A few notes before we begin:

This story was born from a bit of dialogue I had to cut out of “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Hobbits”. It took me quite a while to figure out what to do with the dialogue, as I quite enjoyed it and didn’t want to lose it entirely. I had thought to write a short ficlet from it, also set in Rivendell, but this story came to me instead. The dialogue responsible for this story is at the end of the first chapter and concerns a prank Frodo played on a young, impressionable Merry. It has been altered slightly to fit its new context.

This story picks up directly after the events in “A Humble Gift”/“Reflections” and the epilogues to “Quest for the Hairless Cat” and “Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Hobbits”. There will be some references to those stories and others, but it should not be necessary to have read those to understand anything that will take place here.

There will also be some references to the history I built for the Haradrim in "Blue Wizard Blues" as well as some borrowing of some characters and tales referred to therein. BWB is an AU, but don't worry - none of the AU elements will so much as touch this story. "Distractions" is not an AU, it is canon-based only. So it is not necessary to have read BWB either, but those who have will be one step ahead of the game once we get to that part of the tale. 

(A/N added 5/24/09: I know I said this was canon-based. However, I just realized that I made a boo-boo with the timeline. This story begins June 6, but Elrohir and Elladan were supposed to have left the city on May 8 for Rohan with Éomer and Éowyn, and likewise are supposed to be meeting Arwen’s escort on June 14. I could have sworn I checked that timeline over before starting this story, but apparently I missed the two dates I was looking for! Go figure. So I had two options: change my timeline entirely, which would mess up everything else I had written prior to this story, or remove the twins. I decided to do neither. The first would just require too much work, and the second didn’t seem fair to the twins, who were enjoying themselves far too much. And honestly, how many escorts does Arwen need anyway? So, despite my best efforts, this story does have one teeny tiny AU element, that will be resolved before the end, no worries. Sincere apologies!)

And now, without further ado...
 
 
 
 
 

Disclaimer: These are not my characters (except the OCs). I'm just playing with them and will put them back where I found them when I'm done. I am not making any money from this.
 
 
 

GF 2/22/09

Distractions

Chapter 1 – A Merry Ruse 

Forelithe 1419 SR

Minas Tirith

Aragorn was restless. While he covered his anxiety with practiced ease, anyone who knew him as well as the Fellowship did could see it. There was no grand feast tonight, just a private dinner for the Fellowship and their friends in the banquet hall of the King’s House. Aragorn should have been relaxed, sitting back in his chair, a glass of wine lazing in his hand as he jabbed at his plate heartily. Instead, he looked rather like he did at a formal supper or a grand feast, sitting upright and taking small bites of food in between conversation. The only sign he showed of not paying full attention to his speaking companion was a light roll of his fingertips against the arm of his chair. His mind was wandering, but it was anyone’s guess as to where. 

He was not the only one distracted. Frodo too had been having trouble staying in the present, though he was far less successful at hiding it. Under his friends’ watchful eyes he had dutifully eaten a full serving of the meal, but now he picked at his second serving. His eyes bulged ever so slightly, as though one more bite of food might just cause him to explode. His glass of wine remained untouched, and though he nodded along to the conversation going on around him, he only rarely participated. 

Sam, Merry and Pippin exchanged glances as dessert was offered. For the last several days, Frodo had been acting more and more cut off, feigning absorption in his book in which he hadn’t written in just as long. Then, two days before, Aragorn had started strolling along the courtyard of the citadel at odd hours, looking over the parapet beyond the reaches of the city as though his life depended on what he might see there. Something had to be done about this, but far be it for them to figure out what.

Dessert was a tart custard on a biscuit-like crust that the cooks called a lemon bar. Sprinkled with a thin layer of caramel flambéed to a crisp but gooey topping, it was easily one of the hobbits’ most favorite new foods to eat in Gondor. Even Frodo gobbled them down, and his friends were heartened when he reached for one without any prompting on their part. True, he grabbed a smaller square and only nibbled at it, but at least he was still eating. Aragorn also took a square, but he placed it on his plate and proceeded to eat it with his fork.

Sam sighed. Really, this was getting out of hand.

Merry and Pippin raised their eyebrows at him, eyes questioning. Sam shrugged, his hands spread apart in a gesture of helplessness. Merry and Pippin shrugged at each other in agitation, prompting the other to do something already. 

It was Faramir, though, who finally gave them the help they needed. He wiped the crumbs of the lemon bar off his hands and turned to his king and friend. “So, My Lord Aragorn, do you find your apartments to your liking?” he asked.

The King’s House was located just behind the White Tower in the very center of the citadel. Three stories high it stood. At nearly four times the length and width of any of the other homes surrounding it, with the exception of the Halls of Feast, it was the largest section of the citadel. It commanded a full view of all of Minas Tirith, including the fields and mountain surrounding the city. 

Kept up regularly during the king’s long absence, it had nonetheless fallen into minor disrepair during the final years of the war against Mordor. With the return of their king, the house had been polished, mopped, dusted, swept and washed from ceiling to floor during the intervening month between the Enemy’s defeat and the King’s coronation. Furniture held in storage had been brought out and polished to a new shine, and suitable mattresses had been taken from the surrounding buildings that were not in use; as new mattresses could be made, the borrowed ones would be returned to their original dwellings. The Head Mistress was currently interviewing artists who could touch up the various paintings that belonged in the house; they had faded much during the nearly 1,000 years since the last king sat on the throne.

The hobbits had been nothing but astounded that the house had been kept up at all. When they first visited the house a few weeks before, they had been expecting cobwebs, layers of dust, tarnished candelabra and piles of vermin droppings. Faramir had been offended at the mere suggestion.

“We might have long ago given up any hope of a king returning,” he had said, “but that would hardly be reason to let the house fall into dilapidation. The King's House commands a large staff; it was easy enough to see that appropriate personnel were appointed to the keeping of the house. Besides, it lowers the likelihood of infestation.”

“Infestation?” Merry had asked. “There’s… rats?” He had looked about nervously, as though expecting one of the little brown rodents to come skittering in his direction, mouth watering for the taste of hobbit flesh.

Aragorn had moved into the house immediately upon his coronation, and if he had found anything lacking he had not said so. Now he looked about the long banquet hall in which he sat, as though this one room encompassed all the house surrounding it. 

“It is more than suitable,” he answered. “I have not had much time to explore it, in truth. I’ve occupied only a handful of the rooms, after the tour Head Mistress Porcia gave me upon my return to the City. I doubt I could even tell you where is the kitchen.”

“Just through the butler’s pantry,” the hobbits chimed, pointing to the doorway behind Aragorn’s seat.

“Trust a hobbit to know the way to any kitchen,” Gandalf said, chuckling softly. “It’s the first room they learn in any dwelling they enter.”

“Well, naturally,” Pippin said. “It’s the most important room in the house.”

Faramir smiled at his little friends but kept his attention on Aragorn. “It is of course tradition for the new king to redecorate the house to his own liking, or so it used to be. Have the furniture reupholstered, the walls painted, the curtains changed, that sort of thing. Mistress Porcia has been expecting your orders in this matter. She is still somewhat intimidated to speak to you directly, given her time in the service of my father, so she asked that I mention it to you when next we meet.” Faramir frowned slightly at the mention of his father but he smoothed his features easily. 

“I am disheartened to hear that she fears me,” Aragorn said. “I have tried my best to put all the servants at their ease. I appreciate your efforts to help, but it might be best if you encourage her to come to me directly with such requests.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Faramir said with an incline of his head.

“As for her request, I fear I have no touch for decoration. A ranger has no need for such luxuries after all. I will have to take Porcia with me, so she can tell me of her recommendations,” Aragorn said. “Perhaps that will help her to feel more at her ease in my presence, though I do not know when I shall for it.”

“But,” Pippin chirped, and everyone turned their attention to him. He grinned uncertainly, but Merry and Sam could see an idea forming in his eyes. “But we could do that for you, Strider.”

“We could?” Merry, Frodo and Sam rightly asked.

Pippin nodded eagerly. “It would be fun!”

“Explain how this would be fun,” Merry challenged.

“Well, it would be like excavating an old hole or exploring the Mathom-house in Michel Delving,” Pippin suggested. “Remember that time we went, during the Free Fair?”

“Was that the year you streaked?” Frodo asked.

Pippin pinked under the gaze of his now very-attentive audience. “Erm, no, it was an Overlithe year. We went into the Mathom-house; it was fun to wander through there and explore all the corners and alcoves. Pervinca and Everard were with us, but then they started bickering and got us thrown out.”

Merry nodded slowly. “I remember, though I’m still not equating that with how much fun it would be to redecorate a house that hasn’t been used in nearly a thousand years.”

“We could set up a museum here of all the old things we have to get rid of!” Pippin suggested.

“A museum? Where would they put this museum, and who would go to it?” Frodo asked.

“I’m sure if they built it, people would come,” Pippin said. “The same holds true for golf courses.”

“No,” Frodo, Sam, Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas and Gandalf said as one.

“I doubt anyone would be interested in going to such a museum here,” Frodo replied before Pippin could get too fixated on the golf course again. He had been after Faramir to give him a tour of the surrounding countryside, in order to look for a proper place to lay down a greenway, ever since Sam had entertained them all with his Ode to Rivendell poem three days ago.

“That’s because it’s not built yet. You can’t know if they’ll come until it’s built,” Pippin countered, giving his friends pause. They couldn’t very well argue against such logic.

“What is streaking?” Beregond asked suddenly. He had learned that if he wanted to have his own questions answered, he had to take advantage of any lull in the conversation to sneak them in. 

Beside him, Bergil leaned forward with interest. This was a new expression to him as well. Faramir also was looking at the hobbits with expectation. He might not know what streaking was, but he had the very distinct feeling he was about to be greatly entertained.

The hobbits paused again and glanced amongst themselves, debating with their eyes who would have the honor of answering that question. Gimli saved them the trouble. 

“It is when you remove all your clothes and run naked through a crowd,” he said, eyes twinkling. “As I understand it, it is preferable to do this during a great celebration or large gathering.”

All eyes turned to Pippin, who giggled nervously and blushed crimson. 

“You did this?” Beregond asked, incredulous. He had great difficultly believing the Ernil i Pheriannath capable of such foolery, and yet clearly it was true. Anborn and Imrahil were finding it equally difficult to imagine the stout little knight behaving in such a manor. Elladan and Elrohir on the other hand could picture it only too well.

“Yes, well,” Pippin mumbled, doing his best to ignore his friends’ wide grins. “I was only six, mind, and I only did it because Merry did it too!” He sat back, arms crossed, and smirked in triumph as all eyes swiveled towards Merry.

Legolas quirked an eyebrow. “If Pippin was six, then Merry would have been fourteen?” he said. 

Bergil laughed into his hands. “You were fourteen, Sir Meriadoc?” he asked. That was older than himself, and even he would never do something so foolish as that!

Now it was Merry’s turn to be embarrassed. “No, I was four when I streaked,” he said with what dignity he could muster. “And I only did it because Frodo told me that my cousin Berilac had a record of streaking through the Summer Feast. I used to be a bit competitive back in those days…”

“What do you mean you used to be?” Gandalf and Aragorn asked.

Merry glared at the wizard and ranger, then returned the gazes of his audience. Well, he had wanted Frodo and Aragorn distracted from their wool-gathering. Perhaps he could make this work to their advantage. 

