were bounded by a high white wall that set it off from the town house of the royal seneschal, his garden at this time of the year a purposefully tamed riot of rare flowers and abundant lilac bushes. On the right side the wall was lower, overgrown with roses and ivy, and interrupted by a finely crafted gate made of black wrought iron, decorated with the heraldic sign of the House of Lebennin – a proud eagle, holding a chain of gems in his claws. The house behind the wall had been the residence of the Keeper of the Jewels for more than fifteen generations, and when the last Keeper, Ardhenon, retired after the terrible passing of the last Steward, his daughter Artanis had inherited his noble duty. She lived alone in the house, her only servants the equerry, a stable boy, two scullery maids and her old nurse Eilinel who just brought her Lady a piece of cake and a glass of chilled white wine with water.

“… and they are friendly folk, friendly folk indeed!” she said, placing the tray in front of the young noblewoman who sat in the sunny alcove of the small breakfast room. “Always laughing and very polite. Mind you, the gardener – the one who walked with the Ringbearer to Mordor, Samwise Gamgee is his name – even asked for the recipe of my strawberry cake. He told me that they have lots of strawberries in the land where the periannath live…and you should’ve seen his face when he said that. I bet he is very homesick. Perhaps there is a lassie waiting for him. And you should eat your strawberry cake, my lamb… your father will have a word or two with me if I let you grow too thin.”

Artanis took a small sip from the chilled wine. “Are their friends presently in the house, too? The Prince of Greenwood and the dwarf? And where is the White Wizard? Did you see him?”

The nurse smiled down at her, highly pleased that Artanis for once showed an interest in something besides her pearls and gems.

“No, they are not.” she replied, eager to give her Lady all the information she sought. “Mithrandir has gone off to Minas Morgul and further on to Cirith Ungol to see whether there are any evil spells left he might have the power to remove.” She shuddered. “He has taken a troop of three hundred men with him, and Prince Legolas and Gimli the Dwarf have insisted to be in his company – to guard his steps, I guess, as does Master Gamgee who told me about it. And wizard or not, I guess it must feel good to be guarded that way.” Now she blushed; she’d had the chance to catch a glimpse of the elven prince a few days ago, and his strangely youthful, bright beauty and grace had left an ineffaceable impression.

“So they will be gone for at least two weeks, won’t they?” the Lady asked with a smile, “They will be missed by their friends, I suppose.”

“You know, as long as the hobbits are together, they feel fine. They are of the same kin – except the gardener, of course - and it’s so nice to see how much they care for each other! One of has served in Lord Denethor’s guard, and the other one came with the Horse Riders, as you well know; they call him Merry, and I’ve never seen a name that fits better!”

“And the Ringbearer?”

The nurse sighed. “Such a gentle soul… always so tired, and so quiet. But I would probably be quiet, too, after all that happened in that cursed land, with losing his poor finger and all. The right hand is not healed yet, and very second day the King himself changes the bandages in the Palace. That one is a prince among the halflings, he truly is – but when I pass him by on the street, he bows and greets me as any good neighbor should do, and he doesn’t care a bit that I am only a servant. --- Oh, but you must eat something, lamb!”

“An emissary from Harad has arrived with emeralds from the mines in the far south,” the Lady remarked absently, „and I am expected to appraise their value. I will return to the palace within the next hour, and I will lie down to get a little bit of rest first. Last night I had to wait very long for the pearl-merchant of Dol Amroth.”

The nurse removed the untouched plate and the empty glass with a resentful gaze and vanished downstairs into the kitchen; Artanis got up from the table and walked to her rooms.

Both bedroom and parlor were of an unusual simplicity, concerning the noblewoman that resided there most of the year. The family manor in Lebennin was much more luxurious, but Artanis had always found her father’s taste and unchecked rage of collecting things more than a little stifling. The walls in her personal realm were of a soft white; the high windows had been renewed a few years ago and the biggest one of them had been created after the Lady’s own design. A fine mosaic of rainbow-colored glass-flowers bloomed all over the windowpane and turned the rays of the sun into gems, shimmering on the cool, marble floor. Two deep, comfortable chairs stood on each side of the big, empty fireplace, and a high shelf was filled with books, bound in leather and thick parchment. An old oak chest, hidden in a niche behind the bed, was waiting to hide the seventy-five gray pearls Artanis had already gathered for the precious string the King was waiting for, and an old, beautifully carved bench was strewn with cushions in warm, deep colors… ruby red, sapphire blue and a rich, glorious emerald green. Artanis sat down there and leaned back against the wall. Her gaze fell on the gilded lamp on her desk; the intricate lampshade was made of gossamer-thin agate. Artanis took the tinderbox from the mantelpiece and kindled a small flame; warm brightness filled the dim corner of the room.

Tell me a story, Maedhron. About Mardil, the Good Steward. And keep the agate-lamp burning. I’m afraid in the dark.

There’s no need to be afraid, little one. One day you will be the Keeper of the Jewels, and countless treasures will pass through your hands. You will be a famous, wealthy lady among noble men, my sweet pearl.

No, you will be the Keeper. Father is so proud of you… and I am, too.

But Maedhron had been right, as always. When the darkness of war had fallen over Minas Tirith, he refused to follow the order of their father and left for the battle on the Pelennor fields. And there he died, her brother, golden and bright like amber and fiery topaz, and she had been left behind to be a poor substitute for his warmth and glory.

Show your value, daughter, at least once. There is no one else left I could rely on.

Her father’s voice, bitter and dry, the words spoken barely three days ago. And she would try not to disappoint him.

*****

Half an hour later a pigeon rose from the stables of the Keeper’s house, circling over the white roof and turning west to where the sun went down behind Mt. Mindolluin. The small message tube tied to her foot contained a short note:

The Ringbearer has a bedroom of his own. He rests early. And his right hand is bandaged.

TBC

Chapter 2
Thieves in the Night

He broke through the surface of his unruly sleep like a drowning swimmer frantically searching for a gasp of air. At least this time he lay still until his breath had calmed down and his heartbeat had found its silent, regular rhythm again. On earlier nights, he had rocketed up in bed, finding himself, to his great dismay, surrounded by tired faces with troubled eyes.

They were all fast asleep – Merry and Pippin, whose united snores he could hear even through the closed door. They shared a big room on the opposite side of the corridor. Sam slept, too… though not in the chamber beside Frodo’s, but here in his bed. He could feel the gardener’s presence close beside him, healthy warmth radiating from his sturdy body like from freshly baked bread.

Frodo sighed.

All he could see of his friend and companion was a mop of sun-bleached, tousled hair, shimmering in the faint rays of moonlight that came through an opening in the dark red velvet curtains, and the clean bandage that covered his right hand, snow white in the near darkness. Poor Sam! He’d received more than his share of jests about Gamgee-clumsiness and the dramatic dangers of gardening, but he had taken them with good humor. After a whole day of merciless mockery, especially from Merry, Frodo had tried to interfere, but Sam only laughed and shook his head. It’s all my fault, he’d said with a somewhat wistful smile, I should’ve known better. It’s high time that I was using my own shears again… though, and then the smile grew sadder, I fear they’ve got pretty rusty meanwhile. Mr. Lotho is not the hobbit to use them well. I’ll have to buy new ones for the garden in Crickhollow. Frodo had patted his back and they had had a luxurious dinner with spicy, deep red, gondorean wine in the garden before they went to bed.

And at some time during this stifling warm night, Sam must have decided that he preferred sleeping closer to his master, in case Frodo had bad dreams again… or perhaps only because he was so used to guarding his master’s slumber. Frodo bore him no grudge for it. Quite to the contrary, he found Sam’s devoted, selfless attitude moving and comforting at the same time. And still – they were so careful, so gentle, so… overly protective of him, all of them. He knew they meant well. He knew they were uneasy and anxious. He felt their gaze on his back wherever he went, listened to their soft voices, offering their company, never leaving him alone. Suddenly that vivid warmth beside him seemed to embody everything that had changed and now added to his misery… All those little details, turning the independent, self-confident master of Bag End into a fragile, haunted creature, not allowed a single step on his own, to prevent him from hurting himself.

He was thankful for their concern, grateful for their care. But there were moments when he could not bear it any longer… though stomping his feet like a petulant fauntling and screaming: Leave me alone, for pity’s sake, all of you! would certainly not improve his situation.

And it was too warm. For nearly two weeks now, the marble walls of the White City had stored the untimely heat of the sun and then radiated it back long after dusk had fallen. It was only the last few days of May, June was drawing near. Summers in Gondor were apparently very different to those in the Shire.

At home there had been warm weeks, too – of course – but they would be interspersed with cloudy days and the reassuring drum of heavy drops on the grassy roof of Bag End… The sweet scent of damp honeysuckle, the splashing of bare feet in the silvery puddles along the way to Bywater after a refreshing shower… lush, green hills and daffodils with gently nodding heads… He lay in the stifling darkness, his eyes wide open, and the images washed over him with bittersweet, breathtaking power and closed ghostly fingers around his heart.

Home.

He had been blind and deaf for so long… blind and deaf to everything but that murderous golden band, dangling from his neck and that whirling wheel of fire in his head and mind. Now, older memories slowly came back, colorful and lively like a precious tapestry, and the warm brown and green, the luscious yellow and blue were the shades of the Shire, engraved in his soul. He wanted to go back, and soon… the reverence and barely hidden awe of all the strange people here unnerved him. He was cranky and homesick. And now he lay in his luxurious room, Sam in blissful oblivion beside him, and he knew with merciless clarity that after only two hours of unruly rest, yet another sleepless night loomed ahead of him.

Perhaps a little stroll in the garden would help… a breath of fresh air and the sight of the stars. Suddenly he thought of the hammock.

Faramir had brought it along a few weeks ago, a bulky bundle under his arm. He carried it over the lawn, stopped before two oaks beside the wall to the Seneschal’s garden and unrolled it on the grass. The hobbits stared curiously at what that looked like a huge net, plaited of fine rope; Frodo vaguely remembered them from Buckland where Esmeralda sometimes brought perch and bream to the festive table.

“What is that?” Merry asked.

“It’s a hammock,” Faramir replied. He was already busy fastening the strange net between the oaks. “Gondorean sailors use them on the merchant’s ships and my uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, had some of them in the gardens of the Swan Palace. When I visited him as a child, I refused to sleep in my bed and spent the nights in a hammock instead – to the delight of my mother and the dismay of my nurse.” He smiled. “I thought you might enjoy a new experience.”

Sam eyed the hammock with the same hearty distrust he had shown the delicate elven boats in Lórien. He couldn’t be talked into trying it, and when Peregrin returned from his service in the watch and was informed about this strange, new item, he kept a safe distance and watched how the Knight of Gondor cautiously lowered his weight into it. Pippin was a lot more venturous than the gardener, but even he only used the hammock like a kind of great swing, and it became a sport for him and Merry to sit in it side by side, stretching and bending their legs until they rocked back and forth through the warm summer air… and they turned within minutes from hardy heroes to jaunty children again while their united laughter rang through the garden.

In the end, the only one who appreciated Faramir’s gift as it was intended to be used was Frodo himself. One day he waited until Merry and Pippin had gone to their various duties and Sam was beleaguering the warden of the royal gardens with questions, before slipping outside with a blanket and a pillow to make his first attempt. It took some courage to climb into the large, ductile braiding, but once he had managed it, and had carefully stretched out his legs, it turned out to be astonishingly comfortable. He stuffed the pillow under his head, wrapped himself into the blanket and delighted in the feel of the soft, swinging movement of the hammock beneath his body. No thick, heavy mattress, no high stone walls to close him in… instead, a gentle breeze ruffling his hair and the clear sky above; brilliant blue filtered through a veil of green-golden oak leaves.

“Not bad,” he murmured, “not bad at all.”

He dozed off only minutes later and when the other hobbits returned late in the afternoon, they found him in the garden after nearly half an hour of searching. He woke up to Merry and Pippin’s laughter and to Sam’s horrified exclamation: “How on earth does he manage not to tumble out of this…thing… and break his neck?!” ---

He slipped out of the giant bed carefully to avoid waking Sam. Leaving the pillow behind, he took a folded blanket from the lid of a trunk and sneaked out of the room. As soon as he had reached the door and opened it, he felt the night air like a caress on his face and took a deep, involuntary breath of relief. He stepped outside, left the graveled path and walked over the dew-damp grass, every step a silent delight, cool and invigorating. Then he dove into the shadows under the trees and swung himself into the hammock. Just as he had the very first time, he felt peaceful and strangely secure giving in to the gentle movements of this fragile, oversized cradle. And slowly the hammock worked its spell, cheating his notorious insomnia and rocking him to a deep slumber, miraculously undisturbed by nightmares.

*****

He opened his eyes to the first, sleepy notes of a blackbird above his head. The sky was still gray, but rosy fingers reached out from the east, gentle harbingers of the sunrise. His face and hair felt slightly damp, but the blanket had kept him perfectly warm, and he decided to stay a little bit longer. Perhaps he could climb out of the hammock a little later and watch the sun appear over Ephel Dúath.

“Are you mad? What will you do next - drop him on the street like a rotten apple?”

The high, whistling tenor sounded sharp and loud in the dreamy silence of the dawning day. Frodo sat up with a start, gazing around.

“We got to get him to the cart as fast as possible and leave the city before they wake up and find out about it!”

“Be silent, you fool. The cart is waiting right around the next corner with a big cask. Nothing will happen, as long as you don’t lose your nerve.”

The second was a deeper voice, hoarse and with a hint of grim laughter. Steps moved away and then everything was quiet again. Frodo nestled one arm out of the blanket and wiped his eyes, trying to clear his head enough to understand what had just happened.

Who ever spoke there had not been in the garden but outside, beyond the wall. Suddenly he remembered something Aragorn had told him during their journey in the elven boats, in one of those endless hours spent in nervous unease, the rushing, cold water directly beneath them. “Voices carry far on water,” Aragorn had said, “same as in the night or in the dawn, when all living creatures are asleep. If you have to talk and don’t want to be overheard, you should not whisper. Just lower your voice a little and speak in a quiet tone; no one will understand what you are saying, and you will be able to keep your secrets.” The man with the shrill voice had obviously not been aware of that fact.

He was still trying to figure out what the short exchange had been about. Who did they want to carry away? Where did they go? Had he been the witness to a crime or only to a harmless discussion between two friends helping a beer-soaked friend? And what was the cask for?

He climbed out of the hammock and walked to the eastern wall. From there he had a clear view of the lower circles of Aragorn’s White City. The sky was brightening; a broad seam of shining gold split the horizon. He scanned the serpentine streets leading down to the big gates. There were quite a few carts on their way and more than one of them loaded with casks; he had been told that every glass of wine and every single mug of ale had to be brought from the southern regions of Gondor to Minas Tirith. The City gates were closed during the night; the merchants could only leave with first daylight.

Frodo shook his head and decided to go back inside; the dew and the cool morning air made him shiver and the prospect of a good cup of tea, a pan of scrambled eggs and some toast became increasingly appetizing. He could, for a turn, prepare everything himself – even if he would have to climb on a stool to reach the grate – and surprise his companions with a hearty breakfast.

He walked back along the path and stepped into the house, then went down the corridor and peered into Sam’s room. The cover was neatly folded, the pillow fluffed up, but no one lay in the bed. Sam had obviously not noticed his trip into the garden and was still fast asleep in his master’s bed.

Frodo smiled and went to his own chamber. He opened the door; it was dark and stifling hot inside. Only a narrow ray of light fell on the mattress, but no one lay upon it. When he frowned and moved closer, something crunched beneath his right foot and a sudden pain made him stumble. He limped hastily over to the window and ripped the curtain aside. Now he had a clear sight, and he stared with great dismay at the scenery.

The pillow lay on the floor and the cover hung half out of the bed. The carafe with water and the glass from the nightstand had obviously been swept down; shards glittered on the white marble tiles and when he gazed at his throbbing foot, he saw a long splinter, protruding from his big toe. He bowed down with a grimace and removed it, barely noticing the blood that stained his fingers. For suddenly he discovered a dark print on the blanket: someone had stepped on it… someone wearing boots.

He took a deep breath, clenching his teeth against the icy panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

We got to get him to the cart as fast as possible and leave the city before they wake up and find out about it!

Now the remark made terrible sense… Two men, secretly carrying a bundle out of the house, trying to get it out of sight before anyone noticed what they were doing.

And I stood there like a witless fool and watched them escape – without doing anything! he thought, numb and frozen with horror. Sweet Eru, they have taken Sam!

Chapter 3
Dove Flight

His head hurt. The entire right half of his face was numb, and he moaned into the utter darkness. It was a frightened, muffled sound, stifled by the filthy lump of cloth between his teeth.

What… and why…?

He had been sleeping beside Mr. Frodo, and a pleasant dream had carried him back to Hobbiton… the Hobbiton of his childhood, when the Gaffer wasn’t weighed down by age and Mam Bell still ruled over the Gamgee-household, a trustworthy haven of laughter and unerring love, constantly surrounded by the mouthwatering scent of good cooking. He remembered running over a dew-damp meadow, the glittering loop of the Water before him between the stems of half a dozen spring-green trees. The sound of his own voice –the voice of a small boy, high and shrill – still echoed in his mind: Ham! Ham, where are you? Not so fast!

He retched and finally managed to spit out the wet fabric, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. He was still desperately trying to get the course of events into a meaningful order – which was getting increasingly difficult while his entire skull throbbed like a giant, rotten grinder.

Something had startled him out of his peaceful slumber and nostalgic dream… perhaps the instinctive knowledge that Frodo was gone. For almost a year nearly every single thought in his mind had been focused on protecting his master, and now the mere loss of his presence was enough to put his sharpened senses on alert. He had opened his eyes to the empty pillow beside him and was instantly widely awake. Then came a shuffle of feet behind him and the hot huff of breath on his neck, and a big hand clasped rudely over his mouth. He bolted up in Mr. Frodo’s bed, with flailing arms and kicking legs, and without thinking, buried his teeth into the sweaty palm. A shrill voice hissed an ugly curse, and then something crashed against his temple and tossed him into black unconsciousness.