“I mean,” he began, a meager plan quickly taking form. He shot a furtive glance at Pippin and Sam. “I mean, that Berry was always better than I was at everything, being two years older. So Frodo, being the kind and benevolent cousin that he is, encouraged me to break his streaking record. So I did, and I had so clearly annihilated Berry’s record that no one ever even mentioned his streak run again.” 

He smiled admiringly at Frodo, just like he used to when he was little and Frodo had been his hero. Well, he supposed Frodo was still his hero, though for very different reasons.

“Good old Frodo was always looking after me,” Merry continued, and quietly rejoiced when he saw Frodo begin to squirm. The rest of the Fellowship was watching them with interest. They knew something was coming from this, but they didn’t know what. The others simply sat back and listened, unaware of any havoc about to be released upon them.

“Now, you would think Berry would want his record back,” Merry went on, “but after my successful run at the Summer Feast, he must have known it would be useless to attempt it again. I was clearly the better in this particular sport. He was undoubtedly humiliated, but being the stout and loyal cousin that he is, so much like my Frodo really, he took it all with good grace. Except, he never did congratulate me on besting him, which I found to be rather rude. Wouldn’t you agree, Frodo?”

Now everyone turned to Frodo, who was blushing hotly and looking quite uncomfortable. “Erm, well, actually,” he spluttered, then took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Surely, you should have figured it out by now.”

“Figured what out, dear Frodo?” Merry asked.

“Think about it, Merry,” Frodo said. “Don’t you think it’s rather odd that no one ever had any anecdotes about Berry streaking through the Summer Feast?”

“I did, but I didn’t worry about it, for I knew that he had done so. You told me so and you would never lie to a four-year old,” Merry replied, the hero-worship so clear in his eyes that Sam and Pippin had to look away to keep themselves from laughing.  

All eyes returned to Frodo, who was gaping at Merry as though he had lost all sense. “Of course I lied to you!” he said, exasperated. “Just as you’re lying to me and everyone else in this room by pretending you didn’t know.”

“You… You lied to me? Berry never streaked?” Merry asked, appearing to be in such a state of disbelief that he hardly knew what to do with himself. Indeed, he looked so crushed and disheartened that Pippin had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling. 

“No, he did streak,” Frodo amended, not buying Merry’s act for a moment. “Just not at the Summer Feast, not in front of all the Brandybucks, and not multiple times. It was once down the tunnel from the bathing rooms to Cousin Mac’s apartment, and it was rather early in the morning actually. I don’t think very many people were up yet, except for servants.” He ended his confession with a little shrug. “It was the only way I could think to end your constant competition with Berilac, and it was quite successful.”

“Hm-mm,” Merry hummed. He slanted his eyes at his cousin in deep contemplation. When next he spoke, the ire was all but dripping off his tongue. “Yes, well, it was a long time ago. It’s not as if I’ve had to hear about it at every single Summer Feast ever since then, nor have I had to endure endless teasing from nearly every lass in Bucklebury whispering just loud enough for me to hear how they wished I would streak again so they could properly imagine my bared rump, and other unmentionables, waggling though the tent flap.”

Pippin’s efforts at a straight face were failing miserably. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, and it didn’t help when he noticed that Bergil had broken down entirely, hiding his giggles behind his hands. Sam was doing much better, distracting himself from laughing by surreptitiously pinching himself on the leg under the table. The others weren’t even bothering to hide their reaction, their smiles wide and their eyes sparkling with mirth.

Frodo narrowed his eyes at Merry, who was glaring at him most convincingly. “Indeed. I’m glad you’re not too angry about it, since you never mentioned it before?” he asked hopefully, suddenly unsure if this truly was a ruse or not. “I was only thinking of you, after all.”

“Oh, no, I’m not angry at all. I’m planning my retribution, but in a happy way,” Merry replied, smiling wanly. Underneath the table, he kicked at Pippin’s foot.

Pippin straightened his features instantly. Of course, Merry would expect his help in this fool’s errand. He sighed and glanced at Frodo with sympathy and apology. “I apologize in advance for anything he talks me into doing while seeking his retribution,” he told Frodo.

“I forgive you in advance.”

“I think I’ll have to be defending your honor in advance, sir,” Sam said to Frodo, then looked pointedly at Merry. ‘What are you up to?’

“Sorry, Sam, but Brandybuck honor is at risk. I have to do what I can to regain my dignity,” Merry said.

“The last time you tried to regain your dignity, you wound up locked in a bathing room with no dinner,” Sam reminded him. “Don’t you think you’ve rather outgrown such foolishness, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“You can outgrow many things, Sam, but foolishness isn’t one of them,” Merry said.

“So I gather,” Sam muttered. “You and I will just have to keep on our toes, sir.”

“That we will, but don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said, reaching over to pat his friend on the shoulder. He tipped Sam a wink. “Even as he plans his retribution, I’m planning my retaliation. So even if he scores a point or two, he’ll lose in the end.” He and Merry bowed their heads politely at each other, the challenge accepted, then Frodo went back to his lemon bar.

The remainder of the Fellowship simply sat in silence, trying to figure out what had just happened. Far from becoming the spitting match they had expected, the hobbits had instead jumped straight to drawing their swords for a duel. However they came to the point, though, the other members of the Fellowship had experience enough to know to stay clear of the hobbits as much as possible until this match was ended. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t necessarily be an option they could employ to full advantage. The rest of their companions were at a complete loss as to guessing the danger they were in, and so perhaps the happier when they left the King’s House an hour later.

To be continued…

GF 11/27/08

* - The story about Merry’s streak run can be found in “In a Flash”, and the tale of Merry’s last attempt at retaliation can be read in “A Day in the Life”. Pippin's streaking adventure can be read in the drabble “Cheeky Took”.

A/N: I’ve read many fics that place the hobbits’ home in Minas Tirith on the sixth circle, but being unable to find anything in canon to back this up, I decided to move their home down one level.

Chapter 2 – Many Meetings

“So, are we really going to prank Frodo?” Pippin asked the following morning. 

He and Merry were in the kitchen, helping Sam clean and put away the breakfast dishes. The rest of the Fellowship were either getting ready for the day ahead or already out the door on whatever business they had to conduct.

The walk back from the Citadel to their home on the fifth circle the night before had been tranquil enough. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the call to war between Frodo and Merry and had instead enjoyed Legolas’s recitation of the constellations overhead. When they arrived at the house, everyone had quietly gone to their rooms and bedded down for the night, too tired and full to do much else. 

The morning had brought no further mention of the previous night’s confrontation until now. They had woken and enjoyed a peaceful breakfast. Then Legolas and Gimli had gone to meet Aragorn on the first circle to inspect the repairs being made and lend their hands where they could. Gandalf had gone to the stables to check on Shadowfax and take the restless stallion on a ride through the Pelennor; he needed to check on the progress of the returning refugees there anyway. 

Frodo had been talked into a bath, after much persistence by Sam. Understandably, Frodo did not want to leave Merry and Pippin alone for too long, but he had to admit that he had been craving a good long soak for the last several days. At length, he agreed to the bath despite his worries, which could not even be relieved by the fact that at least Sam would be with his cousins. Sam had joined in one conspiracy against him, and there was nothing to prevent him from doing so again, especially if he felt it was in Frodo’s best interest. Frodo even doubted that a direct order would do any good at this point; Sam didn’t exactly take such orders so readily anymore, though he might pretend to for propriety’s sake.

As it turned out, he had good reason to be suspicious. No sooner were Merry, Pippin and Sam alone than Pippin asked his question. He had been mulling over the situation since last night, and no matter which way he looked at it, he kept coming to the same conclusion. He simply couldn’t see how Merry could get away with this hair-brained idea of his and said as much.

“I’m going to have to prank him though,” Merry said with a shrug. “He’s expecting it, and it will have to be adequate enough to properly repay him for tricking me into streaking.”

“Repay him how?” Pippin asked. “You can’t exactly de-pants the Ring-bearer in the middle of the market square.”

“Well, no, I can’t at that,” Merry agreed, frowning as he dried the cups and put them away. “Public pranks are off limits anyway, remember?”

“Quite,” Pippin said.

“Just why exactly are you wanting to do this anyhow, Mr. Merry?” Sam asked. “You had to have known long afore now as Mr. Frodo had tricked you.”

“Of course I’ve known. I figured it out when I asked Berilac if he was upset that I broke his record and he had no clue what I was talking about,” Merry revealed. 

“You’ve always known then?” Pippin asked in amazement.

Merry nodded. “I didn’t mind at the time though, as I still had done something that Berry couldn’t do. It wasn’t until I came into my tweens that I started to get embarrassed with it all, but by then it was too late to do anything about it.”

“So then why are you doing something now?” Sam rightly asked again as he scrubbed the bottom of an iron pot.

“Because it was a hair-brained idea, as Pippin said,” Merry answered. “And because I think it will be good for Frodo. He’s been brooding. He needs to get out of the house and get to know some of the people here. A little fresh air and sunshine is just what the healer ordered. Not only that, but Aragorn’s been agitated lately as well. There’s something on his mind, and far be it for me to figure out why he hasn’t come to us about it. I doubt there’s much we can do for him, but we won’t know until we find out what it is.”

Sam and Pippin exchanged dubious looks. They were both thinking the same thing: how exactly was pulling a prank on Frodo supposed to accomplish all of this? They turned their look on Merry and waited.

“I don’t know, all right?” Merry answered at length. “I didn’t exactly have time to think this through.”

They fell into silence and finished the dishes. Then they began to clean the counters and table. As they were hanging the washcloths to dry, Pippin spoke. “Pervinca always says that the best prank is the one they never know about,” he stated.

“Vinca was a mastermind in her own right,” Merry agreed. “We should have taken more heed of her when we had the chance. I’m afraid we’re on our own now.”

“Do give me some credit, Merry,” Pippin said, wiping his hands dry on a fresh towel. “I didn’t live with her across the hall my whole life and survive it from pure luck, you know.”

“I know that,” Merry said, taking the towel from him and wiping his own hands before passing it to Sam. “Are you saying you know of something then?”

“I might,” Pippin said, thinking hard. “She did it once to Everard and it drove him mad to no end. I think with some alterations, we could make it work for us now.”

“Go on,” Merry and Sam said.

“We do a prank, an obvious one, so that Frodo will think the deed is over and drop his guard,” Pippin began. “Then we do the real prank, something that will get him out of the house and meeting people, as you said.”

“One prank to cover another,” Merry reiterated, with a newfound appreciation for Pervinca Took. “That could work.”

“What’s the real prank?” Sam asked, not sure if he liked this idea yet or not.

“Well, when Vinca did it, she kept having mail delivered to Everard by the name of E. Took, but none of it was for him. One was for our mother, Eglantine Took, another for Ermingard Took, or Emilbold Took, and so on. He could only know if it was for him or not by opening it, and then he was forced to give them back to a post messenger for delivery to the real recipients, none of whom had any idea what the letters were talking about or who they were from. She only did this a couple of times a week, but by the end of the second week, Everard was nearly fit to be tied, especially after one of the post messengers accused him of stealing the mail, and Da got word that Everard was tampering with the post and sending false letters. Poor Ev had to work in the Post House all during Foreyule,” Pippin explained.

“He never figured out it was Vinca?” Merry asked.

Pippin shook his head. “That’s the best part. Vinca can copy the hand of just about any Hobbit. Plus, she was in Budgeford visiting Estella the whole time, so it was a simple enough matter to make it appear that the mail was coming from all over the Shire. She even borrowed seals from the other guests at the manor or the neighbors, and she never used the same post messenger twice. The really brilliant part was that she had the post messenger deliver the letters to the Post House, rather than to Everard directly, so when he finally wizened up after the first two letters and interrogated the messenger who actually did deliver them to him, there was nothing to tell.”

“And he still wants to marry her?” Merry asked, baffled. “He’s a braver hobbit than I am.”

Pippin shrugged. “There’s no accounting for Tooks, or so my mother always says. I guess she was right. 

“Anyway, what I was thinking to do was this: there are all sorts of people who would like to meet Frodo. Strider, Faramir, Beregond, Bergil and just about everyone else I speak to always have a list of people who would like very much to entertain Frodo on a private level. And we’re always getting all sorts of packages and gifts delivered to us here.” He waved to the far wall in demonstration. Beneath the garden window sat a long table, cluttered with parcels of every shape and size imaginable. 

“So, what if we started getting mail that shouldn’t be coming here? What if the mail actually belonged to some of these people who would like to meet Frodo? What if we were all too busy to deliver the mail ourselves?” Pippin said.

“Then Frodo would have to?” Merry continued, thinking it through. He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t work. He would just tell the post messenger of the error the next time one came by.”

“So, we just tell the post messengers not to come by anymore,” Sam said, then grinned. “And since we don’t actually want to steal the mail, that means as we’ll need Strider’s help. I could put it forth to him, being as I’ll be the one trying to find out what’s eating at him anyway.”

“I don’t know. This is all quite complicated, and the more complicated the prank, the more likelihood there is for things to go wrong,” Merry said. “We don’t exactly have Pervinca’s advantage, nor her objective.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to have the folk send Frodo invitations to tea?” Sam asked.

“They don’t have tea here,” Merry said and they shook their heads sadly at this reminder. “Besides, Frodo could simply decline an invitation.”

“What if the folk just came here instead then?” Sam asked.

“Strider’s forbidden folk from stopping by, you know that,” Pippin said.

Sam nodded. “Aye, but we can still invite guests over. I think we should do a regular prank, like you said, and instead of all this running about behind his back, tell him simply that there are folk wanting to visit and so we’ve invited them.”

“How is that going to get him out of the house though?” Merry asked.

“From what I’ve gathered listening to folk talk at all these feasts we’ve been having, when someone comes over for tea, or what have you, then it’s only polite to return the favor and visit them at some later point, usually within a week or so,” Sam said. “Mr. Frodo can’t exactly be declining an invitation that he’s socially obligated to accept.”

“He might just start disappearing when he knows someone’s coming over,” Pippin said.

“He’ll still be out of the house then,” Merry pointed out. He considered the plan for a moment, then nodded. “I think that’s for the best. It’s certainly easier. We don’t exactly have the time to be planning such elaborate pranks.”

“Except we do still have to plan a prank,” Pippin said.

“And don’t forget that Mr. Frodo’s going to retaliate on whatever prank you decide to pull,” Sam reminded him. “We’ll have to be worriting about—”

Sam cut off suddenly, his ears pricking towards the bathing room.

“I heard the door open,” he whispered to his coconspirators. 

“Let’s think this over today and talk again tonight. Pippin, get some names of these people who want to meet Frodo and find out where they live. I’ll want to meet them first. Sam, try to find a way to speak with Strider tonight and ask around to see what is the protocol for inviting guests to … whatever meal it is they invite people to. I’ll try to think up some brilliant prank that will allow for the retaliation to leave us more or less intact,” Merry said and dissolved the meeting.

An hour later, the hobbits were making their way to the citadel. Pippin was dressed in his livery, as he would be performing his duties as esquire today and would be standing for Aragorn once he returned from the Gate to hold court. The others were dressed in their everyday clothes, including Merry, who unfortunately did not have Pippin’s excuse. As Éomer and Éowyn had left the previous month to return to Edoras, Merry’s only duty was a weekly rotation to guard the House of Kings in the Hallows where the body of Théoden lay awaiting his funeral escort; he would not have to stand guard again for another four days.

They were going to the King’s House to fulfill Pippin’s promise to help Aragorn begin plans for the redecoration of his apartments. The fact that neither Pippin nor Aragorn would be there was a sore point.

“This is the very definition of irony,” Merry said for what was easily the tenth time since leaving their house.

“Don’t be silly, Merry,” Pippin said. “Definitions are never this specific. At best, this is an adequate example for the definition of irony.”

“Don’t push it, Pip,” Merry warned. “I still fail to see how this is going to be fun.”

“Have other plans, do you?” Frodo asked innocently.

“No, but…” Merry began but let the matter fall. He figured it was better for Frodo to think him irritated for being delayed of his prank than merely being annoyed at Pippin for ditching them with this project.

At length, they reached the citadel and headed towards the White Tower and the King’s House behind it. Pippin bid them farewell when they reached the Tower and entered through the north door that led to the conference rooms and buttery of the Guard of the Tower. The others were greeted by the Head Mistress, Porcia, at the door of the King’s House. She led them into the reception parlor, where two guards stood waiting, dressed in full livery but unarmed. 

“Homey,” Merry whispered. Frodo and Sam smirked. 

Porcia, a heavy-set woman with a perpetual scowl, stopped in front of the guards and curtsied hurriedly. The guards began to bow when they saw who was trailing behind her, but she waved her hands in agitation. She had to get back to the kitchens and didn’t have time to dilly-dally over formalities. 

“This is the Ring-bearer, and his cousin Sir Meriadoc and servant Lord Samwise. They’re to come and go as they please, and you’re to listen to their orders, or you’ll be mucking out the stables with the grooms, and you won’t have a shovel.” She turned back to the hobbits. “These guards have been sent to help you. His Highness thought you might need help with the reordering. He has told you what he wants done?”

“No,” Frodo answered, looking around. 

They had been in the house only a few times, and while they had always been allowed to roam freely, they had not seen much more of the house than Aragorn has, with exception of the kitchen and pantries of course.

“He is supposed to come later today, after he holds court, and have a look around. Until then, I think we are just to explore the rooms and discover what will need to be replaced or renewed,” Frodo finished.

“Mmphm,” Porcia said. Whatever her thoughts were to this declaration, she wisely kept them to herself. She continued on, “I can have food sent to you, or you can eat in the banquet hall or sitting rooms, whichever you prefer. If there’s anything else you require, have one of the guards find me and I’ll get it for you right off. Is there anything you’re needing at the moment?”

“No, not at the moment,” Frodo answered cordially, “and we will take our food in the kitchen. We don’t want to put you out by having to dress the dining table just for the three of us. Five of us, rather.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Lord Frodo, though if that is what you wish, so it will be,” Mistress Porcia replied just as cordially. She curtsied and excused herself, disappearing down the hall in a sweep of homespun skirts, her tight bun of hair catching the morning light from the windows in a burst of silver and sable. 

The hobbits looked up at their tall companions. The younger guard looked familiar, but the older guard they had not met before. 

“I suppose we’re to learn your names, if you’re to work with us,” Merry said.

The guards now bowed as they had been denied doing before. They bowed as all the guards did when greeting their King and the members of his court: closed right fist over their heart, their left hand behind their back, their heads declined towards the floor. The hobbits bowed back in their own fashion, hands to their sides, faces forward. 

The older guard, who looked to be no more than sixty or so, spoke as they came out of their bows. “My Lord Frodo, My Lord Samwise, Sir Meriadoc,” he said in a rich, rusty voice. “I am Amarlicus, son of Cyricus, and this is Adrik, son of Kirtis. Your servants, sirs.”

“Your servants,” the hobbits returned.

“Would you be able to give us the tour then?” Frodo asked.

“We have never been here before either, My Lord,” Adrik said, and blushed. His voice was deep but soft, and full of humble reverence for the Ring-bearer he was addressing. To imagine, that he of all the Guard had been chosen for this task! He could not quite believe his luck, even as he stared into those bottomless blue eyes.

“Well, then, we will have the pleasure of learning our way around together,” Merry said, grinning widely. “Let’s get started, shall we?” 

They turned together and stepped down the hall to the nearest room.

To be continued…

GF 12/8/08

Published 3/2/09

Chapter 3 - Explorations

Pippin found Faramir in the main conference room, sitting to a late breakfast while he awaited Aragorn’s arrival. Guards stood ready at all the entrances and a few of the King’s advisors were already in the room, standing in the wings and speaking in whispers. A young page waited on Faramir, standing behind him at his elbow, ready to pour more drink if needed. The boy, seeing Pippin approach, reached for another goblet, but Pippin shook his head.

“Might I speak with you alone, Captain?” Pippin asked with a bow, using the less formal title so his friend would know the matter was neither urgent nor business in nature.

Faramir nodded and sent the page to stand by the Steward’s chair to be beckoned later if needed.

Pippin sat without waiting for invitation and leaned across the table so he could speak quietly. The marble floors, walls and pillars amplified sounds up towards the high ceilings, where they rebounded down in all directions to the hall below. As such, the royal courtroom did not make for an ideal meeting place to discuss conspiracies. However, Pippin was confident that no one would repeat anything that was overheard, knowing the Prince and Knight were speaking in confidence. It was habit more than the need for secrecy that caused him to whisper.

Faramir heard Pippin’s request, a frown growing. “Do I know anyone who would like to meet Frodo personally?” he repeated in his normal, soft-spoken voice. “Yes. Everyone.”

“Is there anyone in particular who comes to mind?” Pippin asked, raising his voice also and trying his best not to ogle at Faramir’s breakfast.

Faramir swallowed his bite of eggs and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Is Frodo looking to entertain?” he asked in return, remembering only too well the call to battle the previous night.

Pippin grinned meekly. “No, but we’ve decided we don’t particularly care anymore. Frodo is always so overwhelmed at the feasts that he never gets to relax or really enjoy the company. He does much better when hosting a small, private party. As he also doesn’t care much for politics, we thought that inviting some of the citizens to the house would be more prudent.”

“I see,” Faramir said, reaching for his goblet. “That will take some considering then. I might know of a few, but I will need to interview them beforehand.”

“No need,” Pippin said cheerfully. “Merry will want to do that. He’s fond of you and trusts your judgment, but he’ll also want to know what to expect of any potential guests, which will mean meeting them first. Don’t want to scare them off, being interviewed by you and him, now do we? Plus, it’ll give him something to do. He’s been feeling rather useless since Éomer and Éowyn left.”

Faramir’s eyes clouded wistfully at the mention of Éowyn, but he quickly put aside thoughts of his beloved until a more private moment.

“So when you suggested helping Aragorn see to the reordering of his apartments…” he prompted, seeing for the first time what Pippin had wanted to accomplish with that particular suggestion. Pippin nodded, looking smug. Faramir sat back and eyed his little friend critically. “Is this your solution then for the demons that have plagued you and your friends? What is going to keep you distracted from your memories?”

Pippin quirked his eyebrows, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Well, let me think,” he said. “Merry’s bent on doing this prank, which means Frodo will retaliate, likely at the most inopportune time – for Merry leastways. Sam’s been sent to spy on Strider – like Strider won’t see that sailing up the Anduin – and all three of them are annoyed at me for ditching them with redecorating, which none of them much care to do. On top of all that, I have my duties to the King and the Guard, and I have to compile a list of potential houseguests, find their houses and arrange for them to meet Merry. I will then no doubt have to schedule them to come to our house for tea, or whatever passes for tea in this city. I do believe that I have plenty to distract me for the moment.”