Where was he? Where had they brought him?

Sam felt around; there was solid rock beneath his searching fingers, cold and slightly damp. He closed his eyes, listening for any sign that might help him to orient; it was almost completely silent. The only sound he could hear was the regular dripping of water. Was it day or night? He was completely unable to fathom. He shook his head in miserable frustration, tried to sit up, and was surprised and shocked by the sudden rattling of chains. Someone had closed thick iron cuffs around his left wrist and ankle! He followed the chain links with his free hand until he found the wall. It was too uneven to be brick-built, but he could feel rough plaster beneath his palm. No cave… a cellar, perhaps?

He felt a sudden onrush of thankfulness that the Gaffer had no idea of his predicament… he couldn’t even begin to figure out what his Da would have to say to such a completely strange, disastrous situation.

Perhaps he would be speechless, for once, he mused, his face relaxing to a small grin, Samwise Gamgee, hauled from a bed twice his size in the house of a king, and now sitting in the middle of nowhere, chained against the wall like Farmer Cotton’s breeding boar. He wouldn’t be able to make head nor tail of the whole thing. His grin faded. Nor can I.

He had the distinct feeling that screaming for help or banging against the wall would not help… and might damage his wounded hand even more. He felt for the bandage with his good left and frowned when he found that the cloth, once neatly wound around his fingers, was now damp and torn. The last thing I need now is a nasty infection, he thought with a grimace. Out of the pan and into the fire, again. You’d better think of something useful, Samwise Gamgee, and fast.

The sound of approaching steps from somewhere to his left brought the thought of a plan to a sudden halt. He heard the unmistakable clangor of keys, and then a door opened in the darkness, revealing two huge – obviously human – figures and the bright, red-golden flickering of two torches. There was no time left to sink back on the ground and pretend that he was still unconscious so he sat there, blinking like an owl and trying to take in as much as possible while he was still able. Now he could see a regular row of stanchions, separating the room he was imprisoned from another bigger one. The door led obviously to another room; he caught a short glimpse of a desk, a chair and a half a dozen hooks, too big to be meant for cloaks. They reminded him of something, but before he could figure out what it was, one of the two men stepped close to the stanchions and stared down at him, a slightly scornful expression on his bearded face.

“Let’ s have a closer look at what comes out when you empty the potato sack.” He snorted. “So this is the Ringbearer whose noble deeds saved Middle Earth, as they claim. Such a half pint! Not very impressive, to say the least.”

“Be careful if you come too close,” the other one retorted with a sour grimace; Sam recognized the shrill voice at once and saw with deep satisfaction that he was not the only one with a wounded hand in this room. “He bites.”

Sam suppressed a weak grin of triumph… and then the remark of the first man hit him with full impact. He gazed up at his abductors, laboriously trying to bring his face under control.

So this is the Ringbearer…

He closed his eyes, his thoughts a whirl of utter bafflement, and for a short, breathless moment he felt neither his throbbing head nor the faint pain in his injured fingers.

Goodness gracious – he is talking about me!

*****

When Aragorn reached the guesthouse half an hour after sunrise, the hobbits were assembled in the large kitchen. Frodo stood at the window, seemingly lost in thoughts; Pippin sat beside the table, idly turning an apple between his fingers, and Merry paced back and forth between hearth and door. No tea had been brewed, no bread roasted, and the King didn’t take this evidence lightly; a hobbit losing his appetite was a very bad sign.

As he walked into the room, Frodo turned on his heels and their eyes met. The Ringbearer’s face was pale, his lips a thin, firm line. Anxiety and a barely suppressed consternation radiated from him in palpable waves, but he kept his composure and was perfectly able to describe everything that had happened during that hot, fateful night – as far as he knew, anyway. As often as asked, he repeated the short exchange he had overheard.

“I want to examine your bedchamber.” Aragorn said.

“Of course,” Frodo replied, his face blank and his body tense as a bowstring. “We left everything as it was. I hope that was helpful.”

“It certainly was.” Aragorn reached out to give Frodo’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but the hobbit sidestepped the touch with a nearly imperceptible movement. The King raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead he asked Merry and Pippin to stay behind.

“There may be traces,” he explained, “stains of dirt, grass, anything. Too many feet will destroy what I hope to find.”

He walked down the corridor, bending low and scanning every inch of the floor. It was as he had feared; there was not much to find, only some crumbs of dirt here and there and a few tiny pebbles. He turned around at the doorstep and gazed at the hobbit waiting behind him.

“There has been a lot of running this morning, I suppose?”

Frodo gave a somewhat lopsided grin. “We wasted some time searching for Sam under several beds,” he said. “Merry and Pippin did, at least. Merry first even suggested that Sam was sleepwalking and could possibly be found between the roses in the royal garden, tenderly embracing a thorn bush.” The humorous light in his eyes vanished quickly. “But that footprint, and the broken glass… and that conversation behind the wall…”

"Yes,” Aragorn agreed softly, "yes, of course.”

The bedroom lay in full daylight now. Aragorn bent over the blanket hanging off of the bed. He examined the dried footprint and judged the distance between the nightstand and the shards on the floor to find out who might have swept the carafe down. When he pulled at the blanket, he suddenly discovered that someone had ripped a broad strip of cloth out of the pillowcase.

“Interesting…” he murmured. “What did they need that piece of fabric for?”

“As a… as a gag, perhaps?” Frodo’s voice had a strained, brittle tone, but otherwise he still kept himself under perfect control. Aragorn shot him a sharp gaze.

“No, I don’t think so,” he replied carefully. "If they needed a gag – and yes, I think, there were at least two of them - they would certainly have brought it with them from the beginning… probably together with ropes and a sack. No, I don’t think that this was used for a gag. I fear they knocked our poor Sam unconscious – but he might have been able to fight them for a while. I guess he wounded one of his abductors…” he gave Frodo a flash of a smile. "Can't you see him taking a bite of an attacker?”

“Hopefully.” Frodo grimly returned the smile. “What will we do now?”

Aragorn sighed.

“Nothing,” he said, "or, to be precise, you, my dear friend, are the one who will do nothing. You will come with me to the palace, at once. We must proceed on the assumption that there are spies in the city, probably even at the court. We will confine you to my private rooms; the servants there were chosen among the Dúnedain, and I trust them blindly.”

He caught himself involuntarily staring at Frodo’s bandaged hand with the gap where once a finger had been.

“Because our mysterious foe might find out that his minions brought him the wrong hobbit?” the Ringbearer asked quietly, following his gaze before Aragorn could turn his eyes away.

The King opened his mouth and then closed it again. A long silence followed.

“How long have you realized this?” he finally asked.

“A little longer than you, I think,” Frodo retorted dryly. “I saw this room first this morning. And the fact that there are two halflings with a bandaged right hand may well be the cause of a fateful mistake, don’t you think?” He sighed and shook his head. "Though they actually didn’t make any mistake. Sam was a Ringbearer, too, and a much worthier one, if you ask me.”

He straightened his back.

“I will trust and obey you in this, Aragorn,” he said, "but not for long. I have been confined to a sickroom because I was too weak to move. Then confined to this house because you told me to recover and to take care of myself. But with Sam being in danger, I won’t stay behind and wait for you to save the day. You know that, do you?”

“Yes,” Aragorn replied, eyeing the hobbit with deep concern, “Only too well.”

*****

An hour after sunrise, a pigeon rose into the clear summer air, fluttering in swift, searching loops and then shooting over the glittering surface of the river towards the shadowy silhouette of the Mindolluin and the White City.

It was one of five birds stolen from the royal pigeonry a week before, well trained and fast, and it carried a message in the small tube tied to its foot.

The Ringbearer is alive. We will exchange him for a certain ransom, and tomorrow we will name the one who has to come and deliver it… alone.

The pigeon hurried westward, a white flash of wings that caught the eyes of a hawk, drawing lazy circles high above the Pelennor Fields. Sharp golden eyes followed the freshly discovered, highly welcome prey, and then the hunter plunged down.

The pigeon noticed the danger the fraction of a second too late to dodge away from the deadly beak. One moment later it hung lifeless and limp in the grip of the hawk’s sharp claws; a shrill, victorious cry rang over the road leading to the big gates of the City, and the small carcass was carried away to the aerie to feed a hungry brood.

Soon, all that was left of the pigeon was a handful of bloody feathers and fragile bones. The little tube lay buried beneath the remnants… unnoticed and useless.

Chapter 4
Falling Pearls

“What do you mean: the house is empty?”

Lady Artanis sat in the small, shadowed breakfast room; every single shutter was closed against the blazing midday heat. She had just been served a small meal of freshly baked bread, cheese and pale Muscat grapes from Lebennin. But the Lady didn’t eat. She looked up at her nurse Eilinel; the gaze of her pearl-gray eyes had lost all it’s delusive composure and was sharp as a bared blade.

“Just what I’m saying, my lamb,” the nurse replied patiently. “This morning when I went to the gate to bring the nice little gardener my recipe – for the strawberry cake, if you remember – no one was at home. Even more… suddenly one of the royal guards stepped out of the door, came over and asked me in a very distrustful tone what kind of business I had with the King’s guests! I have no idea why he did that - they are such friendly little folk, and I never meant any harm!”

“Of course you didn’t.” The Lady patted Eilinel’s arm reassuringly. Her piercing, agitated gaze was now carefully hidden beneath heavy lids. “You told me that the Ringbearer was still wounded; perhaps his injuries have got worse again.”

“But… but he looked so good yesterday!” the nurse protested. “I can’t imagine that…”

“We know nothing for sure,” Artanis said and finally ate the first grape. “But I will try to find out more when I go to the palace this afternoon, if you want. And I would like to have something to drink with the fruits. Would you be so kind as to fetch a mug of chilled wine for me?”

The nurse hurried downstairs towards the kitchen. Artanis plucked another grape, put it into her mouth and felt the sweet, spicy juice on her tongue. She was thankful for the short reprieve… it gave her a chance to sort her thoughts and to ponder the next step. The fact that all the hobbits had left the guesthouse and the presence of the guard could only mean one thing – the abduction had been successful and the King had obviously decided to whisk the rest of the hobbits to safety. Now she had to find out if the stolen dove with the first message to Aragorn had reached the royal pigeonry… which should be no problem at all.

The pigeonry was one of her most treasured childhood memories. From her sixth to her eleventh year of life, the family had lived mainly in Minas Tirith, and when her mother suddenly fell ill one summer and couldn’t leave the Houses of Healing for weeks, Eilinel had to run the household (which was much more elaborate in those days) alone. Maedhron was busy learning the art of the sword with the elder son of the Steward, and his little sister was mostly left to her own devices. One morning she got lost in the fifth circle, and before she could panic, an elderly man with graying, brown hair, friendly eyes and a gentle voice crouched down before her.

“Lost your way, my Lady?” he asked. She suppressed her anxious sniffle, collected all the dignity of her eight years and managed to tell him her name and the location of her house. He laughed, gave her a piece of candied apple from the pocket of his leather waistcoat and explained that he was Ecthelion, the warden of the pigeonry. Then he took her by the hand and led her to his realm, where she was introduced to the Steward’s finest messenger birds. It was love at first sight; Artanis was spellbound by the downy soft feathers and gentle voices of those graceful creatures and positively thrilled by their mysterious ability to always find their way home.

From that day on she was a frequent and highly welcome guest in the pigeonry, and even now, as her duties at the court made their own claim on her time, she still visited the birds and the warden. Artanis felt a sudden pang of guilt when she remembered how easy it had been to deceive him a week ago; she had brought him a small dinner of cold beef and beer late one evening, sat a while with him and then snuck behind his back into the dim room with the cages to steal five of his best pigeons. They knew and trusted her – as Ecthelion did – and made no noise as she hid them in her huge basket; half an hour later she was home again, his innocent, unsuspecting “Good Night, my Lady, and thank you for your kindness towards an old man!” ringing in her ears like a gentle, persistent accusation.

She stared down at her plate, the last grape bitter and sharp in her mouth; then she straightened her back and once more closed her mind to the voice of conscience.

Simple people cling to small details like children. We have the duty to be different… to make decisions and to hazard the consequences. Pity is a luxury we cannot afford.

Her father’s words; she winced at the memory. Sometimes Ardhenon of Lebennin seemed to her like a rock, unmoving and undisturbed by the elements. Her dreams and feelings, her yearnings and sorrows had been shattered against that rock nearly her entire life. She was well aware of the fact that the only thing that caused him to notice his daughter was the loss of Maedhron. During the first weeks after her brother’s death, the burden of her frozen loneliness and grief had nearly been more than she could bear. When her father suddenly started to seek her presence, all her buried hopes awakened to new life.

Perhaps they still had a chance, after all those years. Perhaps the day would come when he would learn to love her… even though he only needed her as a substitute for his son right now.

But would Maedhron have agreed to be used as a willing tool in this?

One hand flew up, hastily pressed against her mouth… as if to keep the quiet, insistent whispering from being heard. Artanis rose from the chair, her face white. It was dangerous to think and to doubt, and much too dangerous to question her father’s plans.

When the nurse returned with a mug of wine a few minutes later, the breakfast room was empty.

*****

It was ridiculously simple to get access to Ecthelion’s flight-book. Artanis had watched him again and again over the years and knew how he wrote down the names of the pigeons returning with messages, every letter carefully painted with a neatly sharpened quill. She knew that he patrolled the cages twice a day, at midday and in the late hours of evening, before he returned home and went to bed, and the reliability of his habit was an important part of her plan. She had told her father’s men exactly which bird to send first – Snowbreast – so that she would know exactly when the King got the first note. Following the course of that first note would be easy. But Artanis was aware that things would become increasingly difficult as soon as Aragorn realized that the abductors of the Ringbearer used pigeons to send their messages.

But the daily digest was an unpleasant surprise: Snowbreast’s name was nowhere to be found, and beside the number of her cage she was still listed as “missing”. Artanis could well imagine Ecthelion’s consternation thinking that anyone might tamper with his beloved birds; he probably preferred to believe that he had made some inexplicable mistake.

And now Artanis wondered if the guardians of the Ringbearer had made the mistake instead. After some thought, she decided that this was impossible. Her father’s servants were much too afraid of being a target of his rage. They didn’t dare follow his orders in any other way but literally… and in this case she was the long arm of his iron will. The only remaining possibility was that something had happened to the bird. Ecthelion rarely lost one his pigeons to the hunger of falcons or hawks, but it happened from time to time anyway.

The Lady closed the book and put it back into the drawer. Voices approached from outside and with a few, soundless steps she left the pigeonry through the back door. While she slowly returned to the sixth circle, thoughts were milling in her head; was the missing bird an additional risk to her father’s plans? Probably not – the King would simply learn one day later what price he was to pay for the freedom of his friend.

Artanis had reached the peace and shadow of her house again. She wished her father had told her more of his intentions; all she knew was that he wanted something from the new ruler of Gondor, something rare and special. She had no idea what it was, and Ardhenon hadn’t bothered to reveal his secret to her. Perhaps he never would.

She pushed the unwelcome thought aside and went to her bedroom. How could she find out more about the hobbits? She was certain that Ardhenon expected her to deliver as many details as possible, but she was also certain that the King would carefully hide his remaining guests to protect them from harm, now that the most precious of them had been lost through a mysterious crime.

Her gaze fell on the chest where she had stored away the gray pearls for the Queen’s necklace, and her face brightened notably. The King was still expecting her to tell him of the progress she had made with his special order, and it gave her the perfect excuse to see him. She opened the chest and pulled out the velvet bags. There was something she had to show him… and perhaps he would unknowingly show her something in return.

*****

Artanis reached the royal palace just in time for the afternoon audience. This habit of the new King had raised quite a few eyebrows at the court. After working through the morning hours – sometimes from dawn – and seeking the advice of his newly formed council, Aragorn would retire for a short luncheon with his queen and then receive envoys from abroad. This was not unusual; Lord Denethor’s methods had been fairly similar, but twice a week there had been established a completely new form of audience; people from Minas Tirith had the right to address their King and to tell him about their problems and wishes.

A cheap way to make himself popular. The last Stewart would never have vulgarized the noble heritage of his duty that way.

The voice of her father again, a cold whisper inside her head. Artanis had listened to him many times, feeling his contempt and barely hidden rage like a sickening fog that tightened her throat. “The usurper” her father called the King, and she had got used to imitating him; things were much easier and less painful that way. But her desperate eagerness to please him had kept her from conceiving her own opinion about her new Lord. The tall, dark-haired man was not much more than the image her father painted of him… a ranger from the north, who’d spent most of his years in the wilderness and now abrogated the power from the true Rulers of Gondor. The Prince of Lebennin had never accepted Aragorn’s right to be King though no one outside his family had any idea of his stubborn reluctance. Officially, he had simply retired after Lord Denethor’s death, deeply shaken by the horrible circumstances and stricken with grief for a Steward he had been faithfully serving his entire life. But now he sat like a spider in an intricately woven web, silently searching for a way to punish “the usurper” for his shocking insolence. ---

Artanis made her way through cool marble corridors towards the public audience room. The King didn’t use the giant hall with the long row of his ancestors’ statues because he thought that the too impressive surroundings might overawe those subjects who weren’t used to such a kind of glory. The room he had chosen instead was sunny and bright, with big windows and a simple, beautifully carved chair where he sat and listened to his visitors.

The door to the audience room was closed, but she could hear voices raised, even through the massive oak wood. She gazed around and noticed the lucky coincidence that she was alone; the corridor was completely empty, and no servants could be seen. Without further hesitation, she pressed her ear against the door.

“… are you doing here, for Eru’s sake?”

That was the King. The dark, slightly hoarse voice was unmistakable.