Faramir laughed. “You do sound quite busy,” he agreed. “If it will help, I can have one of the pages track down any citizens Merry may wish to interview. They could even arrange the engagements as well, if you were to give me a list of the times Merry would be available for such interviews. If you want to get started on your list, you’re in luck. Aragorn will be holding court with his subjects today. I’ll have the recorder write two lists. You can go over yours with Merry and Sam and let me know which ones you think Frodo will benefit from meeting the most.”

“That would help,” Pippin agreed. “Though, if I may ask, I prefer if Bergil were sent to arrange the meetings. He knows us well enough to be discreet.”

Faramir inclined his head, agreeing to this term with ease. He was about to say more when the side door opened and Aragorn entered. Immediately, everyone in the throne room stood at attention, and Faramir and Pippin rose to their feet and bowed.

“At your ease,” Aragorn requested to the room in general.

“How go the reparations, my lord?” Faramir asked, waving over the page to take away his plate and goblet, thus making room for the recorder to take his seat.

Pippin was dismayed to see that there was still food left on the plate. He eyed Faramir critically for fatigue or dizziness, or any other telltale signs that would point to a lack of nutrition. Seeing none, he took up his position behind the King’s throne and stood at attention.

“They go well,” Aragorn answered. “I am continually impressed at the speed of your craftsmen. There might well be nothing left to repair by the time Gimli’s kin arrive to lend their hands.”

“If only that could be so, my lord,” Faramir replied.

“Are the dockets full today?” Aragorn asked. He smiled gently at Pippin as he took his seat.

“They are, my lord. Your subjects are eager to meet you,” Faramir said. “Shall we bring them forth?”

“Yes, thank you,” Aragorn said, and at Faramir’s nod, the tall double doors to the throne room were opened, letting in the morning light and a stream of people come to see their king.  

The first room the hobbits and the guards entered was the library. Open to the hallway, the ceiling here was supported by wide wooden pillars etched with many Elven runes. The inner walls were covered floor to ceiling by built-in bookshelves with musty tomes and scrolls of all sizes, and there were small round tables and many reading chairs scattered about the room. Light poured in from the long windows of the wall opposite the hallway. A rug of midnight blue leafed with silver and gold lay in the middle of the room before the hearth, a long oak table sitting upon the rug. A chandelier hung from the center of the room over the table, its sconces holding new candles, its metal gleaming.

“Very clean,” Merry intoned.

“What do you reckon this means?” Sam asked, looking at the pillars.

Amarlicus came up behind him and squinted at the runes. “It appears to be a history of the building of the House,” he said. He lifted a hand and ran a callused finger over the pillar, down the lines of runes. “This column tells how the carpenter Darlos felled the trees that became these very pillars.”

“You can read Elvish?” Sam asked.

“I used to be the royal tutor,” Amarlicus explained, smiling at memories long past. “I taught Captain Boromir and Prince Faramir their subjects.”

“You did?” Frodo asked, his interest piqued. He and Merry came to join Sam and the old tutor by the pillar. “Boromir mentioned his tutors a few times on our journey. Are you the one then who would make him write lines when he forgot to do his studies? He told us once that you made him write so many lines that his hand cramped and he couldn’t put down his quill.”

Amarlicus laughed heartily at this, tears of mirth springing to his eyes. “He was a terrible pupil!” he said. “For my lessons at any rate. Like all the other lads, his mind was all for war and battles, not poems or songs.”

“Unless the songs were of war and battle,” Merry guessed.

“Indeed,” Amarlicus said dryly. “But even with that he became bored. He would rather train and could always be found on the training grounds when he should have been sitting to my lessons. Faramir though, he learned all that he could and enjoyed the poems for their own beauty and sadness. Such a pupil is rare.”

“So Faramir told us, when we met him in Ithilien,” Frodo said. “Do you no longer teach?”

“Denethor saw no need for my lessons these last many years,” Amarlicus said, regret etched in the lines of his face. “He was a good man once, before his wife died.”

“Perhaps you could teach again, now that there’s peace,” Merry suggested. “Surely, Strider would be agreeable.”

The old tutor shook his head. “I think I shall retire and return with my grandsons to Ringló Vale when they are well enough to travel home. It has been many years since I have seen my family. King Aragorn has already promised I can go, once they are ready.”

“Look at this!” exclaimed Adrik then.

While the others had talked, he had been busy exploring the library’s furnishings, all of which were polished to a resplendent gleam. The tables and chairs were in good repair, though the fabric of the chairs was faded from their original beauty. Adrik now stood in front of the hearth, examining the portrait that hung over the mantelpiece. The painting was of a regal woman of fair skin and raven hair, a red jewel upon her brow.

“She’s beautiful,” Adrik said, transfixed.

“Who is she?” Merry asked. He and the others joined Adrik by the hearth.

“That is Queen Fíriel, daughter of King Ondoher,” Amarlicus explained. “She was married to Prince Arvedui, son of Araphant, King of Arthedain to the north. When Ondoher and his sons died in battle, Arvedui attempted to claim the kingship of Gondor by means of his marriage to Fíriel. It would have united the two kingdoms, but his claim was rejected. The kingship instead went to Eärnil II. After Eärnil was his son Eärnur, the last king of Gondor, who was lost to Minas Ithil after he heeded a challenge by the Witch King. That is when the Ruling Stewards took control of the kingdom. Meanwhile, Arvedui’s son Aranarth became the first chieftain of the Dúnedain after the kingdom of Arthedain was lost. Aranarth’s line though never ended. His descendant now sits on the throne and the two kingdoms are united, as his forefather would have seen done.”

“Seems like everyone could have saved themselves a lot of trouble by just allowing Arvedui to claim the kingship then,” Sam said.

Amarlicus laughed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We will never know.”

“What was she like?” Frodo asked, indicating the portrait.

“Not many stories are told of our Queens of old,” Amarlicus said. “She looks kind though.”

“What other treasures are to be discovered here?” Merry asked.

They went around the room, inspecting everything in their path. The tomes and scrolls were in most need of repair. Well-kept and handled little over the years, their spines were still cracking and the writing in many of them was hardly legible, so faded was the ink and so browned was the parchment. They were intrigued to discover that many of the tomes and scrolls were written in Queyan, Sindarin or Adûnaic, the ancient language of Númenor. The rest were written in Westron, with now and again an especially old text written in Taliska.

“I wonder what these say,” Sam said of the oldest tomes.

Merry pointed at a scroll of Adûnaic. “This is close enough to Westron that I can make out about every seven words.” His hand fluttered to a tome in Taliska but he didn’t touch it, so fragile was the parchment. “This though… A couple of the words look familiar, and some, if I’m reading them right, sound like they might even be Rohirric, but I’ll be smart if I can figure out what any of it says.”

“That is Taliska, an ancient language from the first age, derived from Elvish sources,” Amarlicus explained.

“Can you read it?” Sam asked.

“I cannot. I don’t think there is anyone who still can, except maybe the Elves, if they ever learned it,” Amarlicus replied. “But Sir Meriadoc is correct. Both the Rohirric and Adûnaic tongues branched from Taliska, and Adûnaic became Westron.”

“The tomes are fascinating,” Adrik said, hoping he didn't sound too bored, “but might we explore the rest of the house? There must be other treasures to be found.”

Frodo grinned up from his book, which he thought might be about herb lore from the pictures. “I think that is a fine idea, and we did promise to look over the whole house. We can’t figure out what needs replacing by sitting in here all day.”

“I don’t know, sir. These here chairs are in need of new upholstery,” Sam said, casting a critical eye over the chairs. “Could probably use new stuffing in the seats, I wouldn’t doubt.”

Merry dared to sit on a chair, though he didn’t quite put his full weight on it. “It could be more cushy,” he agreed.

Adrik smiled at this. “Cushy?”

“You know, more cushiony,” Merry elaborated. He stood and walked around the library with Frodo and Sam at his sides. “The wood looks to be in good order.”

“Some rat or vermin’s been a gnawing at this leg here though,” Sam said, pointing to a table leg that had definitely seen better days. “That could have happened in storage though.”

“You think so?” Merry asked hopefully, barely keeping his voice from squeaking in imitation of his dreaded nemesis. He much rather preferred to think of the vermin safely tucked away in storage than roaming through the house at will. Actually, he would rather prefer if the hated rodents suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they had been swallowed up by the desolation of Mordor, gone to the Void with their Master.

“I don’t see any signs of rats here,” Frodo said comfortingly, placing a consoling hand to Merry’s shoulder. “I’m sure we’re safe enough.”

“Mayhap we should make a list of what all needs fixing?” Sam suggested. “I didn’t think to bring any parchment or ink though.”

“I’m sure we can remember well enough,” Frodo said. “Come on. Let’s check the other rooms, shall we?”

So one by one they went through the rooms and floors: parlors, sitting rooms, drawing rooms, dining rooms, bathing rooms, bedchambers, wardrobes, and even, to Sam’s continuing delight, a rooftop garden, freshly planted with herbs, vegetables and perennials. So long as he stayed away from the edges of the roof, he would have been more than happy to remain there all day, but there was still much to explore.

They stopped midway in their inspection to find their luncheon in the kitchen. At their request, Porcia beckoned for parchment, ink and quills, and Frodo began promptly to make their list, room by room, of improvements needed. The list was fairly short thus far but it grew by the end of the day. They focused mostly on the obvious things: cracked portraits, worn upholstery, scuffed furniture: no doubt things of which Mistress Porcia was already aware.

They grew more bold as evening came on and jotted down possible suggestions for paint, flooring or decorations in some of the rooms. The sunroom could use a chaise to sit against the long row of windows, and they all agreed that the rusty-orange paint in the sitting rooms had to go. The hobbits would have preferred the tile and marble to be replaced with wood flooring and they wished for some way to add more curves to the straight lines and sharp corners, but they knew such things were unlikely to be done and so left them off the list.

They finished their inspection just in time for tea. The master chef, a tall lanky fellow with a long sharp nose, looked at them with a blank expression when they requested a teatime meal. He went to work busily though once Sam requested it in more detail: mint tea with cream, water biscuits with butter and preserves, and cheese. The chef had one of his subordinates gather the required items and deliver them to the hobbits and the guards in the reception parlor, where they awaited Pippin and Aragorn’s arrival, going over their list one last time as they waited.

“Don’t forget the candlesticks in the north sitting room,” Merry reminded Frodo. “They were crooked.”

Frodo nodded and added this to the bottom of the list, then sat back and rubbed his hand absently. “Well, I don’t know how much help we were, but at least we know where everything is now,” he said.

“I had no idea this house was so large,” Adrik said. “You could get lost in here.”

“It is a good house for playing hide-and-go-seek,” Merry said. “You could play all day on just one round, I bet.”

“What other games do you play in your Shire, Sir Meriadoc?” Amarlicus asked.

“Oh, lots. You can turn most anything into a game,” Merry said.

“A competition, you mean,” Frodo interrupted.

“That’s what games are, my dear,” Merry returned. “Feeling competitive?”

“Don’t get cocky, love,” Frodo answered. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“We shall soon find out, shan’t we?” Merry replied.

“Shan’t we? Is ‘shan’t’ a word?” Pippin asked from the entryway.

“It is indeed, a rather useful one, if overly flowery,” Aragorn answered.

Amarlicus and Adrik hurried to their feet and bowed to their king. “Your Majesty.” 

“At your ease,” Aragorn said before turning to the hobbits. “Finish your tea. I will be down shortly to discuss your findings.” He turned down the hall to the formal study.

“And we best be leaving,” Amarlicus said. He and Adrik said farewell to their new friends. “It has been a pleasure to serve you this day, Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise, and Sir Meriadoc.”

“We have enjoyed your company and the wisdom that you shared,” Frodo said honestly.

The guards took their leave and Pippin slouched into a chair next to Merry. He looked over the remains of tea on the table and selected a wedge of cheese to nibble. “So I see you all survived your day,” he said with a wink. “Perhaps you could lend your services to the other struggling homeowners wishing to improve the looks of their dwellings.”

“Don’t push it, Pip,” Merry warned.

To be continued…

GF 12/28/08
Published 3/11/09

Chapter 4 – Confessions and Lies

“Strider?” Sam tapped on the study door and waited for his friend’s invitation before letting himself in. “Can I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Sam,” Aragorn said. He put down the letter he was reading and sat back in his chair. “You know you can come to me anytime you need to talk. What is it? Is it Frodo?”

“Well, yes and no,” Sam admitted.

He sat himself down in one of the large chiffon chairs in front of the hearth, rather than the ones in front of the desk. A moment later, Aragorn was sitting next to him and they stared into the darkened hearth together.

He had left his master in the capable hands of Merry and Pippin, who were keeping Frodo entertained by bickering over the day’s events. Merry was of the opinion that Pippin should have to take a solo tour of the house immediately to offer up his opinions, and if he just so happened to be late for dinner because of this, then that was a risk he would have to take. Pippin, obviously, disagreed wholeheartedly.

“Is Frodo not feeling well? He looks hale enough,” Aragorn said, worry etched into his face.

“Oh, he is. It’s not that,” Sam said, relieving Aragorn’s fears. “It’s just, we decided as Mr. Frodo needs more social interaction, on a smaller scale though. We were wanting to invite folk over to the house. In the Shire, normally we’d send an invitation for elevenses or tea, but you don’t have either of those meals here.”

“Ah,” Aragorn said, seeing their dilemma. “Well, I believe the proper protocol would be to invite guests for luncheon or dinner. Either one would be appropriate. Luncheon would be more for personal calls, while dinner would imply a larger crowd.”

“So luncheon, then,” Sam said. “It’s held at one or noon?”

“Noon,” Aragorn said with confidence. They always stopped court at noon so people could go and eat.

“How should the invitation be worded?” Sam asked next.

Aragorn quirked an eyebrow at this and frowned. “Well, I’m not sure. I’ve never invited anyone to luncheon before, nor been invited in return, being otherwise occupied.”

“Well, what do you do when you have your feasts then?” Sam pressed.

“Jodocus takes care of all the arrangements,” Aragorn said, Jodocus being the Head Butler. “He would be better informed for answering these questions than I would.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll talk to him then,” he said.

Aragorn waited for the gardener to rise so he could see him to the door, but Sam instead continued to sit and stare into the hearth. Aragorn thought he could see some great debate taking place behind those soft brown eyes and even fancied that Sam’s lips moved ever so slightly in silent conversation. Aragorn quirked his eyebrows higher, the frown replaced with a small smile.

“Sam?”

“Eh, Strider?”

“Was there something else?”

“Something else, sir?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. He met Aragorn’s eyes for the first time and studied his friend for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, as though resolving himself to some great task, and plunged ahead. “Well, you see, sir, it’s just that we’ve been noticing as how you’ve been distracted lately. You’re always going up to the precipice and looking out over everywhere like you’re expecting to see something any minute. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin were wanting me to find out what the matter is, only I can’t very well spy on you, what with you being the king now and all. It just doesn’t seem proper. So I thought as the easiest way to go about it was to just ask you direct-like, if you don’t mind. Obviously, you don’t have to answer.”

Aragorn chuckled at this confession, reminded anew of the inquisitiveness of friends, especially when said friends were hobbits. If he had thought the hobbits wouldn’t notice his mood simply because they lived in their own house, he was clearly mistaken. They all knew each other too well to miss such changes, no matter how slight or well-concealed.

“I am waiting for something, Sam, but I would rather the answer be a surprise,” Aragorn said.

“So then it’s naught bad?” Sam asked. “We were thinking maybe you were having the dreams too or some such.”

“I have many dreams, Sam, many indeed. But no, it’s nothing bad. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, and it would be my greatest honor for my friends to be here for the occurrence,” Aragorn said. “That is all I will say for now.”

Sam nodded again. “All right then. I must warn you though, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin won’t be satisfied with such an answer, so they’ll still be wanting me to nose around. You might see me from time to time then, lurking as it were, but I ain’t overhearing naught, and if I do overhear, I won’t say aught to them.”

Now Aragorn laughed heartily, amused by his friend’s frank honesty. He clapped Sam on the shoulder and squeezed in gratitude. “I thank you, my friend.”

“I’ll slip off and speak with the butler then,” Sam said and did just that.

Aragorn watched Sam exit the room, still laughing. What had Gandalf told him about Hobbits? “They’ll surprise you in a pinch,” he answered himself aloud and chuckled anew.  

Sam found Jodocus seeing to the setting of the table in the dining hall. He was short for a Man, no more than five feet tall, with a slim build and small feet clad in leather shoes. Sam guessed he was probably near mid-age by the specks of grey in his brown hair and the fine lines around his dark eyes.

“Excuse me, sir?” Sam asked.

Jodocus turned and bowed. “Lord Samwise? Are you requiring some more refreshments?” he asked cordially, reaching for the bell that sat on the hutch.

“No, sir, we’re fine enough till dinner. I was needing some invitations, or the wording for invitations, if you like, to luncheon or even dinner,” Sam said.

Jodocus nodded. “I shall have one of the pages deliver the necessary supplies to your house tomorrow, my lord.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said and bowing took his leave.

He stopped at the privy on his way back to the parlor. By the time he returned to his friends, Merry and Pippin had long since abandoned their argument about the house tour and were now arguing about the suggestions Merry, Frodo and Sam had come up with for the parlor.

“I don’t think this table is very banged up,” Pippin said. “It has character.”

“It’s a table. Tables don’t have character,” Merry returned. “They have tops and legs, and this table has a gouge in the side panel so large it makes Rivendell look like a rut.”

“It’s not that bad, and it’s facing the wall,” Pippin said.

“It should never have been brought in here,” Merry said.

“It can be filled in,” Pippin suggested.

“With what?” Merry rightly asked.

Pippin shrugged. “Wood?”

“Wood?” Merry repeated. “It would be easier just to replace the panel.”

“Maybe it has some historical significance,” Pippin suggest. “You know, like that statue on the third circle with the missing left arm.”

“That’s different. You can’t glue an arm onto a statue. It has to be made from the same mould,” Merry said.

“Yes, but it could still be the same,” Pippin persisted. “It all depends why it’s there, and I still think it gives it character.”

Sam sat next to Frodo again and they watched the argument escalate into who had the better understanding of woodwork and sculpting. After a few minutes of this amusing pastime, Frodo turned to Sam.

“That was a long trip to the privy,” he said.

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’d been last,” Sam answered smoothly.

“You aren’t helping Merry and Pippin with their prank, are you?” Frodo asked. Apparently, he had decided a direct approach was best as well.

“Of course not, sir. I don’t even know what they’re planning for that,” Sam answered truthfully, thinking of the fake prank. “Do you know what your retribution is going to be yet?”

Frodo nodded. “I have something in mind,” he answered vaguely, a little smile curling the corners of his lips.

“Because I said so, that’s why!” Merry exclaimed from across the room.

“Well, I’m sorry, Merry, but that’s not a very convincing argument. You have clearly run out of arguments and are just counting on your position as a senior cousin in order to win. It won’t work though,” Pippin said coolly. “Also, I don’t think the dwarves or the elves would agree with your theory that furniture cannot have character.”

“Fine. We’ll ask Legolas and Gimli when we see them.”

“Fine.”

“Dinner is served,” Jodocus said from the doorway. He bowed, turned on his heels and walked back in the direction of the banquet hall. Sam couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a smirk on the butler’s round face before he disappeared behind the wall.

Merry and Pippin instantly forgot their argument in favor of dinner and followed Frodo and Sam to the banquet hall.  

“What do you mean you told Strider you were spying on him?” Merry hissed in a whisper.

They were back at their house on the fifth circle, and it was just past midnight. They had been obliged to wait until everyone else fell asleep, which seemed to take forever. Gimli and Legolas had been engrossed in a chess game when they returned from dinner, and Gandalf hadn’t returned until nearly ten. He had offered to play the winner, and that game had lasted over an hour.

Finally everyone had gone to bed, and the three conspirators had waited until the sounds of snores and deep breathing could be heard in the other rooms. They had snuck back downstairs to the kitchen where they could conspire in privacy. Sam went first, telling them of his conversations with Jodocus and Aragorn.

“I had to, Mr. Merry,” Sam said. “He’d surely notice if I suddenly started sneaking about, and without Mr. Frodo around what’s more. So if he already knows I’m spying on him, then he won’t think anything of it when he sees me. Plus, I got his permission to spy, so as I can’t get in trouble. They call that treason here, you know, and I’d much rather avoid that.”

“You’re good,” Merry said, clearly impressed.

Pippin didn’t look convinced. “But then, he just won’t say anything revealing around you.”

“Well, he won’t always see me. I do know how to keep hid well enough. Also, I promised if I did hear aught, I wouldn’t tell either of you what I heard,” Sam explained.

“So how does that help us?” Pippin asked.

“I said I wouldn’t tell you,” Sam repeated. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell Mr. Frodo, or Legolas or Gimli, and if one of them should tell you, there’s not much I can do about that.”

“You’re really good,” Merry complimented.

“I learned from the best,” Sam said with a modest shrug. It had been his own master who taught him the art of spying, and Sam had found many uses for it over the years. “Course, it don’t guarantee anything. Strider’s surely smart enough to figure it out, and he can be close when he wants to be. He did say as whatever it was is supposed to be a secret. I doubt he’d talk about it to anyone, except maybe Gandalf, and I certainly ain’t spying on a wizard.”

“No, we wouldn’t want you turned into anything unnatural,” Merry agreed. “Very well. Just do your best and hopefully we’ll learn something. If not, we’ll just have to wait, I suppose. What about you, Pip? What did you find out?”

Pippin pulled his copy of the day’s court docket from his pocket and smoothed it out on the tabletop. He had already made notes on the scroll so he wouldn’t forget the details. The list had several names on it, and the notes all entailed such things as repairs to homes, dwindled livestock and crops, and lack of employment.

“I don’t see how you plan to narrow it down or decide who should or should not be invited to tea,” Pippin began.

“Luncheon,” Merry and Sam corrected.

“We’ll have to skip elevenses if we’re to have luncheon at noon instead of one,” Sam said with a frown. “Mr. Frodo will know from that whenever we’re going to have guests over.”

“There are plenty of times when we miss elevenses,” Merry said. “Though he will question why we’re eating luncheon early.”

“When in Gondor…” Pippin said.

“I suppose that’ll have to work,” Merry agreed. “I don’t think it should be too much of a problem.”

“Especially if we can’t narrow down who we’re going to invite,” Pippin said, returning to the problem at hand. “They’ve all been through so much, and it would mean so dearly to all of them to meet Frodo. As it was, nearly every single one of them gawked at me at some point or another. Maybe we should just draw names from a hat.”

“How will we find out where they live?” Sam asked.

“Faramir said he would send Bergil to find out where they live and make the appointments for Merry to interview them,” Pippin explained. “What exactly are you going to say during the interviews?”

“I got turned around in the streets looking for someplace or another and lost my way,” Merry said. “I’ve been wandering around for an hour and am thirsty. Could I come in for a drink? I think it’s best if I don’t mention anything about Frodo and potential invites to luncheon. We don’t want that rumor getting started. Best to make it seem like the invitation is an appreciative gesture for their kindness. If we decide not to invite them, we can always send them a gift instead.”