“I am sorry, Aragorn.” A warm, bright baritone with barely suppressed, nervous undertones. “But I can’t stand staying in those rooms without knowing anything about how he fares!” A short pause. “He might be hurt – they might even have killed him meanwhile! Did they send you a letter… a note…a message… anything?”

“Not yet.” The King sighed. “There is nothing new I could tell you… no more than I could tell you one hour ago. Or two hours ago. And…”

“Thank you. I get the message.” Now the tone of the baritone voice was a mixture of embarrassment, weak humor and petulance. Another much longer pause followed. Finally the King’s unknown visitor – undoubtedly one of the hobbits – spoke again. “The thought that he might lose his life after all we have been through to reach this haven of security and peace – only to discover that an unexpected evil has followed us even here! It would be the darkest irony that he should be murdered after a Dark Lord, nine Nazgûl and a giant army of orcs couldn’t manage to destroy him!”

“I am as concerned as you are, my friend.” The voice of the King once more, the coarse edges softened by a loving kindness that suddenly – to her utter amazement - touched Artanis heart. How deeply he felt for those halflings!

“I will do whatever I can to save him and to punish those who dared to dishonor me by misusing my hospitality and kidnapping one of my most cherished friends,” the King said. The words, simple as they were, had the definite sound of a sober vow. “He will return safe and sound, and you will go home to the Shire, together.”

The other one laughed… surprisingly harsh and bitter.

“If I have learned anything on the way to the mountain and back,” he said, “I have learned this: even the most honorable man – even the King of Gondor! - can’t keep all his promises. Better to promise to keep me informed rather than pampering me like an unreasoning child and packing me into soft towels. I have been manipulated and misused for too long… by something that took over my mind, blinded my eyes and twisted my soul until I barely remembered my name any more. I won’t suffer that indignity from anyone again… not even from you.”

With a sudden shock Artanis realized that the voice came closer; Aragorn’s visitor was obviously leaving. She stepped back just in time to avoid being hit as the door flew open and a small figure stormed out of the room hurriedly. The sharp call of the King followed him outside.

“Stop! Frodo, wait!”

The halfling, after the dimness of the obscured room obviously blinded by the light in the marble corridor, crashed into the woman standing in front of him. Artanis stumbled backwards; the velvet bag with the pearls was ripped from her shoulder, flew in a high arch though the air and fell to the ground. The cord holding it together ripped as well and the smaller bags with the pearls slipped out and slithered across the polished tiles. Her small assailant gave a muffled sound of dismay, knelt down and started to collect the bags.

Artanis stood without moving. She watched the dark, curly head, bowed over his self-imposed, humble task. Then he rose, and for the first time she saw his face: pale and tired and full of trouble, with eyes of a rare, almost purple blue she had only seen once before; when her father got a delivery of the most exquisite sapphires, smuggled out of a mine in the deep south of Harad.

He handed her the bag and their hands met. Cloth brushed against her palm. She gazed down and saw his bandaged fingers… and the gap where once the third finger had been.

Frodo. The King had called him Frodo.

The message she had sent to her father three days ago came back to her mind, mocking her stupidity. The blood left her face and she felt her knees grow weak when she realized the magnitude of her mistake. For here stood the hobbit her father really had wanted to take as a hostage while one who should never have been abducted had been dragged away to an uncertain fate.

And all of this was her fault, and her fault alone.

Chapter 5
Friends and Foes

The King stood on the threshold of the audience room, his brows knitted together in a deep frown. Then he let out his breath.

“Lady Artanis, I would very much like to introduce you properly to my friend, but we should move to a more… private place first.” He shot a piercing gaze at the halfling, and even in her panic Artanis noticed how the Ringbearer’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“Follow me,” Aragorn growled, “ and be quick, if you please.”

He set himself in motion, leading the way with rapid strides. The lady and the hobbit hurried after him until they had reached the eastern wing of the palace, unnoticed by anyone. Two tall guards flanked the door to the King’s private rooms and it wasn't until they had passed them and entered the inner sanctuary that Artanis had the first chance to pause for a moment and sort her thoughts.

She liked what she saw; fine carpets in warm colors covered the marble floor. The furniture was simple but beautiful, and the King seemed to share her taste for stained glass; a huge window looking east showed a masterfully crafted image of the White Tree in full bloom. Silent, she thought, strangely appeased and strengthened by her surroundings; I have to be as silent as possible. I have to wait and hear what he says, this ranger from the North. This is like a dangerous game of chess, and it is my duty to come to a checkmate against the black King.

“Estel?” A voice from the adjoining room, warm and clear. “Estel, melethron, is that you?”

A woman appeared on the doorstep, clad in simple gray and – as Artanis' trained eye registered at once – wearing hardly any jewelry. A single emerald lay on her breast, set in a delicate wreath of silver leaves and shimmering on the creamy white skin with a cool, green fire. But the most outstanding adornment of this female epiphany was her hair – a fall of deepest night, cascading down over her shoulders and back like an exquisite, living cloak.

For a fraction of a second Aragorn’s face lit with a love that was almost blinding in its intensity. He gestured in Artanis’ direction.

“Meleth-nin, may I introduce my Keeper of the Jewels to you? This is Lady Artanis of Lebennin” he said, the steel-and-velvet-voice voice again warmed by the depth of his feelings. "And this, my Lady, is Arwen Undómiel, my Queen.”

Artanis stood and stared, dazed and spellbound like a child at the sudden sight of a faerie, but then their eyes met, and something deep in her heart froze with frantic fear. The gaze of the elven princess was filled with nothing but gentle curiosity and friendly interest, but Artanis felt as if two sharp, steely lances were directed at her, piercing even the most secret part of her mind. I am lost, she thought, shivering from head to toe, she will see through me the moment I open my mouth. This was a woman who had seen ages grow, wither and die, who had witnessed the rise and fall of human and elvish nations, standing within the current of time like a willow tree with an ever-blooming crown. And the fact that she had sacrificed her birthright didn’t diminish her awe-inspiring resplendence.

“Artanis?” The Queen laughed, a sound like the first birdsong on a spring morning after a long, hard winter. “Then you have something in common with my grandmother, Galadriel of Lothlórien. When she was born, the last child of Finarfin, her father gave her that name.”

Artanis bowed deeply, willing her features once again to the quiet mask of dull courtesy she had worn as a shield for years…against the merciless mockery of those who saw nothing more than her lackluster appearance, against the loveless sneer and cold indifference of her father.

“I had the chance to see Lady Galadriel when the King was crowned, and I feel deeply honored that I at least share a name with such a lovely, powerful woman,” she said. “Your noble grandmother is visiting Ithilien now, isn’t she?”

“Indeed,” Arwen replied, “after hearing so many miraculous things about a landscape that is about to grow new life and an abundance of plants and flowers again – while Laurelindórenan is bound to fade.” The smile on the Queen’s face was fading, too, but even her sadness had a piercing beauty. “I hope you will find the opportunity to meet her in person.”

“I would be delighted.” Artanis bowed again, carefully hiding the lie behind lowered lids and a blank face.

The King cleared his throat.

“Would you be so kind and leave us alone, meleth-nin?” he said to his wife. “I will be with you in a moment.” Arwen shot him a slightly surprised glance, but then there seemed a silent exchange of thoughts between them, and without further hesitation the Queen nodded and left, oddly taking some of the light with her out of the room. For a while everything was silent, but then the Ringbearer – who had remained in the background – suddenly spoke.

“I am sorry, Aragorn,” he said slowly, “I had no intention of burdening you with more worries than you already have.”

The King sighed.

“Never mind, Frodo.” He walked over to a chair beside the stained glass window and sat down, rubbing his brow as if trying to get rid of a painful headache. “I am very certain that we can rely on Lady Artanis’ loyalty – and her discretion.”

Artanis bowed once more. Thoughts were milling fiercely in her mind. This was exactly the chance she had been waiting for… the information she was seeking, the knowledge she urgently needed to satisfy her father and to help him fulfill his mysterious plans.

“Of course, your Majesty,” she said aloud, relieved that the greatest part of the King’s attention lay on the halfling. “And I would be very glad if you could explain the situation to me.”

The King turned to her.

“Two nights ago somebody sneaked into the guesthouse where the Ringbearer, his cousins and his friend are residing during their stay in Minas Tirith,” he said, his tone slightly brusque. “I – we – think“ a sharp side glance to the halfling, “that Frodo was their initially chosen victim.”

“I guess that the kidnappers knew something about this,” the Ringbearer added, raising his bandaged hand. “And my friend Sam Gamgee hurt his hand the day before yesterday. It had to be sewed in the Houses of Healing… and it was bandaged, too.”

Artanis nodded slowly. “And so they mistook the gardener for you.” Her eyes found the hobbit's, and she saw the flickering chaos of feelings beneath the calm, deep blue surface – fear, angry restlessness and a bitter, agonizing sense of guilt. She was overwhelmed by the strange feeling that something in that small, unusual being reached out to her, touching a spot within her heart she kept hidden from any but herself. Involuntarily she shook her head and bit her lip, struggling for composure. “You… erh… where were you that night?”

“In the garden.” The Ringbearer gave her a lopsided smile. “This is truly the first time that my chronic insomnia kept me from getting into trouble.”

“There has been no letter or message since,” Aragorn continued. “We have no idea why those men came to abduct our friend. They probably have no idea that they didn’t catch the prey they were hunting for – at least we hope so. You understand that you must not repeat what I have told you to anyone, my Lady?”

“I understand perfectly well, your Majesty.”

I guess I should praise my luck, she thought, the burden of her knowledge an icy knot in her stomach, but I’ve never felt less fortunate. And I’ve never been more afraid.

*****

The sun sank slowly behind Mount Mindolluin as Artanis reached her house in the sixth circle. The nurse awaited her with a bath. Artanis sank into the huge marble tub, heaving an exhausted sigh of relief. She gave in to the gentle massage of Eilinel’s hands, trying to forget the growing tension that stiffened her neck and hardened her muscles to aching knots. She noticed the elder woman's chatter only as a reassuring, soft noise in the background and nearly dozed off in the lukewarm, rose-scented water.

“… sent a messenger two hours ago to announce his arrival. I have prepared one of your finest evening gowns, there is cold roast, salad and fruitcake waiting in the kitchen downstairs, and a jar of white wine is already cooled in the well. I am sure you will enjoy the dinner with your father.”

“My father?” Artanis sat up in the tub, feeling the peaceful, cozy relaxation flee her tired body at once. “He will be here this evening?”

“Yes, my lamb.” The nurse rose with a sigh and turned to the door. “And I still have half a dozen things to do. I’ll be right back and help you with your dress.”

Artanis smiled mirthlessly. Of course he will come here, the silent voice in the back of her mind told her with a hint of irony. He wants to control his men… and he wants to control you.

She climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a big linen towel. The high mirror showed her the familiar sight; an angular body, lacking the soft curves and swellings men usually considered beautiful, long, tousled hair of a dull ash blond, and eyes she thought too big for her austere face with its firm chin and high cheekbones. The Queen's remark came back to her, and with it the reason she had been named Artanis: her grandmother had been a famous lady at the Minas Tirith court when Ecthelion II was Stewart of Gondor. Both her beauty and elegance had been legendary, and she had noted with stunned dismay the difference between her granddaughter and her own brilliant self. With an involuntary wince, the young woman remembered her grandmother words, spoken once when she had no idea that Artanis was in the room:

I am deeply sorry to admit it, my son, but this girl is a complete disappointment. You will have great difficulties finding her a husband who will be willing to resign himself to such an uncomely, morbidly shy creature, her noble parentage notwithstanding. She has spinster clearly written across her brow.

Artanis took a deep breath, shaking off the memory. She slipped the thin gown over her head. It was of a deep garnet red with a simple, square neckline and long, loose sleeves. Through a wealth of precious gems went through her hands every day, she only wore a small assortment of jewels herself. This evening she chose a necklace she had once inherited from her mother… a long garland of roses made of thin, delicately wrought gold and set with garnet petals and moonstone pearls in a soft apricot shade. She caressed the gems with a tender fingertip, silently blessing her gentle mother who had always given love openly. You left us too soon, she thought, and now Maedhron has followed you into the darkness and my father’s heart has hardened to stone.

The nurse stood on the doorstep.

“Sir Ardhenon has just arrived, my Lady,” she said. “He has retired to refresh himself and to take a short rest; he expects dinner in half an hour. Let me braid your hair, my lamb.” ----

Artanis entered the dining room when the sky in the east held no more than a hint of pink. Dozens of candles were shimmering in silver holders, and the nurse had laid the table with silver plates and precious crystal goblets. But the Lady’s attention was fixed on the tall, dark figure standing at the big window. Long hair, bleached to pure white by age and time, fell over his shoulders. Acknowledging the smoldering heat, the Prince of Lebennin had changed his usual velvet vesture to robes of silk in a deep, mossy green. When he turned around, Artanis saw the familiar, gaunt features, the long, eagle-like nose and the dark sharp eyes; under Ardhenon’s gaze she always felt as if caught beneath a burning glass.

He reached out and Artanis dropped into a deep curtsey and kissed his hand.

“Welcome, father,” she said formally, “it is good to see you here. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

“A short journey, to my relief” her father retorted, “this continuing heat is an imposition. I can only hope we will have rain soon.” He walked slowly over to the table and poured himself some pale yellow wine. It had been excellently chilled indeed; the glass fogged up immediately. “Let us eat and afterwards I want to know how well our plans have turned out so far.”

They ate in silence, and Artanis finished her meal much sooner than Ardhenon. She watched her father help himself to a second portion of salad and roast, his long, white fingers cutting a rosy peach into neat slices. She wanted to stretch the moment of unexpected peace between them, but too soon he laid down the knife and wiped his hands with the napkin, turning his full attention back to her.

“Now, daughter, tell me what progress we have made.” he said, propping his chin on one hand. “Did the Usurper receive the first message?”

Artanis felt a nervous twinge in her stomach, but she managed to remain calm.

“No, father,” she replied, “no, he didn’t. I visited the royal pigeonry this midday, and the pigeon in question hasn’t returned. Did you order your men to send it this morning?”

The Prince’s face froze to a rigid mask of sheer astonishment. “Of course,” he said haughtily, “and of course they obeyed. They wouldn’t dare to do anything else.”

“Then it must have been killed on the way.” Artanis lowered her eyes. “The distance is short, there is no other explanation for the lost note.” She paused, searching for words. “Does this disrupt your… your plan?”

“Not really.” Her father shook his head. “It might even turn to our advantage. Soon as his worry for that miserable, little creature will make him audacious, the Usurper will hopefully take risks to save him.”

That miserable little creature.

Suddenly Artanis saw the tall man her father called Usurper in her mind's eye – and the Ringbearer. She remembered the deep friendship that had been so very palpable between them and the strange moment when she felt an unexpected bond between herself and the halfling. She opened her mouth and closed it again.

The miserable creature you hold captive is not the Ringbearer, she thought, studying the merciless face before her. It is his gardener, and the King cherishes the servant as much as he cherishes the master, even if you won’t be able to imagine such a foolish behavior. And if I tell you who I met this afternoon, what will you do to your hostage? Will you try to use him as you intended to use Frodo Baggins… or will you throw him away like a piece of garbage?

She pushed her chair back and rose.

“I would like to retire, with your permission,” she said, her voice colorless and tired. “Tomorrow I will return to the palace, and do my best to find out whatever I can. Will you stay here or return to Lebennin in the morning?”

“I will send the next message myself.” her father replied. “We shouldn’t give that so-called King too much time to develop his own plans. He might have arrogated the throne, but he is still a dangerous foe.”

He reached out and she bowed once more over his hand to kiss it.

“I will probably have no opportunity to contact you until my plans have been fulfilled,” Ardhenon said. “Is there anything more I should know?”

Their eyes met, the delusive, silvery shimmer of pearls against brilliant onyx black.

“No, father,” Artanis said quietly. “Nothing at all.”

*****

For a moment Sam really thought he’d seen Saruman. Which was a silly idea; the only thing he knew about the legendary, fallen wizard was what Merry had told him. “A tall fellow, with eyes as piercing and black as that Morgul blade we saw that night at Weathertop. And a voice as soft as warmed honey, but somehow… venomous, if you understand what I mean.” The description matched, somehow, but he couldn’t be sure… not yet.

The first day things had gone well, more or less. He had taken scrupulous care not to say too much, aside from a murmured Could I have some water, please? and Thank you as he was terribly afraid that his watchdogs might notice the clear difference between the way a gentlehobbit would speak and his more… rustic tongue. He also hid his bandaged hand as best he could, but they apparently didn’t pay much attention to him anyway. Most of the time he sat in the dim light of a flickering candle, still chained against the wall and listening to their soft voices behind the closed door. They had brought him musty bread and flavorless, chewy strips of roasted meat, and after a few hours one of them opened the lattice door and pushed a wooden bucket in his direction; he used it immediately with shameful relief. Inwardly he called them The Whistler and The Grinner; their voices where nearly the only way to tell one from the other.

He dozed off now and again, and bit by bit his dreams grew more vivid and strangely bizarre. Childhood memories mingled with younger, more frightening remembrances that left a foul taste in his mouth, bitter like the ashes of Mount Doom. When he woke, his head felt light and dizzy. The bruise on his temple didn’t hurt anymore, but his injured fingers started throbbing, a threatening reminder of the wounds that no one had cared for since he’d been kidnapped that fateful night. But he couldn’t ask for ointment, brandy or a fresh bandage without revealing that none of his fingers was missing.

Then he heard the muffled sound of steps outside, and the door opened, washing a rivulet of light into his lonely dungeon. A man appeared on the doorstep. He was slender like a spear, holding himself very upright, and the torches behind him surrounded his head with a strange corona. This was neither the Whistler nor the Grinner. White hair, Sam thought, he has white hair.

The man stared down at him, the expression on his face not discernable. Then he turned back, and for a moment Sam saw a sharp, regular profile, and a dark, heavy-lidded eye.