Sam agreed with this wholeheartedly. “You won’t want to be making no appointments then, sir,” he pointed out. “It’ll discredit your ruse of getting lost if you’re supposed to be there.”

“I’ll inform Faramir of the change,” Pippin said, then pointed at a name on the list, next to which he had drawn a star. “This woman here, Lady Bodil, actually came on behalf of her tenant, a woman named Ioveta,” he said. “Ioveta lost her husband in the wars early on, about a year or so ago. She was left with three children, the youngest born after her husband was taken by the Southrons. She lost her farm and home even before they were sent away as refugees, and she has been struggling to support herself and her family since her return to the city by working as a sempstress from her room. Lady Bodil provides what she can, but she worries that Ioveta is withering. She often finds her sitting along the walls and staring out at the river; her husband was believed to be among the prisoners taken to man the Corsairs ships. She said her tenant would refuse to admit needing help, but she didn’t think it would be turned away if offered.”

“Her friend sounds a lot like Frodo,” Merry intoned.

“I thought we could start with them,” Pippin said.

“Very well,” Merry agreed. “Have Bergil track them down. If she works out of her room, it should be fairly easy to catch her at home.”

Pippin rolled up the list again and stuffed it back in his pocket. “What about you? Have you figured out a prank yet?”

“Not yet,” Merry said.

“You better had soon. Mr. Frodo’s already worked out his retaliation,” Sam warned.

“I’m sure that he has,” Merry replied dryly. He thought for a moment and shook his head, at a loss. “The most appropriate thing would be to steal his clothes and lock him out of the house, but I can’t do that.”

“That you can’t,” Sam agreed, crossing his arms and looking stern.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Merry said. “Frodo will be perfectly safe from humiliation, whatever I decide to do, I assure you. I don’t think I shall be requiring your assistance either, Pip. I think it’s best if I do this one myself.”

“But, Frodo’s already forgiven me for helping you,” Pippin protested.

“Save it for next time, Pip,” Merry said. “You won’t need it for this. Now let’s get to bed. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

They snuck upstairs to their rooms and were fast asleep within minutes.

Later that night, Merry began to dream, one of those nighttime visions that laid out before him the solution to his most pressing problems of the moment: in this case, his failure to come up with a suitable prank for his dearly beloved older cousin. The dream went into helpful detail, showing him all the various possibilities and outcomes for the prank, his mind busily working on perfecting it before he even woke.

Merry burrowed into his pillow, a smile spreading over his face.

To be continued…

GF 12/31/08
Published 3/24/09

Chapter 5 – Complications and Conversations

“I need to speak with Erkenbrand about Éomer's return,” Merry announced the next morning at breakfast. “There has been some mention of what is to be expected of us once the funeral escort arrives, but I haven’t been able to gather anything concrete."”

Six pairs of eyes focused on him as he stuffed his mouth with a bite of his omelet and proceeded to chew with what he hoped was casual vigor. That all six pairs of eyes were filled with speculation, and one blue-eyed pair tinged with wariness, only made him more conscious of his own expression. He rearranged his features to the very portrait of innocence and continued to chew.

His cover was true enough. He had heard the other Riders of the Mark make comments that hinted to certain expectations being met upon his king’s return. He had figured on being informed of his duties the day of their arrival if he and his friends still remained in the city at that time, a possibility that seemed more certain with each passing day. He had decided upon waking from his most informative dream that it never hurt to be too prepared. That an interview with his captain would also give him an excuse to be alone for much of the day was decidedly convenient. If he was going to do this prank on Frodo, he couldn’t have anyone else tagging along.

“Don’t you go to training tomorrow?” Frodo asked, pasting his own version of an innocent expression across his face. ‘Can’t you ask your questions then?’ the expression rightly asked.

“I do, but we rarely have time to speak casually at such sessions,” Merry replied, which was also true.

“But you have luncheon with the Riders afterwards,” Frodo pressed.

Their friends were following this debate with much interest and amusement. The hobbits weren’t the only ones thinking of the prank war still waiting to be unleashed.

“The others prefer not to speak of work while dining, especially about such sad business,” Merry declared.

This was only partially true. His fellow Riders had no qualms whatsoever talking about their glories in battle or singing their lays of war over a pint and a meal. They would even speak of Théoden with great affection and pride when recounting the years of his early reign and his last days. None of them though had ever mentioned the pending funeral while at sup and Merry was not about to be the first.

Frodo subsided after this, defeated for now. Merry sipped his juice, triumphant.

“If you have business on the fourth circle, then perhaps we can have luncheon together,” Legolas offered unexpectedly, with an emphasis on ‘if’ that was lost on no one. “I will be meeting Elrohir and Elladan at the smithy there to pick up our new hunting knives. It’s close enough to where the Riders are quartered. We could stop by on our way to the inn. I’m sure they would be cheered by your company.”

Frodo smirked, Pippin snorted, Sam shifted and Merry blinked. Gimli remained expressionless beneath his beard and Gandalf simply looked amused, that irksome twinkle in his eyes twinkling in a most frustrating manner.

Somehow, Merry hadn’t thought to consider the rest of the Fellowship in his machinations. Gandalf he knew would leave them alone to torment each other as much as they pleased, so long as no one was harmed. He would have thought that Legolas and Gimli would do likewise, but Legolas looked determined and quite lethal as he narrowed his eyes at Merry. Apparently, when he had given oath to defend the Ring-bearer at all costs from anyone posing a threat, he had meant it. While Gimli was keeping his expression blank, his half-clenched fist indicated that he intended to follow Legolas’s lead.

Merry narrowed his own eyes at Frodo, who merely shrugged, smirk still in place. He hadn’t put them up to it, but he wouldn’t say anything to stop them either, which meant Merry was now out-numbered three to one.

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know how long I shall be,” Merry replied smoothly. “I wouldn’t want to keep you all waiting.”

“It’s no bother,” Legolas assured. “No elf has ever starved to death after all.”

Merry calculated quickly. He could be anywhere from an hour or two in conversation with Erkenbrand. From there he had planned to go to the third circle and poke around the thrift shops to search for the materials he needed for his prank. He had no idea how long that might take, and even if he found something quickly enough to meet Legolas and the twins on the fourth circle for luncheon, he couldn’t very well arrive with a package. Yet if he waited until after luncheon to go to the thrift shops, Legolas would undoubtedly conceive some way to join him.

“Merry has decided to come and train with the Guard this morning,” Pippin said, coming to his rescue. “I suggested he might benefit from learning more fighting techniques. He’ll be lunching with us in the buttery. What are your plans for the day, Gimli?”

“I am to meet with the masons and continue our experiments for the mortar,” Gimli answered grudgingly. His duties would put him far out of the way and they all knew it. “What of you, Frodo and Sam?”

“Nothing planned really,” Sam said. “I need to get seed for the vegetable garden.” His tone left it open whether he was friend or foe, and his errands were vague enough that he could be anywhere in the lower circles at any time – to help or hinder was yet to be seen.

“What do you and Frodo intend to plant?” Merry asked. ‘Will Frodo be with you?’

“Oh, I haven’t decided yet,” Sam answered. ‘No, I’ll be alone.’

“I don’t think I shall go out,” Frodo agreed. “I may take a short jaunt later though.” This was more problematic. Frodo took his walks through the smaller streets and alleyways, so he knew them well. He too could be anywhere at any time, and he had the reason and the means to stay hidden in his wanderings. The shadows under his eyes though suggested another restlessness night, so it was questionable if he would walk far, if he walked at all.

“And you Gandalf?” Pippin asked. If he too considered the wizard harmless, it didn’t prevent him from wanting to know where Gandalf would be.

“Aragorn has asked me to sit in court with him today. We will be receiving the ambassadors from Far Harad,” Gandalf replied, his tone mockingly belligerent. ‘There are more important things happening in the City than cousinly intrigue,’ the tone reminded them.

“Do they seek peace?” Frodo asked, allowing the change in subject.

“For now, I think they merely seek to appease their curiosity,” Gandalf answered. “They will be residing as guests in the Citadel while they are here, and there will be a feast in their honor tonight. They will be most interested to meet you.”

“Will they be bringing back any prisoners?” Legolas asked.

For the last week, since the coming of the embassy was first announced, there had been much speculation and hope that the Haradrim meant to turn over any remaining prisoners of war as part of their negotiation strategy. When and how that rumor began was a mystery, and there were many who doubted its validity – and doubted the Haradrim’s honesty even more.

“The scouts have not reported seeing any prisoners within their ranks,” Gandalf said. “However, their ranks are considerable and prisoners easily concealed.”

“You think there could be some then?” Gimli asked. “There are many who would be glad of it, one way or another.”

“That is yet to be seen, in either case,” Gandalf said.

After breakfast, the Fellowship separated to go their different ways, Legolas and Gimli giving Merry a long glare before heading out the door.

Their home was located on the fifth circle, near the gate to the sixth, as close to the herb-masters at the Houses of Healing and the protection of the Citadel as they could get without feeling suffocated on all sides. Merry walked with Pippin the short distance to the sixth gate.

“So, I’m to train with the Guard, am I?” Merry asked him.

Pippin shrugged. “You needed an alibi; I gave you one,” he said, frowning. “You’ve clearly come up with some prank during the night, and wanting to speak with Erkenbrand was just to get yourself away from everyone else.”

“That obvious, was it?” Merry said. “But you’re still not helping. You’re really not helping. You’re taking me in the exact opposite direction I was planning on going.”

“We’ll see,” Pippin said vaguely. “Do you think Sam is working as a double-agent?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Merry said. “I’ll have to keep any further details to myself.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Pippin agreed. He turned and hurried through the archway, sure of his footing despite the slippery cobblestones beneath.

Merry continued down the main street, passing through the tunnel in the hill and coming to the archway to the fourth circle below. He turned left out of the archway and followed the road around the northern bend of the circle to a row of houses that stood against the outer wall. He entered the gate of one of the houses, which looked slightly less decrepit and abandoned for the curtains that now hung in the windows and the scent of cooking meat that wafted from the open side door.

Merry entered this door into the kitchen and inspected the concoction simmering over the hearth. It appeared to be a beef and potato stew, seasoned with only basil and thyme. Merry riffled through the cupboards, producing rosemary, onion and oregano. He added these to the stew, threw an extra stick on the fire and headed into the parlor in search of his captain. If Erkenbrand proved to be gone, then any of the Riders present would serve in a pinch.

Erkenbrand was in fact already gone on his daily duties, as was most of the house. His footsteps echoed in the silence of the towering building. If not for the meat stewing, he would have thought the house empty entirely, but someone must be here to mind the fire. He found his friend Wulf sitting in the parlor, nursing his bad knee as he darned socks and mended shirts and breeches.

“Morning Wulf!” Merry greeted.

Wulf started with surprise. He hadn’t heard Merry come in. “Master Bag!” he greeted, his bearded face splitting into a toothy grin. “I was not expecting you until tomorrow!”

Merry sat himself next to his friend and joined him in his work, picking up a random shirt and searching for a needle that would fit well in his smaller hands.

He was glad to find Wulf here. They had become good friends during their convalescence in the Houses of Healing after the battle of the Pelennor. Their friendship was made steadfast when Merry discovered that Wulf was the brother of Gárulf, one of the Riders of Éomer’s éored who had died in battle with the uruks of Saruman: the very battle that had allowed Merry and Pippin to escape their captors into the refuge of Fangorn. Wulf had not been in that battle, serving in Erkenbrand’s éored even then.

“I was not expecting to come until tomorrow, but I have been wondering about something for quite a while and have been meaning to ask about it,” Merry said, finding a suitable needle. He picked up the spool of thread and measured off a useable length. “I thought it best to raise the question outside the training grounds.”

“What were you wondering?” Wulf asked.

“What will our duties be once the funeral escort arrives?” Merry asked. “What are we expected to do in order to make ready for leaving the city?”

“There’s not much to it actually,” Wulf answered. He bit off the end of his thread, tested his mending job, and folded the shirt. He next picked up a pair of shoes that had seen better days. “We’ll need to bear the King’s bier from the tombs, of course, and place it on the wagon. I doubt we’ll be wanting to risk our horse’s legs, so we’ll likely end up carrying it down the city streets ourselves and putting it on the wagon by the main Gate. Other than that, we do what we’re ordered to do. Will you still be with us then, when they arrive?”

Éomer had released Merry from his duty before departing for Rohan, thinking the hobbits would be departing themselves soon after. The hobbits too had thought this, but their plans changed when Aragorn asked them to remain but a little longer. Since they were going to be here for an undetermined amount of time and Merry had little else to do, he had offered to take up a day of duty guarding the tombs and came often to train with his fellow Riders. Erkenbrand, left in charge of a small guard of twelve Riders charged with keeping sentry over Théoden’s body, had agreed but made it clear that Merry should not feel obligated to stay should Aragorn release him and his friends to leave the City.

“I don’t know how long we shall remain,” Merry answered, “but it seems to me that if we are still in the City when Éomer returns, we may well end up leaving with you. So I thought I’d ask, so as to be prepared. What does a Rohirrim funeral entail?”

He had seen a few funeral processions while living in the City, but he didn’t know how alike they might be to a Rohan ceremony. The only one he had observed in Rohan had been at night at the crossing of the Fords and there had been no time to do things properly.

Wulf frowned at the frayed toes of the shoe he held, either contemplating the question or how best to mend the damaged leather. He picked up the knife, set the lip of the shoe over the corner of the table and cut off the frayed edges. Having now a clean edge to mend, he threaded his needle and set to work, only then answering his Holdwine’s question.

“They’re always in the morning, just before sunrise, before we break our nightly fast. The escort carries the body to the burial mounds and the words are spoken over the coffin, the farewells made by family and friends. As the sun rises over the east, bleeding the skies as those who have fallen in battle bled their life’s blood, the body is taken into the mound and laid to its final resting. Then the singing begins. We sing of heartache and loss and the final parting, but as we sing, the sun rises and clears the skies and so too do our hearts lift from their burdens and sadness. Then we sing the final lay, of thanks and remembrance, and we go into the Golden Hall to break our fast.”

“That’s beautiful,” Merry said, touched by the description and wanting very much to remain now so he could attend Théoden’s funeral.

“You can freeze your toes off in the winter by the time all the singing is done,” Wulf noted. “In the evening we have the feast, though for the King, the feast will begin after the funeral and go until midnight. What of you? How do Hobbits bury their dead?”

“Nothing so ritual as all that,” Merry said. “There is a wake, of course, to allow those who live far away but wish to attend the time needed to travel. We can't wait too long, of course, so the wake is never more than four days. Then we have the funeral. We have family plots and we put up markers. Sometimes the burial is in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, but there is always a feast directly afterwards. There may be some singing, but mostly we tell stories of the departed, preferably funny ones, if there are any.”

“Will there be any funny stories to tell about yourself?” Wulf asked.

Merry laughed. “My funeral feast will last days.”

“What sort of stories will they tell, then?” Wulf asked, scrutinizing his work and shaking his head. He cut out the mend and began over again, this time accomplishing the rounded toe which had become pointed before.

“Have you ever heard of streaking? You haven’t? Then I must educate you on this fine tradition,” Merry said and settled in to tell his tale.

An hour and a half later, Merry left the house, the mending half done, the beef stew decidedly the better for his attentions, and Wulf wiping his eyes which ran over with tears of mirth. Keeping an eye out for any sign of elves in the vicinity, he returned to the gate to the fifth circle and headed to the citadel.

The barracks and training grounds for the Guard of the Tower stood south of the White Tree, down a small but clustered street that let out on a wide lawn with the barracks behind it. To the left of the lawn was the House of the Steward and to the right on the farthest corner was the King’s House. The barracks, a large singular building of three levels, housed the three regiments of the Guard. While those with families maintained private homes or rooms in the City, while on duty all guards were expected to quarter in the barracks.

Behind the barracks, between the building and the wall were the training grounds. Merry circled the building and found the third regiment just beginning their warm ups. He looked about for Pippin, but Bergil spotted him first.

“Sir Merry!” the boy called, running up to him and bowing. “Sir Pippin said you are to change into livery before joining the drills.”

“Right,” Merry agreed. “Where do I change?”

Bergil led Merry into the barrack’s bathing room, which was located directly off the training grounds for convenience. The room held many large tubs that were built into the foundation of the floor, reminding Merry more of the Bywater Pool than any bathtub he had ever seen before. The tubs looked large enough to sit twenty or thirty soldiers at a time. Along one wall, there were spouts extending from the ceiling, with foot pumps near the base of the wall: showers, Bergil explained, for washing off the worst of the dirt and grime before submerging into the baths.

Off the bathing room was the locker room. Several long rows of tall, thin wardrobes sitting cheek by jowl greeted them as they stepped through the door. Between the rows were benches for sitting. Bergil led Merry down the rows and to one locker, which he stated belonged to Sir Pippin. How the lad could tell just by looking at it was a mystery to Merry, but he realized the truth of it when he opened the door and saw Pippin’s livery hanging there.

“They wear different liveries just for training, so as not to dirty or tear the uniforms they must serve in,” Bergil explained at Merry’s look. “These are yours, Sir Merry.” The boy pointed at a neatly folded livery at the bottom of the locker and the extra hauberk that hung on the side.

“Sir Pippin also wanted me to give you this and to tell you that anytime you need me to look up another, just send a missive to me here with the name only. I will deliver the answer with the address only to Sir Pippin, for giving to you later,” Bergil went on and handed Merry a folded bit of parchment.

Merry opened the note and found the name and address, along with a few general directions, to Lady Bodil’s house on the third circle. Well, he was going to the third circle after luncheon anyway. May as well kill two birds with one stone. He folded the note and placed it in the safety of his breast pocket.

“Thank you lad,” Merry said, grateful for Pippin’s precautions, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I can find my way out again.”

“I will let Sir Pippin know you’re here, so he will be looking for you,” the boy announced. He turned a precise about-face and marched out of the room, eager to announce his duty fulfilled to his smallest knight.

Merry grinned at the boy’s retreating back and changed quickly. He was eager to get to the training grounds and join the warm ups, his sword hand itching for the solid heaviness of pommel and blade.

To be continued…

GF 1/12/09
Published 3/31/09

Chapter 6 – Ambassadors Abound

If Merry was disappointed at the lack of swords in the training yard, he no longer was by the end of the session. Pippin had insisted he wear gloves before choosing a cudgel to practice with, yet despite this, Merry’s hands were still smarting with blisters by the time he put down the club. His upper arms, shoulders, neck and lower back were also going to be sore by the morning without preventative measures, so he joined the soldiers in their baths to soak away the majority of his pending pains and aches.

He followed Pippin through the maze of lockers afterward and changed back into his everyday clothes while Pippin changed into his clean livery, though he retained the hauberk he had been wearing at practice. Washed and cleaned, they followed a group of the Guards on their way to the buttery for luncheon through the barracks to the front door, which led out onto the lawn.

As they walked down the stone steps, one soldier pointed to the far left corner of the lawn in the direction of the King’s House. A long line of people were coming from the House, Gandalf and Aragorn at the head with a pair of brown-skinned Haradrim. The ambassadors had arrived.

The second lieutenant, seeing this and being the highest-ranking officer among the bunch, quickly ordered them to attention. The soldiers formed two short lines and stood tall and still. Merry held back, curious about these ambassadors. He also thought he might not be allowed in the buttery if he arrived without the others, so there was little point in going ahead.

The procession made its way slowly across the lawn. From the way Aragorn or Gandalf would occasionally point in this direction or that, they were showing the ambassadors around the citadel, brining them to the barracks first so that they will understand how close at hand the elite forces were to the King's House, the Tower, the White Tree and the Steward’s House. The tour would circle around the citadel until it ended at the guest houses where the chief ambassadors and their servants would be living while in the city. The rest of the embassy would reside in the City below.

At length, Aragorn and Gandalf arrived at the barracks. By this time, many more soldiers had joined the two lines, falling into formation without provocation. This was something they were accustomed to doing by this point. The second lieutenant was relieved of his duty by the arrival of the major, who quickly marched up and down the rows, inspecting the troops for appearance and neatness. Satisfied, he met the king and his guests at the head of the line.

Free to look at his leisure, Merry conducted his own inspection of the Haradrim. He was surprised to discover that there were a number of women among the group; up to now, all such groups had included only soldiers and their masters. Unless the women were soldiers also. Merry frowned at this thought but continued his inspection.

The ambassadors appeared to be a man and a woman, both regal in their stature and appearance. The man was large, both of height and musculature. He looked like a brick wall and Merry gulped, imaging what such a warrior might look like coming at him with full war paint and scimitar ready for slaughter. The man wore his long black hair in plaits, pulled away from a round, broad face. The woman, while slighter of build, was nearly as tall and equally imposing in her bearing. Her head was covered in a bejeweled white veil so that no hair could be seen, but her face was one of great beauty, soft yet stern. Her slanted violet eyes shinned out from dark painted lids, giving the impression that she could see right through at whomever she was looking.

While the rest of the embassy wore plain tunics or kilts and linen shirts of white or brown, the two ambassadors wore deep blue sarongs, wrapped about their bodies in appearance of a robe. Nearly all of the embassy had pierced ears, and many had tattoos of odd symbols on their faces and arms, the only parts of them visible outside their clothing other than their feet, which Merry was surprised to see were bare. No, not bare, he realized on closer scrutiny. They wore an odd sort of shoe that covered only their soles and were kept in place by straps that wound halfway up the calf, leaving the rest of the foot open to the elements.

Aragorn finished speaking to the major and slowly made his way down the lines of Guards, the lines of the embassy trailing behind them. Aragorn started speaking again, but he wasn’t making any kind of sense. Merry realized then that Aragorn was speaking, or attempting to speak, in the Haradrim’s own language, which even with his jilted accent was strangely lyrical, with many ups and downs in tone and rhythm that reminded Merry of a song. Every now and then, Gandalf would add to whatever Aragorn said, to make the point clearer for the ambassadors no doubt.

The ambassadors had passed up the spot where Pippin stood in the front line, but one young man in a deep blue kilt and tunic stopped short when he caught a glimpse of Pippin’s feet. Those behind him were forced to stop and he grabbed the arm of the man before him. He said something in an excited tone of voice, pointing at Pippin’s feet and grinning widely. The soldiers nearest Pippin immediately stiffened, ready to grasp their swords in an eye’s blink if necessary. Pippin merely looked bewildered. Merry imagined Pippin was wondering how he could manage to cause trouble just by standing still and wondered if Aragorn might make Pippin start wearing his boots.