“Give him something to eat,” he said, “and to drink, if he needs it. He should stay presentable for at least two more days… I doubt that we will need him any longer than that.”

The door slammed closed again, and Sam felt a sudden trickling of cold sweat on his brow and the back of his neck.

“Good grief,” he murmured under his breath, “that doesn’t sound good, not at all. I thought they were after some juicy ransom, but whatever it is they really want, they'll get rid of me as soon they have it in their greedy, little hands, and no mistake. This darn cut – I wish I’d never touched those blasted clippers!”

He sank back against the wall, fever clouding his head and will, and a sneaky, paralyzing fear closing icy hands around his throat.

*****

Early next morning, a coal gray bird returned to the pigeonry, carrying a tightly rolled note in the little metal tube. Only ten minutes later Ecthelion stood in the King’s study, handing him the small piece of parchment. Aragorn read it, gave a sharp whistle and leaned into his chair, slowly shaking his head.

Tomorrow we expect Aragorn from the North to come and bring the ransom we wish to receive. He is to come alone; he will be closely observed to grant that he is not accompanied by any warriors. Should he try and fool us, the Ringbearer will be killed immediately.

Chapter 6
The cleverness of cousins

“Frodo Baggins, sit down, or I’ll tie you up in a bundle with Lord Faramir’s hammock!”

Meriadoc Brandybuck, squire of Rohan, stood in front of his cousin, hands on his hips, eyes shooting thunderbolts at the Ringbearer. Frodo glared back, his own eyes narrowing.

“I’ve watched you pace up and down this room for more than an hour and my neck is getting stiff. What do you expect from Aragorn – that he put you at the head of an army of warriors to free our poor Sam? He doesn’t yet even know where they hold him captive, and he has no idea what that ransom those brutes will want! Don’t you think there is already enough going on that makes him want to tear out his hair?”

Frodo opened his mouth and closed it again. He walked slowly over to one of the overstuffed chairs beside the window and sat down. Meriadoc thought that he looked surprisingly old, and a small voice in the back of his head cried out in angry, childish protest: This is not fair! He has really suffered more than enough, hasn’t he?

Finally Frodo spoke. He stared at the marble floor and his voice was so soft that Meriadoc had to step closer to understand him.

“The problem is I have the distinct feeling that I’ve missed something,” he said. “Something terribly important that I don’t see, something right in front of my eyes, and I simply don’t get it yet. And, you know, I fear time is growing short.”

He took a deep breath.

“I am no fool. I know I won’t be able to be a real help if it should come to a fight. But as soon as Aragorn knows where Sam is and gets him out of there – and I know he will – I want to be with him. I don’t want to be left behind, a helpless audience to the deeds of others.”

Merry gave a snort.

“You sound like Éowyn,” he said in a slightly brusque tone. “And I fear you won’t be able to hold the King of Gondor back if he decides to ride out to a mission of rescue without you.”

Frodo shook his head.

“You are right.” He raised his head, staring out of the window. The Pelennor lay before them under the full blast of the midday heat, the far away chain of the eastern mountains a jittering, dark line on the horizon. “But I know that there is something I can do to help – if only I could understand what it is that I have overlooked.”

“Who knows about Sam’s kidnapping now?” Merry asked. “Aside from us hobbits, Aragorn and that nice, elder fellow from the pigeonry, I mean?”

“Arwen”, Frodo replied absently, still lost in thought. “And the Keeper of the Jewels… Artanis was her name…” He paused, frowning and biting his lip. “Artanis… sweet Eru, I knew there was something I had missed!”

Merry stared at him.

“Who is Artanis?”

Frodo raised his head; his eyes were burning, and when he spoke, his voice had an urgent, agitated tone.

“The Keeper of the Jewels, as I said.” He got up from his chair and started to pace the room again. This time Merry wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. “She is a young woman… not very pretty, not someone you would notice if you passed her in the street.” An ironic glance in Merry’s direction. “I met her yesterday afternoon after a full-blown argument with Aragorn. I saw him in his audience room, and when I stormed out again, I crashed into a Lady who was standing in front of the door. She carried a bag of pearls – as she told me later – and they fell to the floor when I collided with her. I started to collect them, and when I handed them back, she stood there, staring down at me with a face as green as foul whey.”

Merry grinned.

“So much about the famous Baggins-charm.” he muttered, but this time his sarcastic humor had no effect. Frodo’s gaze was turned inward as if he tried to recall a certain memory.

“Wait…” he whispered, “wait… she seemed completely normal when our eyes first met, a little surprised, perhaps… but then…” His head jerked upward, eyes ablaze with a sudden realization. “Aragorn called my name from inside the audience room, and at the same time I handed her the bags with her pearls… and she touched my bandaged hand. That… that was the moment when she froze and her face turned green.”

“Hmmm…” Merry shrugged, still trying to understand. “What does that mean?”

“When Aragorn called my name – and when she saw the missing finger - the Lady realized who I was,” Frodo replied, his voice grimly triumphant. “And I’d bet my hale hand that she didn’t expect to see me there.”

“Well…” Merry rubbed his chin. “Let me see if I understand you correctly: You believe she is involved in Sam’s kidnapping?”

“I know that sounds crazy.” Frodo looked at him, lips forming a tight line. “But whatever the quest has taken from me, it has also left with me strange gifts; I can see into the hearts of people, I can feel their thoughts, their joys and fears. And the moment the Lady touched my hand I felt her shock and guilt as a sudden burst of flames in my mind.”

Merry slowly shook his head. “Listen, Frodo…”

“Shall I tell you what is going on in your mind right now?” The Ringbearer stepped closer, his hand touched Merry’s shoulder and their eyes met. Merry saw understanding and sorrow and a pain deep enough to make him shiver with fear.

“You are frantically trying to find the Frodo you’ve known since you were a child,” his cousin said, the familiar voice a warm caress. “And there are nights when you lie wide awake, afraid that I might have walked the dark path too far and will never return to be the hobbit I was before Bilbo left the ring to me. Every time you return from your duties, you secretly expect to find an empty shell instead of me… which is why you barely leave me alone these days. Isn’t that so?”

Merry closed his eyes. His hands were shaking and he clenched them to fists, desperately trying to swallow around the aching lump in his throat. He knew that he would burst into tears if he made the attempt to speak, so he only nodded wordlessly.

“I know it is difficult to believe, but I beg you to trust me in this matter,” Frodo said, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly and handing him a handkerchief. “The thing is, I barely know anything about the Lady Artanis of Lebennin. Who could help us to find out more?”

Merry blew his nose and cleared his throat, manfully struggling to master his tumult of feelings.

“Pippin” he said with a watery voice. “Pippin is exactly the hobbit we need right now.”

*****

Pippin actually turned out to be the ideal choice. He had already made half a dozen friends among the soldiers of the guard, in addition to Beregond. Some of the men had been on duty for more than thirty years and they were a fount of knowledge about the former steward’s household. Pippin had a huge lunch with his cousins, was thoroughly instructed as to what to research and disappeared for the better part of the afternoon, asking questions whenever he saw the chance to do so.

He came back as evening was drawing closer. The tension in the palace was growing, for the kidnappers hadn’t sent any more messages to specify the ransom they wanted in exchange for their hostage. Nonetheless, a very satisfying dinner was served and Pippin enjoyed every single bite while Frodo listlessly pushed the roast beef (deliciously stewed in red wine) and the caramelized vegetables around on his plate. Finally the smallest Knight of Gondor gave a very sated sigh, wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin and started to enlighten his cousins.

“The Lady Artanis is the daughter of the Prince of Lebennin,” he said, a smug expression on his face. “The Prince’s name is Ardhenon, and he’s been serving Lord Denethor for more than forty years… as Keeper of the Jewels, the same way his daughter serves the King now. He must have been quite a fearsome man, strong and haughty… one of the elder guards told me that he’s still able to stare a man down and make him wither inside with one single word. But they all say that he had been very devoted to the steward, and that his death shook him to the core.”

For a long moment he was silent, his eyes darkened by the memory of madness and flames. One hand flew up and for a few seconds he covered his mouth and nose as if to shield him against the ghostly stench of oil-soaked wood. Neither Merry nor Frodo spoke. Then Pippin shivered visibly, took a deep breath and continued.

“The Prince had a son, Maedhron. He must have been a handsome, brilliant man, and a skilled warrior. He was a close friend to both of Denethor’s sons and was about to take a high position in the guard when Boromir set off to Rivendell.” Again a short pause, and this time Merry gave him a small, comforting smile. “Maedhron grieved deeply when Boromir’s broken horn returned from the river and the Prince of Lebennin was afraid that he might lose his son as Denethor did. He ordered him to leave Minas Tirith, but Maedhron refused to obey. Beregond said that he fell on the Pelennor fields, and he had tears in his eyes while he told me. Maedhron was obviously very well-liked.”

Frodo nodded slowly.

“Wonderfully done, Pip,” he said. “I’m really impressed. Is the Lady as well-liked as her brother?”

Pippin shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It is a little strange… as if the Lady was generally invisible. All the men could tell me of her was that she’s always been a shy, little creature, that she must be in the middle of her twenties now, and that she inherited the task of Keeper of the Jewels from her father when the Prince retired. The only one who really cared about her was her brother… at least that is what Beregond said.”

Frodo finally decided to try the roast. His face grew increasingly brighter, and within minutes he had emptied his plate. Merry watched him with some surprise.

“Where did that sudden hunger come from?”

“I need some strength,” Frodo grimly declared, “for the next thing I will do is to find out if the Lady is on duty in the palace right now. If not, I will have to sneak out of here and see her at home.”

“You’ll land in the dungeon if you leave these rooms again without Aragorn’s permission,” Pippin stated, carefully choosing a ripe apricot from the enormous fruit basket. “And it won’t be necessary anyway – the Lady is still here.”

Frodo swallowed the last caramelized carrot and stared at him. “Oh?”

Pippin pursed his lips. “The Lady has a sweet, elder nurse, and said nurse told me that her mistress won’t return before nightfall. Now all you have to do is to find the Royal Treasury.” He gave his cousin a mischievous smile. “And you should leave Aragorn a note, or he’ll rip your head off as soon as he’s found you. “ The smile deepened to a grin. “Ah well… I presume he’ll rip your head off anyway.”---

Half an hour later both Merry and Pippin left. Frodo stayed behind; he stepped over to the window opening to the east. The warm, deep golden light of the late afternoon streamed inside, reminding him that time was passing swiftly by. Still no message from Sam’s abductors, and Aragorn was supposed to come alone and bring a ransom he knew nothing about yet. The burden of Sam’s uncertain fate weighed heavy on his heart.

And so he walked up and down the room, trying to come to a decision. He had battled fears few hobbits had ever known. He had destroyed the ring… even if all he ever managed was to carry it to a place where in the end the most miserable of creatures did what he should have done.

And now he stood in the royal palace of Minas Tirith and steeled himself for the most unusual fight of his life. ____________________________________________________________________

Chapter 7
The weapon of truth

After a bit of careful consideration, Frodo sent a beautifully written (and worded) message to the Royal Treasury with one of the guards, inviting the Lady Artanis to the private rooms of the King. Frodo knew it would be much easier for her to come to him rather than the other way around. Anything would be easier than trying to find his way through this glorious but unfamiliar labyrinth of marble, gold, glass and tapestries, while trying desperately not to be seen.

He had drunk no more wine after supper; he needed his wits sharp and head clear so that he would understand what would not be spoken and read the truths the mysterious woman would most certainly try to hide from him. If she had decided to accept his strange invitation. He waited impatiently, his restlessness growing with every passing minute.

A soft knock at the door and the guard stepped inside, bowing deeply… an elderly man, clad in the black and silver garb of the Royal Watch, but Frodo had the distinct impression that he had worn the leather and linen of the northern rangers not long ago. Many of the people in Minas Tirith had inherited the dark hair and gray eyes of the Númenorean nobility, but this one was certainly of Aragorn’s closer kin. He remembered what the King had told him that morning after the kidnapping: The servants in my private rooms were chosen from among the Dúnedain. I trust them blindly.

“The Lady Artanis is here,” the guard said. “Shall I escort her in?”

“Yes, please,” Frodo replied, taking a deep breath of relief and straightening. "And thank you very much.”

The Lady entered. Frodo watched her, trying to take in as much detail as he could as quickly as possible. She wore a black dress – she still grieves for her brother, he thought - the fabric thin and flowing in deference to the ongoing heat. Her hair was combed back tightly above a high forehead and pinned in a simple knot at the back of her neck. She had prominent cheekbones and full lips – or they could have been full, even lovely, had they not been pressed together in such a narrow, tense line. As the last time he had met her, her hands, neck and hair were completely unadorned, and she wore no color of any kind on her eyelids, her cheeks or lips. He had seen many a noble Gondorean woman who made good use of cosmetics, and he even remembered some hobbit lasses back home sporting some additional blue or pink hues, but this lady seemed never to have thought to make herself prettier or more feminine. It was as if she did not even care about her looks and that fact told him a lot about her self-esteem. Her eyes surprised him, though. They were unusually large and almond-shaped, a bright, almost silvery gray beneath delicately arching brows and heavy lids, surrounded by a wreath of thick, dark lashes. She was also deadly pale and had an air of loneliness and exhaustion that set him aback and made him – despite his distrust - instinctively feel for her.

He said the first thing that came into his mind.

“Why does the Keeper of the Jewels wear no jewels?”

She frowned, staring at him with those unusual, shimmering eyes, but then her narrow, tired face relaxed in an unexpected smile, and for a startling moment he saw a glimpse of beauty and liveliness behind the rigid mask.

“I am not a pirate’s bride, Master Baggins,” she said. “And the Royal Treasury is not a glittering cave with overflowing trunks, guarded by the skeletons of dead brigands. I fear you would find my business rather disappointing if you knew more about it.”

“But if you don’t care for gems, why did you take over your father’s position, then?”

“I didn’t say that I don’t care for them,” the Lady replied, her frown returning. “I cherish their beauty and purity. I can easily tell if a gem can rightly be called precious – or if it has a flaw that diminishes both its loveliness and its value. --- May I show you something?”

“Of course you may, Milady” Frodo replied, “and please sit down.” He waved her to a seat before the desk. “Please try to excuse my unpolished manners. I’m still not used to consorting with Gondorean courtiers. Things are far more 'unceremonious' in the Shire… and I must admit I feel rather… erh… crude at the moment.”

“I don’t mind.” Artanis of Lebennin sat down in a chair opposite to him, rummaging in the dark velvet bag he remembered from their last encounter. “You will soon find out that I’m not as the other ladies of the court.” She produced a smaller bag from the bigger one. “Close your eyes, Master Baggins, and open your hand.”

He did as he was told and felt something cool slip into his palm.

“You may look again.” The voice carried a hint of a smile, and Frodo thought that it had a strange quality for a woman… warm and rather dark, with scraping undertones, from time to time even hoarse and fading. He opened his eyes and saw three pearls, smooth, perfectly round and of a gentle, deep gray luster.

“They… they are beautiful.” he said slowly.

“Yes, they are,” the Lady replied, “and very precious. Pearls can be many different shades, but this one can only be found at the far end of the southern sea. Women dive there between corals and shoals of fishes of every color of the rainbow and collect them from the bottom of the ocean. The air is always warm and there are islands, beaded in the turquoise water like gems on a necklace.”

The longing in her tone was unmistakable; Frodo looked up from the priceless fortune in his hand, noting the chink in her armor.

“Have you ever been there?” he asked. “You describe it so passionately.”

“No.” The Lady straightened and the light he had seen in her eyes faded and went out. “I have never seen the sea… not even the ocean beyond Dol Amroth.”

“Then we have something in common.” Frodo said gently; he could feel an old, long-buried pain radiating from her and – much to his surprise – found an answering ache within himself. “We hobbits live not far from the sea – only a few days travel - but we rarely go there. Those few among us who actually dare set foot on a boat or ship and sail away are labeled as reckless – or crazy.” He gave her a small smile. “We tend to avoid boating even on a mill pond. And considering my family history, I guess I should heartily agree with the more… erh… chickenhearted among my race.”

The Lady took the pearls from his hand and slipped them back into the velvet sack. “How so?”

He felt her gaze trying to hold his. Be honest, a small voice in the back of his head whispered urgently, you want her to reveal a dangerous mystery, don’t you? If only for the purpose of saving Sam’s life, you must give her whatever you have in return … even if it causes you pain. She is in pain, too, terrible pain, and you can feel it.

Their eyes met. “My parents died when I was twelve,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “They rowed in a boat out onto the river, late at night, and somehow it keeled over and sank. They drowned… both of them.”

“Oh. I am… I am sorry.” A long pause. The Lady sat up very straight, hands folded in her lap. Then she took a deep breath. “My mother died when I was fourteen.” Another pause. “The throat disease came to Minas Tirith, 2994, six years after Lord Denethor lost his wife. Those were dark days, and many people fell ill, especially small children and the aged of the White City. My mother went to help in the Houses of Healing until… until I caught it, too. She cared for me, two long weeks, and then I could breathe freely again and the fever eased, on a rainy evening in May.” She was silent.

Frodo studied the face of the young woman in front of him and suddenly he perceived the young girl she once had been, a pale shadow behind the Lady’s adult features… a young girl, lying in one of those huge, luxurious beds, struggling against darkness and laboriously gasping for air. Pain and deep pity clenched like a fist around his heart, but he grimly fought the gallant impulse to spare her and spoke nonetheless. “What happened then?”

“My mother collapsed that night as I lay in healing slumber,” the Lady replied in a very soft tone. “She passed away only a few hours later. When I awoke the next morning, my brother sat beside my bed, holding my hand, silently crying. And I had not only lost her but also my voice… it took me months to regain the ability to speak.”

Frodo saw the knuckles of the hands in her lap grow white, but he followed his newly found, deep insight and asked the question that small, insistent voice in his mind told him to ask: “Where was your father while all this was happening?”

“In the Citadel, with Lord Denethor,” Artanis whispered. “He came back when my mother was laid out in our house. He locked the room for the rest of the day and sat beside her deathbed. In the evening, he came out again to embrace and comfort his son and to give orders for a formal funeral. Then he returned to his duties.”

“He didn’t come to see how his daughter fared?” A well-aimed arrow, and it hit the bull’s eye.

“N-no.” He could barely hear her. “He… he had to… he…”

He had lost his wife and now wished that the disease had taken his daughter instead. His worthless, superfluous daughter.

She didn’t say it aloud, but Frodo could hear it, a silent scream from the bottom of her heart, desperately echoing in his ears. He walked swiftly over to the table where the servants had removed the remnants of dinner and replaced them with sweet pastries and a crystal carafe. He poured some wine in a goblet and closed Artanis’ hand around the cool glass. She was trembling so violently that he had to stay her fingers and help her raise the goblet until the rim touched her lips before she was able to drink.

He stood before her, carefully considering his next words.

“Do you know what really helped me after my parents’ death?” he finally said. “It was my cousin Bilbo who adopted me, who gave me love and a home. And there were Bilbo’s servants – Hamfast Gamgee and his wife Bell, and their children – first and foremost Sam, of course. He became my gardener when Bilbo left and Hamfast grew too old… and he came with me when I had to leave, too – because of the ring. He has since saved my life on more occasions than I even dare count, and it was he who carried me up that mountain on his very back.”

She raised her head, still holding the goblet with both hands.

“And now I fear I will lose this most precious of friends, he who is closer to me than a brother,” he continued. “None of us knows what will happen next. I am afraid that the King will try something desperate to save Sam, and might bring himself into danger. We have come a long way together, this man and I, since our first meeting… when he was nothing more to me than a glowing pipe, a giant hood and a stubby-bearded chin. I had no idea who he was, but he has become very dear to me. We have fought a long, bitter battle to defeat evil, and now that hard-won peace may be demolished before we even have time to get used to it.”

He turned away and went to the window again. The sun had sunk behind the mountain and the sky in the east was a deep gray. A handful of lights glittered on the Pelennor; rebuilt farmsteads and, framed by the river, half a dozen watch fires where the restoration of the ruined Osgiliath had just begun. Frodo sighed and leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane. He felt infinitely tired. Sam, where are you? Are you still alive?

“Without word from those who have taken him, the King can’t set out to free your little gardener,” the hoarse voice of Artanis came from behind him. “Were… were there any messages at all?”

“Yes, one… it came early this morning.” Frodo replied. “It said that Aragorn has to come alone and deliver something in exchange for Sam, but it didn’t specify what it was… and it didn’t tell him where to go.”

“When is he expected to meet them?”

“This evening.” Frodo said, still staring out of the window.

“Then there must be another message,” Artanis stated. “or the demand in the last one makes no sense at all."

In that moment the door opened and Pippin burst into the room.

“Frodo, what for the Lady’s sake are you doing here, all alone?” he said. “I just met Faramir in the King’s study, and when I asked him where Aragorn had got to he made a face that reminded me of the threefold locked door to the main pantry in the Great Smials. There’s something brewing, I tell you. --- Why is it so dark in here?” He reached for a tinderbox on the table.

“Just a moment, Pip,” Frodo shot him a warning gaze. “First: I am not alone. May I introduce to you Artanis, the Lady of Lebennin?” He took the tinderbox from Pippin’s hand and lit the candles in the big silver candelabra. Pippin whirled around and gave a startled gasp when the pale face and the slender figure of the woman appeared out of the shadows. He managed to regain his composure and bowed.

“Peregrin Took, to your service.”

“My pleasure, Master Took. --- Did you say that the King has vanished and Lord Faramir isn’t willing to tell you where he has gone?”

Pippin looked at Frodo who nodded imperceptibly.

“Yes,” he replied, “and none of the men from the guard are missing. I know them pretty well by now; if he has taken anyone with him, it can’t be one of them.”

Lady Artanis straightened her back; the silvery eyes had a strange, agitated shimmer.

“Master Baggins,” she said slowly, “do you think it is possible that there was a message in the last two hours, and that the King has secretly left to rescue your kidnapped gardener on his own?”

Frodo felt a shiver run down his back. He opened his mouth and closed it again. The Lady obviously understood his sudden hesitation. She made an impatient gesture and got up from her chair.

“Is it possible to find out the exact words of the ominous last message – if one should have arrived?”

Pippin rubbed his chin.

“Lord Faramir will probably know what it says; in the absence of the King he has to take up the duties of a Steward again. And I’m sure the Queen is informed as well. Aragorn would never leave without telling her what he is about to do.”

The Lady frowned. She studied the small figure in the garb of the guard, as if trying to judge his reliability.

“Do you know the King that well?” she asked.

Pippin turned to her.

“He has not always been King,” he simply said, “though he has always had a kingly heart and soul, so to speak. But I’ve seen them together, and they are something special, both of them. I’d bet she would want to know if he was putting himself in danger, and he wouldn’t keep it from her. She’s not a lady that needs to be pampered or protected like that.”

Frodo felt his face relax into a smile at this sober yet wholehearted appraisal. The young woman nodded slowly. She stood very still for a long moment, then she gave a heavy sigh, and both hobbits could see that her hands were shaking slightly when she smoothed the skirts of her black dress.

“Frodo Baggins, would you accompany me to Lord Faramir?” The almond eyes showed an expression Frodo did not completely understand – a strange mixture of bottomless fear and at the same time a fierce, almost desperate determination. “I have to tell him something very important… and I must find out what the last message said. --- And I would ask you, Master Peregrin, to bring your cousin Meriadoc to the King’s study. He should hear what I have to say, too.”

Pippin hesitated for a second or two, then turned around and hurried out of the room.

*****

Frodo never forgot their silent walk that night - through endless, dark corridors, around many corners, turning left and right and climbing up three or four long stairs. All the time Lady Artanis kept grimly silent, and though it would have been easy for her to lead him astray, he didn’t question whether she might have been a danger to him. She had stepped over a certain threshold, they both knew it, and there was no way back, for either of them.

When they had reached their destination, Lady Artanis addressed the guard standing in front of the study door.

“I need to have a word with the Steward,” she said, her voice suddenly calm and full of a quiet authority. “Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer, has come with me, and there are important things we must discuss with the steward, at once. It is a matter of life and death. Would you please announce us?”

The guard bowed without any objection and vanished in the room. Barely a minute later, he came out again and guided them inside.

Faramir sat behind the King’s desk. He was clad in dark leather breeches, soft boots and a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his face was troubled and very serious. Merry and Pippin stood side by side in front of the desk, slightly to the right. Pippin was very fast indeed.

“Artanis!” Faramir rose from his chair. “I didn’t expect to meet you here. Your father and I didn’t part peacefully when I last saw him yesterday evening.”

Frodo felt the how the young woman froze beside him and heard her sharp intake of breath.

“You spoke to my father – yesterday?” It was only a strained whisper. “What… what did he want?”

Faramir lowered his gaze; a strange air of unease and anger surrounded him. “Perhaps it would be better that I don’t tell you, Artanis. You might find the subject of our discussion –our argument, actually – rather painful and shocking.”

The Lady gave a barking laugh. It was the most miserable sound Frodo had heard for a very long time.

“You can’t burden me with more shame and dishonor than I already carry on my shoulders, Faramir, believe me,” she said. “Please be honest, and don’t think you must spare me.”

Faramir sighed.

“Lord Ardhenon came to me very late in the evening,” he said. “He was very agitated. I must tell you that I had the growing impression that he was confused. He told me that he still saw the long line of the Stewards as the righteous – and only – rulers of Gondor. He spoke badly and in a very… disrespectful way of the King, openly doubting his noble line of ancestors, calling him ‘that ranger from the north’ and…” He paused, closing his lips to a narrow line.

“Let me help you.” The voice of the Lady was a painful, rasping croak. “The usurper?”

“You knew about his… his attitude towards the King?”

“Yes.” The Lady stood very upright, hands clenched to fists at both sides.

Faramir’s clear, plangent gaze didn’t leave her face. “I declined his treacherous ideas – of course! - and told him that only my respect for his long friendship with my father and more than five centuries of his family’s faithful service kept me from arresting him at once. Your father was frantic with rage when he left.”

“His treachery is even greater than you think,” Artanis said. “Please, would you give me the last message the kidnappers sent – the one that arrived this afternoon?”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed. Frodo’s gaze strayed to Merry and Pippin. They were rather pale, and he could see the truth Faramir seemingly still refused to accept dawn in their faces, but the young steward opened a drawer in the desk, took out a small piece of parchment and handed it to Artanis.

Frodo touched her sleeve.

“Milady, may I ask you to read it aloud?” he said softly. “I have been waiting for this message the whole day, and my cousins certainly also wish to know what it says.”

Artanis scanned the parchment and every single drop of blood seemed to leave her face. She cleared her throat.

“Aragorn from the North is expected to come to Osgiliath at midnight. He will bring with him twenty emeralds, flawless gems without any inclusions, and he will wait at the place where the entrance to the Tower of the Stars once was, before the enemy’s army bricked up the door. Again – he has to come alone.”

Osgiliath, Frodo thought. So very close… right in front of our eyes.

“Twenty emeralds?” Merry blurted out with all signs of anger and confusion. “”You mean those greedy dastards want to exchange poor Sam for a handful of colored glass?!?”

“You don’t understand, Merry,” Faramir gently corrected, “they are very precious gems.”

“Indeed.” The voice of Lady Artanis had a sharp, desperate undertone. “Shortly before the little gardener was abducted, an envoy from Harad paid us a visit. He wanted to negotiate peace, trying to create the most auspicious conditions, and he brought a small chest full of emeralds with him. They had the most astonishing quality… clear like seawater, shining and strikingly beautiful, and with no inclusions at all. You would be able to pay a whole kingdom with one of them. --- The King had only to scan my books to find out where they were stored.”

“Which he obviously did,” Faramir said. “He showed them to me before he left. They were truly remarkable… though by no means equivalent to the life of a faithful, amazing creature like Samwise Gamgee.”

Merry stepped closer, his eyes ablaze with a sudden realization.

“It is still a strange coincidence,” he said, “that the kidnappers knew what to ask for. They didn’t give Aragorn very much time to provide this ransom; I am pretty sure they must have known that those gems were here – just as he did.”

“You speak truthfully, Master Meriadoc,” the Lady said. “You must know that I keep my accounts twice – one in the Royal Treasury, the other one in my house above the sixth circle. And the kidnappers knew about those precious gems because my father obviously took a look at my books while I slept… before he went to Osgiliath early this morning.”

A deadly silence fell over the room. Artanis stood without moving, eye to eye with the young steward.

“Artanis.” Faramir’s warm tenor had darkened to a nearly unrecognizable growl. “Do you tell me that your father, the Prince of Lebennin, is the head of this ruthless conspiracy that threatens the life of one of the King’s friends?”

“Yes, sire,” the Lady, replied very softly. “And after you told me that my father is completely aware of the fact that you have no intention to replace the King as a ruler of Gondor, I fear that this is no longer a question of exchanging a ransom for a hostage.”

She straightened her back, lifting her chin… but Frodo could see that she was shaking from head to toe. He reached out instinctively, but before he was able to touch her, she fell to her knees, lowering her head in a timeless gesture of shame and submission.

“The name and history of our house is besmirched for eternity,” she said with a clear, thin voice. “All I have to offer is my repentance – for I played my own part in this evil game - and my humble attempt to help. I will guide you to the place where once the most precious treasures of the steward were hidden, and where my father and his men now hide the gardener.”

She raised her gaze, and the steward and the three hobbits could see that her eyes were full of tears.

“We should hurry,” she said, “we should hurry indeed, for my father has clearly crossed the thin line between sanity and madness, and I am terribly afraid that his only aim now is to murder the King.”

Chapter 8
A Sword in the Dungeon

He was back in Mordor again. The sharp rocks kept shaking beneath his body, the air was heavy with sulfur and singed his lungs with every laborious breath. Behind him, the dying mountain roared its mindless rage into a blackened sky and the smoke made him double over as an endless coughing fit held him. He wiped the tears from his eyes, a dull pain in his chest. Where was Mr. Frodo…?

Sam moaned.

In a small, clear corner of his clouded mind he still knew that this was not Mordor. He knew that he was alone, chained with one wrist against the wall of a dark, foul place. Mr. Frodo was nowhere near (at least he supposed so, for he still didn’t have the slightest idea where on earth his abductors had brought him) and he lay in this unknown dungeon, guarded by his two watchdogs and that tall, frightening fellow with the eagle-like nose and the white hair.

He turned his head to the jar the Grinner had brought him earlier this day. He couldn’t reach it with the handcuffed arm, but he could at least make another attempt with his free hand. In a way he was happy that the candle had gone out hours ago, and that he could barely see anything in the near darkness of the room. His wounded fingers were not a pleasurable sight, not at all. The phalanxes of both his ring- and third finger were swollen to double size, making them look like tightly stuffed red sausages. He couldn’t flex them without a miserable whimper of agony, and the smallest touch against the inflamed flesh made his head spin and fill with a lazy, feverish fog. He crawled in the direction of the jar, the chained arm stretched in a painful angle, and then he touched the clay vessel.

It felt as if a white hot blade cut his fingers right to the bone. He fell flat on his face, grinding his teeth in helpless agony. He didn’t want to cry for help, he didn’t want that white-haired fellow to come into the room, to bow over him, to tell those two others to finally wring his neck. Far away he heard the jar tip over; cool water trickled over his throbbing hand and provided a fleeting abatement… but a desperate little voice in that clear corner of his mind whispered that there was nothing now left to quench his thirst, and that neither the Grinner nor the Whistler would answer his plea if he asked for more. With a flicker of weak surprise, he understood that he had lost all hope… here, after the end of the War, after the defeat of the Dark Lord, after a short, fallacious time of healing and newfound joy. Not Mordor, not Mount Doom… this was his darkest hour.

Sam closed his eyes, shivering from head to toe, and his hard-pressed conscience swam away once more, like a rudderless boat on a swift stream.

It was dark once more, but not the darkness of smoke and ashes. A cold, enormous mountain towered over him, huge caves and winding tunnels. The whole day the steps of the fellowship had echoed in the tomb that had once been a dwarvish marvel, and he floated from the depths of an unruly sleep into the eternal night of Khazad Dûm…

… as a warm hand closed around his shoulder, gently shaking him awake.

Sam’s eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, instinctively protecting his head with the good arm. The chain gave a noisy rattle, and then he heard a sharp, muffled curse. He sank back, but his body was caught by strong arms before it could meet the floor again, and he blinked through the haze of fever as a familiar face floated into his field of vision. He gave it the first name that came to his mind… the same name he had used when he first met that man, an eternity back in Bree.

"Strider…?”

*****

He must have fainted again. When he slowly came back to himself, he was sitting against the wall, wrapped in something warm and clean. A torch was burning in an iron holder and the King of Gondor knelt beside him, grimly trying to loosen the chain from the wall.

Sam cleared his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Aragorn,” he croaked. “I… I don’t know where the key is. I don’t think that the Grinner or the Whistler still have it – that old fellow has taken it when he came.”

“The Grinner and the Whistler?” Aragorn turned away from his laborious task and reached out to touch his brow. He accidentally grazed the injured hand and Sam gave a little shriek of pain. The King looked down at the swollen, reddened fingers, poorly wrapped in the dirty remnants of a bandage he himself had made three days ago. His lips formed a narrow, hard line.

“They were rather tough on you, weren’t they?” he said. His voice was a dark snarl in spite of his gentle touch. “And what was that about the old fellow?”

“He… he came yesterday,” Sam managed. “ The two Men – those who brought me here – they're afraid of him. They started speaking quiet like after he arrived, as if somebody had locked them inside of here with a wolf. They call him 'Sire’, but I haven't heard his name yet. I’m sorry.” He paused when a sudden chill washed over him and made his teeth chatter.

“Would you please stop apologizing, Samwise Gamgee?” Aragorn shot him a brief glance while he worked on the chain. “Did you get a chance to see him?”

“He's tall, and he stands straight as a spear,” Sam said, pulling the warm folds closer around him. For the first time he noticed that it was Aragorn’s cloak. “He's got long, white hair and a frightening voice… like someone who's used to giving orders and having them obeyed.”

Suddenly the hobbit tensed in alarm.

“Where… where are they? And how on earth did you get in here?” He turned his head towards the stanchions… and gaped in numb surprise. Even in his exhausted confusion he noticed a few remarkable details. The door to the next room stood open. A second torch was burning outside, but all he could see was two booted feet, neatly bound. The body belonging to those feet was obviously lying on the floor and it wasn't stirring.

“Who… which of them…”

“Not the doubtable master your abductors are afraid of,” Aragorn stated thoughtfully. “He is too young and his hair is brown. Thankfully, I found the key that enabled me to pass through the stanchions in his pockets, or we would have had much more trouble. I can’t tell you if he is the Grinner or the Whistler, though; he didn't have the chance to say anything.”

“Did you kill him?” Sam whispered.

“No, I did not, my friend,” the King retorted dryly. “I am tired of being in the dark, so he had better answer some questions as soon as he’s awake again.”

“Well, I'll say 'aye' to that,” Sam agreed wholeheartedly. “I’m tired of being in the dark, too.” Aragorn gave a barking laugh that changed into a short, strained groan. Suddenly, he stumbled backwards and the chain that he had ripped from the wall lashed over the floor like a rusty iron snake.

“Finally.” Sam was lifted, first to his feet and then into the King's arms. “And, Sam, don’t try to be heroic now by telling me you’re capable of walking, for I can assure you that this is not the case. As soon as we are out of here, you won’t leave the Houses of Healing for at least a week.”

“Whatever you say,” Sam answered with the weak attempt of a smile. “But where are the two others?” He was carried over the threshold of his dungeon and had a chance to see the face of the man lying on the ground. It was the Grinner. “The Whistler must still be somewhere, and his master, too.”

“Of course they are,” Aragorn replied, taking a long, sturdy spear from the wall. He left the room, closed the door and barricaded it from outside by jamming the spear between the walls. “I have been playing Hide and Seek with them for the better part of two hours and I have done my very best to put them off the scent. I don't suppose you have any idea where you are, my friend… but these are the tunnels beneath Osgiliath, the ancient Citadel of the Stars, and your abductors are not the only ones who know them well.”

“Osgiliath?” Sam gasped. “So they’ve locked me away right under your nose! But… but I thought you’d never been to Gondor before you became King!”

“Not as Aragorn.” The former ranger smiled grimly. “When Ecthelion, the grandfather of Faramir and Boromir still ruled the realm of men, I stood in his service for a certain span of time.”*

“That’s an eye opener, and no mistake! --- What did you call yourself?” Sam shook his head in wonder, regretting the movement at once; it felt as if his brain swashed from the left side of his skull to the right and back. It nearly made him want to throw up. Aragorn looked down at him and his hard gaze softened visibly.

“Some day I’ll tell you more,” he said gently. ”You’ve already heard too many of my names to keep them straight in your mind, and the last thing you need right now is another one. First let me take you out of here, and then we will turn to new names, old tales, unknown enemies and everything else.”

Sam’s cheek sank against Aragorn’s chest, and for a few peaceful moments there was nothing else than the quick, regular steps of the man who had come to find him. Sam didn’t waste any further thought for the overwhelming fact that the King of Gondor had left behind wife, realm, subjects and duty to run to his rescue. Shame, embarrassment and sheer disbelief would certainly come later (and the imagination of everything the Gaffer might have to say to the whole matter). Right at that moment, he was simply thankful.

And then Aragorn stopped.

Sam raised his head to stare into the dim, gray light of the tunnel. Brightness trickled in through small cracks in the ceiling, but it was the pale, silvery light of the moon.

“What…?”

“Shsh.” A big warm hand was briefly pressed on his lips. “ I fear we’re getting some company.”

“Y-you mean they… they’re coming back?” Sam was shocked by the tone of trembling desperation in his own voice. "The… the Whistler and the…”

“… the old fellow, indeed.” Aragorn retorted with a sigh, speaking in a soft murmur. “It was obviously not as easy to pull the wool over his eyes as I thought. Whoever he may be, he’s a cunning old fox; I was sure I had bought us much more time.”

“Perhaps these are your men,” Sam whispered hopefully.

“That is hardly possible, my friend.” The King turned around, walking back the way they had come. “I didn’t bring any warriors with me.”

“You’ve come alone?” Now Sam could feel the panic drawing close, an icy waterfall of fear that made it difficult for him to breathe. “But… but why…”

“Because your abductors insisted that I should.” Aragorn’s steps grew faster and, to his dismay, Sam understood that he was doomed to return to the place he had hoped never to see again. “I didn’t want to put you into danger.”

Sam’s teeth started to chatter again and he swallowed. “And now you've put yourself in danger instead,” he groaned while Aragorn removed the spear from where he had rammed it between the walls to block the door. “Inside of this lousy hole we’ll sit like two wounded badgers in a trap!”

To his surprise Aragorn gave him a smile as flashing and frightening as a drawn blade. "Badgers are very dangerous creatures, Sam,” he said. “A clever hound thinks twice before he dares to enter a wounded one's burrow.”

He opened the door to the dungeon. In the unruly light of the torches, the Grinner lay on the floor, unmoving and still obviously unconscious. Aragorn stepped over him and sat Sam down, wrapping him in his cloak once more. Sam felt the stanchions behind his back and was thankful that Aragorn had somehow understood his fervid reluctance to go near the wall and chain again. He reached out with his good hand and touched the King’s leg.

“Couldn't you go and get yourself hid before they arrive?” he asked, gasping for air though a tightening throat. “Seems a terrible waste to lose a brand new King because of a silly hobbit.” He tried to smile but failed miserably.

Aragorn bowed down and laid a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. For a moment the coldness in Sam’s limbs was replaced by warmth and peace, and strength streamed through the palm and into his flesh, easing the burden on his heart.

"I suppose we can blame any silliness on the part of this particular hobbit to the fever,” he said. ”And no, Sam. I won’t leave. We will get through this together, and tomorrow we’ll be back in the White City. Do you trust me?”

There was only one answer to that.

“Of course I do,” Sam whispered.

The very next moment, rapid footsteps and an angrily risen voice could be heard from outside. Aragorn turned with a flowing movement and suddenly Andúril was in his hand and flashed in the firelight. The door opened, revealing the tall, white-haired, old man, his face a mask of malicious triumph. Sam felt the shielding body of Aragorn grow rigid, but when he spoke, his voice was calm and as cold as ice.

“The Prince of Lebennin!” he said. “I wondered who could commit such a damnable treason. This is truly the shameful downfall of a noble house.”

“Don’t you speak to me about nobility!” the old man snapped. “You slunk into the realm of Gondor, hiding behind the back of a disreputable wizard and making common cause with strange folk! You have spent the better part of your life crawling through the forests of the North like a wild beast, walking about in rags and sleeping in the mud, and you – you! - dare to claim a Kingdom as ancient as Númenor? You have stolen the throne from the steward!”

“You speak nonsense,” the King retorted brusquely. “Denethor lost every right to keep his lordship when he fell into madness and abandoned his own people at the moment of their greatest danger. He tried to burn his own son alive… and I see that his was not the only case of insanity in Minas Tirith.”

The Prince gave a hissing sound that sounded to Sam like a furious cat and came on toward them. He stopped abruptly when the blade of Andúril drew a flaming circle in the air in front of his face.

“One step closer, ” Aragorn said in a velvet-soft whisper, “and you will die. Perhaps it would be better for you and your family if I put an end to this matter now, before it is made public and your evil deeds are revealed.”

From the corner of his eye, Sam caught a movement directly in front of the King… but not from the Prince nor from the Whistler (who was probably still waiting in the tunnel behind his master). The man lying on the floor reached out for Aragorn’s foot – so cautiously and inconspicuously that Sam had to look twice to realize what it was he saw. Both of the Grinner’s hands were free, and so were his legs, and in his left he held a thin, shimmering dagger. Their eyes met and Sam opened his mouth – but what came out was not the warning shout he intended, but a high, thin squawk.

Aragorn heard it, nonetheless, and it saved his life. He looked down and stepped back just in time to see the vicious blade miss his belly. He flicked his sword toward the prostrate man and the Grinner’s arm was slashed open from shoulder to wrist. But the Grinner's blow had not missed its target completely. The knife dug deeply into the hard muscles just beneath the King’s knee. Sam heard his sharp intake of breath and saw blood run down the soft leather boots.

Aragorn managed to yank the dagger free and tossed it aside. It slithered away into the darkness past the Grinner who lay crouched on the floor, whimpering and holding his bloodied arm. A sharp, warning gesture from Andúril kept the Prince from coming closer, but, far from appearing dismayed, the other man grinned as if in triumph. Suddenly, Aragorn's wounded leg buckled beneath him. The injury had been minor, at least to a skilled warrior like Aragorn, but there was something more than steel at work on the King. Unable to keep himself upright and handicapped by his long sword, Aragorn sank to the floor, but still he shielded Sam’s body from his enemies.

The Prince laughed and stepped aside, letting the Whistler past him.

“Kill him,” he said. “I might never be able to restore the glory of the stewards, but at least I can end the life of the Usurper. Kill him – now!”

Sam finally found his voice again.

“Don’t you dare, you devil!” he screamed. The world was spinning around him in a crazy, crimson whirl. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

The Prince peered over the King’s shoulder, still keeping a careful distance from Andúril’s blade. He grinned.

“Ah - and here we have the ranger’s little appendage,” he hissed. “I was already wondering where it had got to. Kill the man and then cut the halfing’s throat. We will be rid of them both.”

The Whistler drew a long knife out of his belt and Sam closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come.

______________________________________________________

*According to the Tale of the Years Aragorn served from 2957 – 2980 both Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion of Gondor. During that time he called himself Thorongil.

Chapter 9
Dolorous treachery

The young steward, the hobbits and Lady Artanis left Minas Tirith shortly after sunset, a silent company, wrapped in dark cloaks, riding on horses and ponies. Their way led them through a narrow side gate of the city and down the street across the Pelennor. They passed wide orchards, the trees heavy with the first fruits of an early summer, and sleeping farms, followed by the barking of startled dogs.

Faramir – who had in fact never intended to include the hobbits in his rescue party – met with fierce resistance. The Ringbearer narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms and gave him an icy glare of complete refusal. Pippin found rather resolute and very eloquent words about his duties as Knight of Gondor and Meriadoc simply declared that the matter didn’t need “more heavy boots than necessary”, and that the Stewart would have to bind and to gag them anyway to leave them behind. After a heated argument Faramir gave in; but he tried until the very last minute to keep Artanis from guiding them to the place of Sam's imprisonment. The young woman, however, was as adamant as the hobbits.

“How well do you know the ancient tunnel system of Osgiliath?” she finally asked.

“I know the part on the western bank of the Anduin,” he said slowly. “Boromir and I went down there often while my father’s troops still held the ruins.”

“I thought so,” she retorted. "The part of the tunnels that lies beyond the eastern bank is almost forgotten but the entrance can be found a stone’s throw from where the Great Bridge and the Tower of the Stars once stood. However, you must know it very well to see it and in the dark of night it is even more difficult. The tunnels wind underground for over a mile; there are blind alleys and a handful of unexpected traps that you might get caught in if you don’t know exactly where to go.”

She stared at the young steward, her bright almond eyes burning in an unwavering fire.

“I will not stay behind.” She clenched her hand into fists. “If the King dies, you will have to take up your duty as the next steward of Gondor, willingly or not - and my father will have succeeded in his aim at last. I will not let that happen, and I will not stay behind.”---

And so they made their way secretly to Osgiliath, the ancient city that had been lost, re-conquered and destroyed again and again until nothing remained of what had once been the jewel in the Southern Kingdom's crown. They reached the first ruins around midnight. A tall man with a torch was waiting for them, his face hidden under the shadow of a big hood.

“My Lord Faramir,” he said, bowing deeply. “We have kept watch on the eastern shore, but nothing has stirred for the last three hours. Are you sure that the King is here?”

“I am, Damrod,” Faramir retorted grimly. “And I fear even an experienced, sharp-eyed man like yourself would not have seen Aragorn if he had not wanted you to see him.” He gestured over to Artanis. “This lady will lead us to the place where the kidnappers hide the gardener, and I will take care to leave signs you and your men will be able to find. If we don’t come back within the hour, you have my official order to follow us.”

Damrod bowed again.

“As you wish, Milord,” he said. “But I beg you to be careful. It would be a heavy blow for Gondor if any of you were lost.”

“It would be a much heavier blow if we lost our newly found King this day.” Faramir replied, and both his tone and face were deadly serious.

They turned away from the cobbled road, carefully searching their way between half standing walls and assailed buildings until they reached the river. A boat was waiting on the pebble-strewn bank. Meriadoc groaned aloud and shook his head.

“We’ll never get Sam in there,” he said with a lopsided grin. “He’ll make a fuss as soon as he sees that he has to cross the water by such 'unnatural' means.”

“He might not be in any condition to protest,” the Ringbearer offered, speaking for the first time since they had left the City. Artanis gazed at the halfling's tired face … it was pale and as translucent as a seashell against the black, rushing water of the Anduin. She came slowly to his side.

“He will be safe,” she said, willing herself to believe the words she was going to say. “My father has no army with him, only two or three servants. I don’t think that they will be a real danger to the King.”

“Do you really believe they are still alive?” She met the gaze of darkened eyes, hollowed by too much endured pain and a terrible fear. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch his arm, but drew her hand back again, overwhelmed by the bottomless disgrace that had brought her to this place.

"They must be alive, Master Baggins," she said, her voice hoarse and tense. “For if Master Gamgee and the King are killed tonight, it would add the burden of your sorrow and the angry grief of my people to the shame I already bear. And I do not think I could endure such a burden. I hold fiercely to that belief so that I may have the strength to walk beside you into darkness.”

A sharp glance – and a small hand laid on her arm where she had not dared to touch him.

“Then we’ll have to find him and bring him back into daylight,” Frodo Baggins said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “My friend Samwise is a gardener, used to warm soil on his hands and the sun on his face. With a little luck, all of us may walk under the sun tomorrow.”

“I pray that you are right,” Artanis said.

The boat was bigger than they had first thought. Artanis waited in the bow while Faramir helped the hobbits settle safely on the seats. He took the oars and dipped them into the dark water. The bow turned away from the bank and slipped into the current where once the Great Bridge and Tower stood. Artanis had once seen a marvelous painting of them both in a richly illustrated book. She tried cling to that memory, but her thoughts and the image fluttered away. She felt as if she were standing at the rim of a black abyss.

You are betraying your father, a frantic voice hissed in the back of her mind, for once he trusted you, and you have let him down in the most evil way possible. She stared down into the stream. Over her head, the moon reappeared from behind a cloud and was mirrored in the rippling waves. Even this late at night, it was still warm, but Artanis shivered violently, drawing the cloak closer about her. You betray your father, the voice repeated mercilessly, and if he hasn't felt love for you before, he will surely hate you now. Why don’t you throw yourself into the river and end your misery before you can do any more harm? She dug her fingers into the wale, shivering again… and then her mind sought the one refuge in which it had always found peace.

She recalled the soft shimmer of pearls, the cool, green light of emeralds and tourmalines and the warm glow of rubies. She concentrated on the rich blue of turquoises from Khand and the sparkling depths of the rare sapphires from Harad. She thought of the Ringbearer’s eyes and wondered what kind of jewel could match them. No, he was no sapphire… she could sense layer upon shimmering layer beneath the surface of that calm, mysterious face. It shone with an inner light that was not entirely of this world. Faramir, however, did remind her of a sapphire– clarity and the strength of sorrow overcome, as well as the purity of a truly noble character.

Artanis wondered what kind of gem Sam Gamgee, that fourth, unknown hobbit might be. A devoted servant, true friend and brother at heart to his master. Perhaps the intense shade of Lapis, shot with golden sparks… the classical blue of honesty and faithfulness. Sweet Eru, let him be alive, she prayed silently, let us be in time. Then the bottom of the boat hissed into the stones of the eastern bank of the river.

They climbed out and this time Artanis took the lead. She guided the group to the remnants of a building opposite the only pillar that was left from the Great Bridge. There was little left of the house but a single wall with a beautifully chiseled but empty window frame that had probably once held precious, stained glass. She stopped in front of the window and bent to the floor. It was covered with dust, smashed stones and shattered bricks, but she wiped the dirt aside with a steady hand, and closed her fingers around an iron ring that was attached to a sturdy, wooden trapdoor. Peregrin whistled through his teeth.

“Canny idea” he said. “But what if your enemies are chasing you? Wouldn’t they see the trap door after you have cleared the space around it?”

“They certainly would, Master Peregrin.” Artanis replied, lifting the door. “But if you bang against the ceiling of the tunnel after you have climbed inside, enough fresh debris will come down from the decrepit wall to hide it again.”

“I suspect you wouldn’t want to bang too hard,” Pippin mused, shooting a distrustful glance at the old pile, “or the whole thing might come down and you’d never get out again.”

Artanis smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Only if you didn’t know the other ways to escape the tunnel system… which I do. Don’t worry. Master Peregrin.”

“But I don’t worry at a---“ Peregrin protested, interrupted by Meriadoc who poked him impatiently in the ribs.

“Of course you do, you ninny” he said, “as do I. And I will personally make certain that you don’t drop anything in that tunnel. The last time you did that we ended up with a Balrog on our heels.”*

Artanis climbed down into the tunnel, followed by Faramir and the hobbits. The young woman didn’t light the torch she carried under her cloak; she knew the way well enough without it and the hobbits’ sharp eyes were keen underground. They walked slowly, linked together by their hands, Artanis’ voice the only sound in the utter darkness: “Straight ahead… slowly… attention now, there’s a small gap in the floor… three steps more and the tunnel turns sharply to the left… slowly… duck your head, sire!” A suppressed curse came from the end of the row, followed by the slightly nervous chuckles of Meriadoc and Peregrin.

After walking for a half an hour, Artanis stopped.

“I will light my torch now, sire,” she said very softly. “About twenty steps ahead you will find a door. It leads to a room that in earlier years was used as a cell and a resting place for the guards, before the plans got lost and this part of the tunnel system was forgotten. I am sure that the gardener is there… and my father, too.” Again she felt overwhelmed by the danger and insanity of the whole situation, but with a strong effort of will, she pulled herself together. “Your eyes need to be used to the light again, or you will be at a severe disadvantage when you enter and face the men inside.” She swallowed laboriously. “You must be careful, Milord.”

“We will be, all of us,” Faramir replied. “Though I hope we find that the King is already master of the situation and that the greatest danger is past.”

Artanis wondered if he had said that only to reassure her, but she never found out, for at the next moment, there was a muffled scream from the far end of the tunnel. An angry shout followed and then came the clanging of metal on metal. Faramir rushed forward, the hobbits on his heels, and with a bang the door to the abandoned guardroom flew open.

*****

Sam blinked through the haze of fever and exhaustion. The chamber that had been deadly quiet only seconds before was suddenly filled with voices and the shuffling of feet. Aragorn still knelt before of him, one arm raised in a gesture of defiance. Andúril was a blazing tongue of fire in the light of the torches. The Whistler moved to follow his master’s order of, but then froze. His mouth opened wide and the knife he held in a white-knuckled grip clattered tip-first to the ground. He sank very slowly to his knees and then fell forward flat on his face to reveal a small figure as tense as a bowstring behind him. Mr. Merry! How on earth has he got here? Sam thought in confusion. Then he saw that Mr. Pippin was there, too. The Grinner grabbed up his companion’s abandoned knife, got to his feet. and turned to defend himself with his good arm. His weapon cut through the empty air and suddenly a short blade was pressed against his throat. He gazed down into the eyes of another small and entirely unexpected warrior.

“You should choose your foes more carefully,” Peregrin Took said in a cold voice, his hand unwavering. “Less height doesn’t mean less danger, you silly fool.”

Sam’s fevered gaze looked past his friends and – wonder of wonders! – Captain Faramir stood behind them, one arm tightly around the neck of the Prince of Lebennin. The old man’s face was white as chalk, a mixture of rage and surprise.

“Give me any reason to kill you,” Faramir hissed close to Ardhenon’s ear, “and I will joyfully rid Gondor of a filthy traitor.”

Sam blinked again, trying to focus on the dramatic change of events through the increasing confusion in his head. Suddenly, the fog was pierced by a sharp cry of dismay. He knew the voice and instinctively turned toward it, and then he was drawn into a gentle embrace, and his brow sank against the shoulder of his master.

“Mr. Frodo… you shouldn’t be here!” he managed, at the same time gratefully yielding to the comfort of that familiar touch. “It’s much too dangerous for you. Strider promised me…” And then he remembered that Strider had been a little too preoccupied with saving his life to take care of Frodo’s, too. He gave a weak little chuckle. “Beg your pardon, sir… I guess I was talking nonsense.”

“Indeed,” Frodo’s answering laugh was strained with worry. “Now rest your poor head, my dear Sam, I will care for you. I promise.”

Sam felt warm lips brushing over his brow and closed his eyes in blessed, happy relief.

*****

When Artanis reached the room, the battle was over. She hesitated in the doorway, taking in the scene as if it were a strange painting. At the far end of the room she could see the Ringbearer, sitting on the floor, holding the gardener in his lap like a child that had been lost and finally found. One of her father’s men lay on the ground, obviously dead, the other stood by the wall to her left, one arming hanging by his side and his back pressed against the rough stones while Meriadoc Brandybuck was busy binding his legs. Peregrin Took knelt beside Frodo Baggins and Samwise, and Faramir crouched in front of the King, his dark head bowed over an ugly wound just under Aragorn’s knee.

Where was her father?

Then she found him, a tall, shadowed figure to the right, She could only see his profile, a white, unmoving mask of stone. Suddenly, she wanted to speak, to make a feeble attempt to explain what must seem the darkest treason to this proud man whose plans now lay shattered around him. But before she could even open her mouth, she saw him move.

Ropes… there were pieces of it on the ground, neatly cut, and while she watched, trying to understand what she saw, Ardhenon managed to free his hands. When she caught the short flash of firelight on metal, her whole world jolted to a halt.

A knife. He had a knife.

She saw him rise to his feet and make a long, soundless stride toward the King. Of course – it had always been his plan to murder the king, and he was still desperately intent on achieving that last, most vicious objective. Artanis heard a deep, hoarse snarl and realized that it was her own voice. Then she flung herself forward, grabbing for her father’s arm with both hands.

Ardhenon came to a stumbling halt, gazing down at the unexpected obstacle in furious confusion. She saw understanding dawn in his eyes – recognition that his last tool had completely turned against him – and she froze under the icy blast of his utter condemnation. The mountain that had shadowed all her life towered above her and there was neither mercy nor forgiveness in it. Her knees grew weak and for a second she lost her grip on her father’s wrist.

The arm with the dagger swung down in a blazing arch and cold metal met warm flesh. Artanis felt a piercing pain in her side. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Instead the world started to move again, gently tilting to the side as she fell, one hand pressed against the hot wetness that soaked her dress. She felt the raw stone of the floor against her cheek and saw with crystalline clarity that her father had moved on once again without even a glance back, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a wolfish grimace, his eyes glassy windows to a swirling darkness. But before he could complete the deed he had been planning for so long, one of the small figures crowded around Samwise rose from the floor in one swift, fluid motion. Peregrin, Knight of Gondor, stretched out his sword arm to smoothly and unerringly bury his blade in the old man’s chest.

Artanis, hovering on the edge of consciousness, tried to prop herself up on her hands. She gazed at the scene around her and gave a soft gasp; she never knew for sure later if what she saw in those last few moments of awareness had been real or a result of the sudden blood loss and shock.

There was the Ringbearer… and yes, she had been right: a silky light shimmered round him like a halo, shot through with sparks of red, orange and turquoise. But the silent figure in his arms was red, not blue, the red of jasper, radiating the warmth of living blood and dark, fruitful earth. Peregrin beside her glowed with fervent heat like burning amber, almost swallowing the cool shimmer of emerald in the background where the hobbit Meriadoc stood. And directly in front of her she could see the soothing, blue shimmer of a perfect sapphire; Faramir had turned his head in her direction, gazing at her with concern and deep pity.

Artanis blinked.

The King… the King’s color was clear as adamant, translucent, but not the quiet coldness of a stone or jewel… he was filled with breathtaking life. The aureole around him shimmered in crimson, blue and a deep, mossy green, like a precious tourmaline. She realized that actually there was no gem she could use to describe Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Elessar, king of Gondor. In a sudden epiphany she understood that what she saw was the essence of the ancient kingdom, burning in his flesh with a fierce, golden flame.

“Forgive me, my lord…” she whispered, the salty iron taste of blood rising in her throat, “I didn’t know.”

And then the darkness enfolded her and the world lost all its colors.

_____________________________________________________________________________

*This cheeky remark refers to the movie version of the FOTR-scene in Moria – of course. Like Peter Jackson I always found it difficult to believe that a single pebble falling into an ancient well would cause such a riot. But I guess the infernal noise Pippin caused by dropping that skull, helmet, weapons and chain in the movie scene would be enough to raise even a Balrog from his sleep!

Chapter 10
The justice of the King

“You know the punishment for treason.”

The voice of the King was tense. He stood in the Queen’s bower, gazing out to the window. A warm summer rain had been falling for two days now, taking away the heat of the desperate week gone by and bringing long awaited relief to the citizens of the White City.

“I know indeed,” Arwen replied, stepping beside him. “And the traitor has already been punished as law commands; Ardhenon is dead.”

Aragorn sighed.

“Still… Artanis was clearly involved in the conspiracy. It was she who spied out the comings and goings of the hobbits for her father; without her he wouldn’t have known when to send his men to get the Ringbearer.”

“They failed.” Arwen reminded him, gently touching his arm.

“Yes, but Sam could easily have been killed, too… and Ardhenon had just ordered his men to do so when Faramir arrived.” His fingers covered the Queen's hand, giving it a sudden, hard squeeze. “And to kill me, do not forget.”

“How could I?” Arwen replied. “But you must take every facet of the whole matter into consideration to show the Lady the justice she needs… and the mercy she deserves.”

Aragorn gazed at the lovely face of his wife; a faint smile curled his lips.

“Enlighten me,” he said. “What kind of mercy do you expect from the King, and why does she deserve it?”

“It is common knowledge among the noble folk at the court that Ardhenon saw his daughter as little more than a poor substitute for his firstborn son who fell on the Pelennor fields. And do not forget that she was raised in a household where the Stewards and their descendants through the ages were seen as the only true rulers of Gondor. The return of a King – from whatever line – was nothing than a fairytale, told to the children at nightfall.”

Arwen drew a deep breath.

“I have a suspicion that she simply wasn’t able to disobey, Estel. She might have stayed a helpless tool in Ardhenon’s hands, if not for Frodo. It is my deepest belief that his sharp eyes and wisdom worked the change in Artanis’ mind that in the end saved Sam’s life – and yours.” She touched his shoulder, her warm voice urgent and pleading. “Pippin, Frodo, Meriadoc and even Faramir all agree that she flung herself in her father's path when he tried to murder you in the tunnels of Osgiliath. She may have carried out Ardhenon’s plans – at first. But then she went to Faramir, and she guided him and the hobbits to the guardroom at the risk of her own life. She not only deserves mercy, my love… she should also have your gratitude.”

Aragorn was silent. The images of that night were running through his mind, a chaos of fire and darkness, of confusion and frantic screams. He remembered the pale, frenzied features of Ardhenon, swimming towards him as if through deep water, with empty eyes and grinding teeth. He also remembered a muffled sound of deepest despair and the swirling of a dark dress and cloak. And then two figures had fallen to the ground; his foe, burying Pippin’s sword beneath his body, and the Lady Artanis, nearly stabbed to death by her own father.

“You are wise, melethril,” he finally said. “I will lay this matter into your hands. Go and visit the Keeper of the Jewels and talk to her if possible; the healers tell me that she is still very weak and in great pain… little wonder, for the dagger that wounded her was the same that struck me. It is thanks only it to your father's skill that the poison on the blade didn’t do any more damage and that I’m still able to use my right leg. You, my love, may decide what has to be done to punish and reward, and I will trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.” Arwen cupped his face with both hands and kissed him. “I will try to be the counselor you need and deserve.”

His nostrils filled with the sweet, fresh scent of niphredil… the scent that always surrounded her, the scent that was one of the oldest memories he treasured from the beginning of their long and difficult love.

“You won’t have to try, Tinúviel,” he gently replied. “for that is what you have always been.”

*****

The rain was still falling before the pointed arch of windows like a thin veil of truesilver when the Queen came to the Houses of Healing. She was greeted by the warden and guided to the left wing of the building. A guard stood beside the entrance. She answered the reverent salute with a short nod and turned to Oroher, her eyebrows rising.

“Do you fear that your prisoner might try to escape?”

Oroher shook his head. "No, your Majesty,” he said, “but though we managed to keep the whole matter as secret as possible, we don’t want anybody at the court or in the City to find out about the Lady’s role in the conspiracy. The people of Minas Tirith love their King, and they might easily receive a story such as this very ill.” A small smile played around his lips and vanished again. "The guard is a protector and not a jailer, my Queen, and the Lady’s room is neither a dungeon nor a cage.”

“I understand,” Arwen replied slowly, “though we certainly have a bird with broken wings here.”

“Wings she never learned to use, I think,” the warden murmured, “and a creature like this should be nursed and fed rather than having its neck wrung before it was ever able sing a song.”

Their eyes met in complete understanding. They spoke no more until they had reached the next door. The warden opened it and went in, and Arwen waited behind him, listening to the quiet, murmuring voices behind the thick oak wood. Then Oroher came out again.

“I beg your pardon, my Queen, but Lady Artanis is asleep, and her nurse – Eilinel – has refused to leave the sickroom since we first brought her unconscious mistress here. I had to prepare her for the honor of an unexpected, royal visit. I didn’t want to surprise the old woman; such a sudden shock might cause her a heart attack, and I would have two patients instead of one.”

“I have to speak with her,” Arwen said quietly.

“Of course, your Majesty.” The warden opened the door and bowed deeply. Arwen entered the room and found herself facing an old woman with neatly pinned up, gray hair under a scrupulously clean bonnet. Her face was nearly as white as the cloth that framed it, and her fingers clamped around a fold of her black skirts as she dropped into a curtsy.

Arwen reached out and gently closed her hand around one of the old nurse’s elbows.

“Oh please… rise, my dear,” she said in a friendly, reassuring tone. "I have come to see the only person in Minas Tirith that might help me to do the Lady Artanis the justice she deserves.”

These were obviously exactly the right words to help the old woman out of her panic and fear. Eilinel straightened and met the queen's gaze with a fervid determination.

“I will do everything I can, your Majesty – everything.”

“Oh, I am sure you will,” Arwen interrupted, "and I am very grateful. But now I would like to see your Lady.”

“She is asleep,” the nurse said, walking on soundless soles to a corner of the room that was kept separated from the rest of the chamber by a dark blue curtain. "They gave her poppy syrup this morning; her wound is healing slowly, but it still causes her great pain.” She hesitated a few seconds, then drew back the curtain. Arwen stepped beside her and looked at the woman lying in the bed.

She saw pale features and colorless lips – a full mouth, but, even in the state of drugged unconsciousness, strangely tense and tart. High, elegant cheekbones and a narrow nose stood prominently against the rest of the face, the cheeks hollow and shadowed after a week of shock, exhaustion and traumatic fever. Long hair framed the head on the pillow, tousled streaks of languid blonde. The body beneath the covers and sheets showed a fragile slenderness. Arwen had the sudden feeling that she gazed at the mere shadow of a woman… a human being, untimely bereft of life and warmth, a flower, doomed to grow in a dark cellar instead of blooming under the healing rays of the sun. She needs light, the Queen thought, and I need it, too, to understand the pattern of her life.

“I've thought of my father very often of late,” she remarked in a conversational tone, keeping her eyes on Artanis’ face. "He was – he still is – Elrond Halfelven, the Lord of Rivendell, a warrior of the ancient wars of elves and men against Sauron and his forces, a healer and a great ruler. But he was also my Ada, the one who dried my tears when I stumbled and fell, the one who told me stories by the light of a lamp and who stroked my brow when I was ill.” She shot a glance at the nurse and noticed that she had her full attention. "My mother went into the West when I was still young by Elvish standards, and from then on he had to be both, mother and father.”

“Do you… do you have any siblings, your Majesty?”

“Two brothers,” Arwen smiled. "Elladan and Elrohir. They are twins. I don’t know if you had a chance to see them; they accompanied me here when I came to marry the King.”

“My lamb had only one brother,” the nurse said softly. "Maedhron. He was five years older than she, and her complete opposite. He could make a room shine simply by entering it. He had a wonderful, infectious laugh, and he was his father’s morning and evening. But he was a good brother, too. He cared deeply for my Lady and she followed him everywhere, like a small kitten. He called her 'my little pearl’”.

“Did he get along well with Lord Ardhenon?”

The nurse sighed. "They were strong-willed, stubborn men, both of them. But Maedhron… where Lord Ardhenon was stone, he was fire and warmth. The mother of Maedhron and Artanis died young, and their father only took interest in his son and heir, not in his daughter. Maedhron always despised that attitude, and he made no bones about it. The only thing Lord Ardhenon could imagine for his daughter was a proper and gainful marriage, but Artanis was… she was not…”

The nurse hesitated, then took a deep breath and with a courageous effort met Arwen’s eyes.

“You must understand… when she was fourteen, the throat disease swept through Minas Tirith, and she fell ill. She recovered slowly. After three weeks of a terrible fever, she had lost most of her voice. And she had neither her mother's loveliness nor the charms of her famous grandmother, the one who gave my Lady her name. And Lord Ardhenon… I guess he was… disappointed. He had always been a devoted servant of the House of the Stewards, and in his heart he had nursed the secret hope of creating a closer bond between the two families, perhaps by giving her as a wife to one of Lord Denethor’s sons. But my lamb was horrified at the mere thought of it, and Maedhron always came to her defense. Times got darker, Boromir set off to Rivendell and never came back, and then Maedhron fell on the Pelennor fields. Those and Lord Denethor’s horrible end were heavy blows to Lord Ardhenon, so he decided to retire. Unlike her brother, my Lady had shown an honest interest in the jewels and treasures the family had been keeping for hundreds of years. ‘This is the only chance I have to prove myself useful’ she once said to me, ‘now that Maedhron can’t fulfill his expectations anymore.’”

A flower in the cellar. A bird, robbed of its voice. Arwen felt a sudden chill, secretly taken aback by the thought how well Oroher’s comparison matched the painful facts.

“And so she became involved in that secret conspiracy to murder the King?” she asked with a low voice, "Because she wanted to fulfill his expectations?”

“Oh no, your Majesty, no…” The nurse blanched, all of a sudden aware again of the danger her Lady was in. "Because she didn’t know what else to do! Eru help me, her mother taught her to tell right from wrong, and she is a fine noble woman with a gentle heart and would never do any harm to anyone. She… she only wanted to obey her father! She had no choice! You didn’t know him!”

I have the suspicion that she simply wasn’t able to disobey, Estel.

Her own words mirrored the despair of the old woman before her. Arwen sighed.

“I never knew Lord Ardhenon while he was alive,” she said, "but the more I learn of him now, the less I like what I hear. Try to calm down, Eilinel. You should rely on the wisdom of your King.”

With a last gaze at the white, exhausted face of the unconscious Lady, she left the room and walked back down the long corridor. Oroher was waiting for her at the entrance to the wing, the tall guard beside him… and someone much smaller, too. The Queen recognized the Ringbearer and greeted him with a warm smile.

“Frodo! What are you doing here?”

“Oh… keeping Sam from jumping out of his bed, of course. He got his bandages changed this morning and that courageous Ioreth had the thankless task of telling him that he isn’t permitted to get up for another day. Then the herb master of the Houses appeared and brought a tea Sam refused to drink after the very first sip. The old Lady snapped at the herb master and told him to bring something more tasty, but the second brew was as horrible as the first one."

He grinned merrily.

“This was the most poetic and satisfying revenge I could imagine… after all those bitter herb brews that were forced into my unwilling mouth while I lay in the Houses, mostly by Sam. He tried to argue some more, but Ioreth drowned him in a flood of words and emerged victorious.”

The hobbit shook his head, obviously still savoring the memory.

“At least the fingers are finally healing now, though he constantly complains that the wounds are itching.”

“Such a brave soul!” Arwen laughed. “But his room is in the opposite wing, isn’t it?”

She saw the quick exchange of glances between Oroher and Frodo well enough. Frodo gave a small sigh and met her eyes.

“I came here to see the Lady Artanis,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” Arwen returned the look with sharp inquisitiveness. “Does Estel know about this?”

“Well…” Frodo hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if he would agree, so I simply decided that I’d better not ask.”

“Very clever,” Arwen retorted dryly. “Would you be so kind and tell me why you want to visit the Lady?”

“Why I’ve been visiting the Lady the whole last week.” Frodo said. “First I came because Oroher asked me to do so.”

Oroher nodded. “I was told that a certain conversation with the Ringbearer made Lady Artanis change her mind and help Prince Faramir rescue Master Gamgee – events which caused the severe wound I had to tend. And after she first regained consciousness here, she was in deep anguish and despair. I did not only drug her with poppy syrup to ease the pain, but to prevent her from taking the punishment she is expecting into her own hands.”

The Queen frowned.

“Do you mean to tell me that she tried to kill herself?”

“She doesn’t have the ability or the means,” Oroher answered calmly, “but only because I took care of that. It might well have happened… and it might still, if we don’t find a way to heal what is eating her up from within.”

Arwen’s frown deepened.

“Explain.”

“Remorse and shame,” Frodo chimed in, his voice slightly tense. “The Lady was raised as a noblewoman, to serve and to obey those who rule the realm. But she never learned any other loyalty than the one to her father, the father for whom she was nothing more than a burden, a mere shadow, almost disappearing beside her brother’s glory. And Ardhenon told her from childhood on that only the Stewards were the true rulers of Gondor. When he decided to use her, she had no strength to resist.”

“How so?”

“Because she was so desperate to be loved,” Frodo said slowly. “Because this dangerous act of obedience offered her the chance to be cherished. She didn’t know that she was nothing more than a willing tool… her desperate need for her father’s love didn’t allow her to see clearly.”

Again an echo of the words she had said to her spouse earlier that day.

“You seem to see things clearly enough,” Arwen replied.

“Because I know what ails her,” Frodo gave back; his voice had a strangely brusque tone. “Better than I want to, believe me.”

He turned away and there was a moment of excruciating silence. Arwen felt her own, heavy heartbeat and saw how the marred hand of the hobbit closed in a white-knuckled grip around the ancient gem she had given to him. Finally she cleared her throat and spoke again.

“Well then, Frodo Baggins from the Shire… you have been a very strong advocate indeed. If this judgement was yours to decide - what would be your verdict?” Frodo looked at her; his face was filled with a mixture of watchfulness and deep certitude.

“It would be healing, not punishment,” he replied. "I remember a conversation I had with her before we knew what happened to Sam. She told me about the southern sea where the most precious pearls can be found, and I could feel her deep longing to see the ocean. But she said that she had never seen it in her entire life. Lebennin – is that far away from the coast?”

“Not at all,” Arwen said, “the biggest city of Lebennin is Gondor’s most ancient harbor, Pelargir. It is about a day and a half's ride on horseback to get there from Minas Tirith, as I’ve been told – and Estel was even faster than that when he came to the battle on the Pelennor fields aboard the corsair ships. From the family manor of the House of Lebennin, it should be a much shorter trip, only a few hours.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine that someone living so close to the shore has never seen the sea!”

“Yet, that is the case,” Frodo said. “What does that tell you about her father and his daughter’s place in his heart that he denied her even such an easily fulfilled dream?”

Arwen was silent for a while.

“Enough, I suppose.” she replied at last. “What a pity!”

Frodo smiled.

“It is in your hands – and in the hands of Aragorn – to set her free. Perhaps a journey to the shore could be the first step to her healing… and a clear sign to her that there is something like kindness, understanding and mercy.” His voice changed again; it had a thoughtful, strangely distant tone now. “The sea must be beautiful. It has always been – at least in my dreams. And it has a voice… like the deep, even breathing of a sleeper. One day I’d like to see it myself.” Blue eyes and gray eyes met for a long gaze, and he gave a small smile. “Even if I never sail.”

He bowed deeply, fingers still loosely closed around her gift, then turned around, stepped outside into the garden and vanished between the fragrant rows of the herb beds. Arwen followed the small figure with her eyes. Mithrandir spoke true, Hobbits are indeed amazing creatures, she thought, but this one is the most amazing of them all.

*****

Three days later Samwise Gamgee left the Houses of Healing and returned to the other Hobbits, but not for long; the preparations for their travel home were nearly complete and in the mid of July, a huge party set forth from Minas Tirith, including the King and Queen, many of the Fair Folk and the Rohirrim Army, an impressive guard of honor for the fallen Théoden. When the cheers had died down and the people had returned home, a messenger appeared in Artanis’ sickroom and presented a sealed parchment roll to the Lady.

She opened it with trembling hands. It was a decree of the King.

The parchment fell on the cover of the bed; Artanis buried her face in her hands, trembling in stunned exhaustion and shedding for the very first time tears of hope and unbelieving joy.

She was forgiven.

And she would see the ocean.

Epilogue
The Lady from the Sea

May 3026, Minas Tirith

“Ada!”

A small boy’s voice, shrill with excitement, made the King turn his eyes from the parchment he was reading.

“Ada, where are you? There’s a visitor in mommy’s room, and she’s a pirate!”

The boy appeared on the doorstep; a mop of dark hair, the sea gray eyes of his mother, “his father’s stubborn chin” (as Arwen used to put it with a very un-elvish grin) and three feet of glowing energy. He came to a slithering halt directly in front of the King’s desk. Aragorn felt the warm surge of pride, love and stunned surprise that still overwhelmed him each time he saw his firstborn son.* He smiled, raising one eyebrow.

“Eldarion, I’m quite certain that your mother doesn’t keep the company of pirates,” he said calmly. “You must have mistaken that visitor for someone else.” He leaned over the desk and studied the boy’s face. “Tell me – does she have a wooden leg? Or does she wear big, golden earrings and an eye patch?”

Eldarion’s eyes lit up.

“Like the Corsairs of Umbar, you mean?” he cried, jumping up and down. “Do they wear eye patches? All of them?”

“Not even half of them,” the King stated grimly, “though they certainly lost one or two eyes and a few legs when we taught them some manners seven years ago. But –" He rose from his chair and walked around the desk. "I would still like to know more about that visitor of your mother's. If she doesn’t wear an eye patch and golden earrings and if she still has both legs, what makes you think that she is a pirate?”

Eldarion shuffled his feet, slowly losing interest in the whole matter, but still willing to enlighten his father.

“Because she says she’s come from the coast,” he said, “and she has brought gems and pearls in a wooden chest that looks like one from Aunt Lothy’s tales. Ada? Are there some cookies left in your drawer?”

“No cookies,” Aragorn replied firmly, swooping the five-year-old boy up into his arms. “And Aunt Lothiriel should definitely change the subject of her ghost stories.”

“No, she shouldn’t,” his incorrigible son said. “Her stories are so much better than Uncle Éomer's. All he talks about is horses.”

“He isn’t called Horse Lord for nothing,” his father retorted very reasonably, carefully hiding a sympathetic twinkle. “But now you have made me curious. I think I will join your mother and have a look at your ‘pirate’ myself.”

He carried a boisterously shrieking Eldarion out of the study and upstairs to the royal family's private quarters. In the anteroom of Arwen’s bower he found the nanny; she had already been looking for the little prince and now showered him with an exhilarating mixture of rebukes and promises of a snack of lemonade and cake. She was quite successful – Eldarion loved everything that was sweet and sticky – and while the youngest heir of Gondor’s throne sat down to a luxurious afternoon meal, the King entered the sunlit chamber of his Queen.

He was greeted by female laughter… from his wife, clad in white and blue and radiantly beautiful, her belly ever so slightly rounded by the first months of her second pregnancy. The visitor wore a simple dress made of deep green silk. Her hair was braided to a crown around her head, an unusual blonde, shot with streaks of gold and silver, obviously bleached by the sun. When she turned her head in his direction, he saw high cheekbones, a narrow nose, full lips and bright almond eyes.

“Your Majesty.” She rose and dropped into a perfect, formal curtsy. “It has been a long time.”

Aragorn took a deep breath.

“It has indeed,” he slowly said. "But it is good to see you again, Lady Artanis.”

“And the realm of Gondor is blooming splendidly, my King,” Artanis replied. “It was a blessed day when Isildur’s Heir came back.”

He listened to the dark, melodious voice, silently recalling the memory of an entirely different sound – croaking, sometimes fading and in the end broken with pain. This could not be the same woman – or could it? The face was still narrow, but what once had been all shallow, tired and pointy was now pleasantly rounded, forming quite remarkable features. The body under the green dress had also developed some more curves (though she was still slender enough), and the silvery eyes were a spectacular sight against the warm tan of her skin.

He realized that he was actually staring at her, but before he could think of a proper remark to end the silence, he was saved by the soft laughter of his Queen.

“You know what my husband is thinking, don’t you, Artanis?” She took a goblet and filled it for the Princess of Lebennin. “He is wondering if all exhausted patients should be sent to Dol Amroth to regain their health and strength, as you obviously did. And I might add that many a lady in the court would kill to know the cure that made you look the way you do.”

Lady Artanis actually grinned.

“I guess they are rather disturbed that someone who always looked like a plucked chicken suddenly turned into… well, not a swan, but at least a much prettier bird.”

The grin faded, but the light remained in her face, and suddenly she stepped forward, took Aragorn’s hand and kissed it in a gesture of unfeigned reverence and thankfulness.

“You saved my life,” she simply said, “by giving me the chance to get away from former bonds and duties… and by letting me see the ocean.”

Her gaze was very direct and serious.

“Prince Imrahil was the most friendly and thoughtful host anyone could wish for,” she continued, “He gave me a house three miles from the harbor, with a housekeeper that cared for my well-being, and I had all the time in the world to walk along the beach and to soak up the music of the waves.”

She sat down beside the Queen again and took the offered goblet.

“It took my body half a year to fully heal, and my soul needed two more to do the same. My uncle Castamir left his house in Pelargir and agreed to take over the duties of the Prince of Lebennin as long as I wanted to retire and to recover. When I return to Dol Amroth, I will ask him to stay as my advisor and chancellor; he is the most worthy lord anyone could wish for, much better than I could ever be. And he sent my cousin Eldacar to be your new Keeper of the Jewels, while I wasn’t able to do that duty.”

A small smile raised the corners of her mouth and vanished again.

“Meanwhile I fought my memories, my anger and my shame until my heart calmed and I adjusted to the rhythm of the ocean. I still dream sometimes, and not all dreams are pleasant… but I sleep much better now. And I have finally been able to complete an order you gave me seven years ago, your Majesty.”

She produced a small bag from a pocket in her skirt, loosened the cord and spread the fingers of both hands. A shimmering rivulet trickled down, gently swinging in front of her… pearls over pearls, knotted to a long, perfect string, pearls of a rare, gray luster. Aragorn looked at it and was immediately reminded of an iridescent dawn over the sea at the turn of summer to harvest time. He glanced over at his wife and saw the feelings displayed on her lovely features: surprise, awe and finally a deep, disbelieving joy.

“I always thought that a month was not nearly enough time to create a treasure like this,” Artanis said softly. “I once told one of my most trusted merchants that completing a string of pearls like this might be the work of a lifetime. And I had seven years to answer your wish and to be satisfied with the result. That was sooner than I expected.”

She reached out and Arwen took the pearls out of her hands.

“Would you wear this?” Artanis asked. “If my King agrees, I will give this to you as a gift of the House of Lebennin, a sign of love and fealty, hopefully strong enough to banish the old shades. Do you accept it?”

Arwen smiled and wound the string around her neck.

“I agree with pleasure,” she said, “and as long as you live, you will be welcome at this court, a beloved guest and a trusted friend of the King and the Queen of Gondor.”

Artanis bowed deeply.

“I have brought yet another gift,” she said, “and I would like to send it to the Ringbearer.”

Aragorn’s heart sank, but Artanis didn’t seem to notice it.

“You know… when I was lying in the Houses of Healing, he visited me, sitting beside my bed for hours, and one day he told me about one of his dreams. He said that he felt himself flying on invisible wings, sailing on a gentle breeze… and beyond him he saw the shore of a distant land appear, green and white under a slowly rising sun. I was not the Shire he came from, not the fields and the woods he was used to, but a new world, fresh and lucid as if Eru had just created it for him.”

The Queen reached out and took her hand.

“That must have been a kind of prophetic dream,” she said, her voice indefinitely gentle. “He left the shores of Middle Earth five years ago and sailed to the Undying Lands, to live with my kin and to heal from his wounds… and his memories.”

Artanis stood very still, her face unreadable. The silence deepened, until she finally spoke.

“He left Middle Earth?”

Aragorn nodded. “We still grieve for him,” he said, “but we have learned to live with his decision as well as we can.” For a moment, he closed his eyes. “But we will always miss him, of course… all of us.”

“I know.” Artanis lowered her eyes, again rummaging in her pocket. “This… this is what I brought for him.”

A single, rosy pearl lay in her palm, shaped like a perfect tear. The Princess of Lebennin sighed and gave a wistful smile.

“I guess this little thing is nothing compared to the wonders Frodo Baggins is able to see now,” She offered it to the Queen. “Would you like to have this pearl, your Majesty?”

Arwen shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “The gift you already gave me is more than enough. But Samwise Gamgee – Frodo’s best friend who’s life you helped to save – has a beautiful little firstborn daughter. I am sure she would love to wear it on a beautiful necklace when she is grown up.”

“Would you send it to her?” Artanis asked.

“I will.” The Queen took the pearl and carefully stored it in a small sandalwood chest on the table. “And what will you do now, Milady?”

“I will go home,” Artanis said, her silvery eyes turning to the face of the King. “I have bought the house Prince Imrahil gave me when you sent me to the shore; he agreed to sell it to me years ago. My cousin is a skilled Keeper, isn’t he?”

“He is indeed,” Aragorn replied, “and he continues the service of your house splendidly.” He hesitated, once more recalling the unsociable young woman he had first met shortly after the Ring War. “Don’t you miss the gems and the gold, Lady Artanis?”

The Lady pondered his question for quite some time. He studied her face, again surprised by the life and warmth he found where once had been only fear and frozen loneliness.

“I did, in the beginning,” she said slowly. “But every time my mind wanted to flee into the imaginings of dead treasures, I thought of the noble soul who helped me to heal… the one who taught me more about the danger of gems and gold than even my father’s greed.”

Her eyes darkened.

“Frodo Baggins was a stern teacher, but his lesson, however painful, brought me the healing I needed most. I don’t want to cling to cold gems anymore… from now on I shall lay my hands on living things only. I have laid out a beautiful garden, and there are berries and flowers waiting for the harvest. With your permission I will return to Dol Amroth tomorrow morning.”

“You have it,” Aragorn said, honest warmth in his voice, “and my blessing.”

Arwen smiled.

“Farewell, Celebhen***,” she said. “The next time we visit Imrahil, we will make sure to pay your house a visit, too.”

“You will find that my doors are always open for you,” Artanis answered. “My garden is lovely… and you will love my beach.”

She bowed deeply once more, and then she left the room. The King and the Queen stepped over to the window that looked out over the rose gardens. After a few moments, Artanis appeared, walking down the path, past the bush where Samwise Gamgee had cut his fingers seven years ago. She walked very upright, her hair shining in the bright spring sun, and together they watched as the young woman passed the marble pillars and vanished behind the hedge.

“Celebhen,” Aragorn murmured, his lips close to Arwen’s temple. "What a very appropriate name.”

“And what a remarkable woman,” his wife replied, turning her head to brush her lips against his in a butterfly-soft touch. “No wonder Frodo spoke so gallantly in her defense.”

“He never told me what he said to you,” Aragorn remarked, “and you didn’t, either. Would you tell me now?”

“There is one thing he said that I remember particularly well,” the Queen said, her gaze fixed on the abundance of flowers in the garden. “It is in your hands – and in the hands of Aragorn – to set her free. Perhaps a journey to the shore will be the first step in her healing… and a clear sign for her that there is something like kindness, understanding and mercy.”

She turned to him, her eyes shining.

“Perhaps Artanis is not the only one who found mercy,” she whispered, “perhaps he has found it, too – and his freedom.”

*****

When King Aragorn rode north 1432 to stay for a while at the shore of Lake Evendim, Elanor the Fair, daughter of Samwise Gamgee was a guest of the royal couple, along with her parents. She became a maid of honor to the Queen, clad for the special occasion in pale blue silk, her blonde hair open and unbraided, and everyone praised her loveliness.

She nearly wore no jewels that day, except for one: a fine, golden necklace with a single rosy pearl, shimmering on her skin like a great and perfect tear.

THE END _____________________________________________________________________________________

*There is no birth date for Eldarion; some assume that he must have been ninety when he followed his father on the throne, because this was the usual age among the Dúnedain to take over the Chieftainship. But this would mean what it took Aragorn and Arwen more than 30 years to produce an heir, and… sorry, folks, that’s ridiculous.

**Celebhen – Sindarin for Silvereye

A few remarks...

I have been writing fanfiction for three years now, have tried to abandon it for the sake of more time and some original stories (that might actually bring some money in), but I've come to the conclusion that I will never be able to stop writing in the Professor's universe completely - though this is probably the last really long Middle Earth tale I'll ever write (but I have said that before, and look what we have here... *sigh*)

Okay...

... thank you to my marvelous friend Rabidsamfan who pushed this gorgeous plot bunny in my direction by sighing in her Livejournal for a tale where for a change Sam is suffering (or abducted) instead of Frodo. It was certainly not the first plotbunny I've been graciously given, but hers always have a very special quality, and I am glad and proud to know her. *hugs you close*

... thank you to Jodancingtree, my eldest friend in this writer's fandom. Part of the success of this tale I owe to you, for you created many of the beautiful twists in the plot for me, and you fueled my imagination until it was burning bright. This is what you've always done, my dear. I love you.

... thank you to my beta Ariel. She taught my my writing in a very "literal" sense of the meaning. She got rid of my foreign flaws, made suggestions, raised her eyebrow or squee'd all over my stories when I needed it. It is hard to find someone that enthusiastic, selfless und supportive. Love you, sweet one.

Oh... and of course thank you to each and every one who read this so far and wrote a comment. You have carried me through, and you have made me very happy. *bows deeply*

Cúthalion