The two men exchanged animated chatter while those around them peered over shoulders and around bodies to get a glimpse of Pippin. The chatter was now going back and forth in a chorus of lilts, trills and breaths of awe. The young man who had started this disturbance suddenly called over the growing din. The ambassadors stopped, turned and glided back to where their lost embassy was standing. They listened to the young man’s declarations, and the male ambassador looked with much amusement at Pippin.

The woman, whatever her thoughts and feelings were in the matter, looked only disgusted, not at Pippin but at her co-ambassador and embassy. She spoke sharply and with an authority that made even the Guard of the Tower stand yet more rigid and upright, their caution forgotten. Her embassy immediately fell back into order, her co-ambassador looking chagrined but not particularly apologetic. He continued to look at Pippin with curiosity.

Aragorn and Gandalf returned. The woman said something to them, then turned to Pippin and said something to him in that same clear voice, her tones polite but edged with a sharpness intended only to remind her people to behave themselves. Aragorn turned to Pippin, amusement in his own eyes, but he translated her words with graveness.

“Queen Farzana apologizes for the rudeness of her embassy and the young Prince Shahzad, and wishes that the… stunted one… does not hold their rudeness against them. They are merely curious of this strange land and its people, and in their excitement, they forgot their manners. She wishes that the stunted one can forgive them their offense,” Aragorn said.

There was some surprise among the ranks to realize that the ambassador was in fact a queen. Her companion then was likely a king, for he looked close to her own age if not older. The prince then must be their son, for while he resembled the man in stature, he had the queen’s softer nose and chin and her same violet eyes.

Pippin blinked at Aragorn and the queen. Merry could tell that he wanted to blurt out offense at being called a stunted one, but Pippin restrained himself, bowed most gallantly, and said, “No offense is taken. I often allow curiosity to get the better of me as well, so I understand their enthusiasm for learning and seeing new things. I look forward to learning more about them at tonight’s feast.”

Aragorn tilted his head slightly in approval of this, though the twinkle in his eyes showed that he too had guessed Pippin’s thoughts on the use of ‘stunted one’. Aragorn translated for the queen, making a point of saying ‘hobbit’ as often as he could. The queen tilted her head at Pippin, barked more orders at her embassy, and gave the king a stern glare. The king began to protest, but he was smirking when he did this, and he bore her further comments without complaint. The queen finished her rant, shook her head in a ‘what am I going to do with you?’ manner and rejoined Gandalf and Aragorn at the head of the line. The king gave Pippin one last look, bowed in apology himself, gave the prince a ‘we’ll talk about this later’ glance, and joined his queen. The embassy moved away from the barracks then, heading towards the Steward’s House.

“Well, that was an eye opener,” Merry said, coming to join Pippin as the guards fell out of attention and disbursed towards the Tower and the buttery.

“Yes, but for whom?” Pippin asked, watching the departing embassy with interest.

“For all of us, I suppose,” Merry replied. “But enough about them. I’m famished, and there is food waiting to be consumed just a few clicks away. Shall we go?”

“Yes,” Pippin said and led Merry across the lawn, still glancing now and then at the embassy.  

After luncheon, Merry left Pippin’s company and headed down into the city to the third circle. He pulled out Bergil’s note and read the directions, written for someone who was ten times more familiar with the city than Merry. Still, there was enough to go by and a description of the house besides that Merry felt he could find it with little trouble.

Twenty minutes later, Merry was grimly muttering to himself that at least he wouldn’t be lying when he told the ladies he had been turned around and lost, and that he could then get proper directions from them on how to get to the thrift shops. Another fifteen minutes later, he finally spotted the house, a small cottage tucked beneath the barrier wall to the fourth circle and sitting between two larger homes on either side. The house had a red door and green eves, and there were potted plants hanging from the portico. Smoke rose from the chimney, curling white fingers disappearing into the warm spring air. A sign hung from the small wooden gate, proudly announcing ‘No. 21’.

Merry let himself into the yard and knocked upon the door. A few minutes passed and Merry knocked again, hoping desperately that they were at home. He didn’t think he could find the house again if he had to come back. He knocked again, more loudly this time.

Another minute passed before the door was opened by a young girl of about eight years. The girl had straight brown hair and wide eyes of dark brown. She was just over Merry’s height by an inch, and she tilted her head at him with open frankness as a woman’s voice floated down the hallway towards them.

“Who’s there? Gerwinda? Who’s at the door, dear?”

The girl did not respond but continued to look at Merry with interest. Merry suddenly understood how Pippin must have felt under the gaze of the Haradrim, though Merry’s audience was thankfully much less imposing than Pippin’s had been.

He smiled cordially. “Hallo,” he said. “May I speak with the lady of the house?”

The girl nodded and stepped aside to let him pass. He stepped into the house and waited for the girl to do something else, but she simply continued to stare at him.

“Gerwinda?” the voice came again. Soft footsteps could be heard approaching from the rear of the house and a moment later, a woman appeared.

Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a bun and the lines of her face were knotted in agitation. Her face cleared as soon as she saw they had company, but grew distressed when she realized who that company was. Her hands flew to her hair. Finding that tidy, they next darted to her wardrobe, a flour-covered, batter-caked apron over a homely brown dress. She came to stand behind Gerwinda and took the girl’s shoulders in her hands, though Merry thought this was more to hide herself than to offer the girl comfort.

Merry bowed. “Good day, Mistress,” he said. “Merry Brandybuck, at your service. I am sorry to impose so rudely upon you. I was told that there are thrift stores on this level of the city, and in trying to find them, I quite lost my way. I’ve been wandering around for nearly an hour and hoped you might be able to provide me with some directions.”

“Of course, Sir Meriadoc!” the woman said. “Do come in. You look parched if I may say so. Take some refreshment in the parlor. Gerdi, show the perian to the parlor and see him to a seat. What would you like, Sir Meriadoc?”

“Just water will be fine,” Merry said, bowing again.

The woman disappeared down a side hallway. The girl took Merry’s hand and led him down a cramped hall to the parlor. She took him to a seat and motioned for him to sit, then went about the room opening curtains and windows. Light pored in through tall windows, revealing a room sparsely furnished with a settee and two chairs, which shared a small, round table. A rug that has been much scrubbed lay over the tile floors. The walls, aside from the sconces, were bare.

“Gerdi, is it?” Merry asked the lass. She nodded. “You may call me Merry.” The lass paused before nodding again. “Do you talk?” She shook her head. “In that case, you can call me…” Merry held up his fist and shook it in agitation “…MERRY!” The lass giggled at this and mimicked him. “Very good!”

The woman returned then, her apron abandoned. She held a tray loaded with wooden cups, a pitcher of water, a stack of water-biscuits and sliced oranges. She placed the tray on the table, poured him some water and made a plate for him. She handed these over before sitting herself.

“You have a lovely home, and a lovely daughter,” Merry complimented.

“She is not my daughter, Sir Meriadoc,” the woman said. “This is Gerwinda, the middle daughter of my tenant. I am Lady Bodil.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lady Bodil,” Merry said, grateful that this was indeed the right house. “Is your tenant home as well?”

“She is resting, Sir Meriadoc,” Lady Bodil answered. “Her oldest daughter is in the kitchen. She would love to meet you. Might I fetch her?”

“Of course,” Merry said. He snacked on his water-biscuits and orange slices while he waited, sipping water. Gerwinda had taken a seat on the settee. When the water in his cup began to get low, she poured him more from the pitcher. “How old are you, Gerdi?”

Gerwinda held up her hands, putting down three fingers on her right hand.

“Seven? Why, you’re nearly a lady yourself.”

Gerwinda nodded.

“Do you like living here?” Merry asked. The lass shrugged. “What is your favorite thing about living here?”

The girl took his hand again and waited for him to put his things on the table before pulling him to the window. There was a small garden on the side of the house and she pointed at this.

“You like the garden?” Merry guessed but she shook her head. She put her hands together at the palms, flapped them back and forth and pointed again. “The butterflies?”

She nodded and proceeded to stare out the window at the many butterflies flitting about the garden. Merry watched with her until he heard the woman’s return. He turned around and was surprised to find not only the older daughter but a young woman who must be the mother. Both were dressed in simple grey dresses, the maid’s hair falling past her shoulders while her mother’s was pinned back. 

“Sir Meriadoc, might I introduce my tenant, Ioveta, and her daughter Ogiva. Her youngest, Leudreda, is at her nap,” Lady Bodil said.

They all took seats, Merry returning to the chair. Lady Bodil took the other chair, and Ioveta and her daughters sat on the settee. There was an awkward pause as the ladies and girls regarded Merry with astonishment. Ogiva untangled her tongue first.

“Is it true you killed the Witch-King?” she asked.

“Ogiva!” Ioveta chided.

“No, it’s all right,” Merry assured. “It is true, to an extent. I cut the Witch-King’s leg with my blade, which distracted him long enough for the White Lady, my sword-sister, Éowyn, to kill him. King Aragorn and Gandalf, who you call Mithrandir, think that my sword, which was a blade of Westernesse, was able to cut through the spells that protected the Witch-King, and that’s why Éowyn was able to deal the fatal blow.”

“You know the king and the White Wizard?” Ogiva asked.

“Ogiva, that is enough,” Ioveta said. “I am sorry for her rudeness, Sir Meriadoc. It has been some time since we have received company. I fear she has forgotten how to behave around guests.”

“She is merely curious,” Merry said and bit back his own curiosity about Gerwinda’s muteness. He had heard her laugh and didn’t think the lass mute by some deformity to her vocal chords. “I must thank you again for allowing me to intrude upon your day. You must have things that need seeing to.”

“It is no intrusion, Sir Meriadoc,” Lady Bodil said.

“Please, call me Merry. I’m only ever called Meriadoc when I’m in trouble,” Merry said, winking at Gerwinda. The girl smiled broadly. “You have a lovely home, I must say again. How long have you resided here?”

“I have lived here since my marriage to Lord Tarlas thirty-two years ago,” Lady Bodil said. “I have kept it as best I can since he fell in battle two years ago.”

“I am most sorry for your loss,” Merry said. “It is no easy matter to keep up a home in such trying times. Do you have children, may I ask?”

“We do. Two daughters. They married merchants and moved to Linhir. They are doing well, though my oldest daughter’s husband was injured in the wars. He lost an arm but considers himself lucky to be alive. He’s adjusted quite well, according to her letters,” Lady Bodil said.

“You are blessed to have your family,” Merry said.

“I am,” Lady Bodil said. “I have been thinking of retiring to Linhir, once things are settled here. I want to hold my grandchildren.”

“I’m sure they are a joy and a comfort to your daughters,” Merry said. “What of you, Mistress Ioveta, if I may ask?”

“We have only been here since our return to the City,” Ioveta answered. She was youthful, no more than thirty if that old. It was the lack of light in her eyes that made her appear older than her years. “We had a home in the Pelennor, but it’s lost now.”

“Is it to be rebuilt?” Merry asked. “The king has commissioned soldiers and crafters to begin rebuilding the homes lost in the battles as soon as the outer wall is repaired. The replanting of the crops has already begun. It is late in the year for the sowing, but any harvest is better than none.”

“I don’t believe so,” Ioveta said, lifting her chin in sudden defiance. “I could not keep up the farm by myself and have no family here to help, nor to return to. I am beginning to find work as a sempstress and I am doing well. I believe we shall remain in the city.”

Ogiva and Gerwinda wilted at this statement, but their mother was too intent on Merry to notice. Bodil looked tempted to say something but she remained silent.

“I am glad to hear that you are doing well,” Merry said, forcing himself to look into Ioveta’s fierce brown eyes. He knew now why Pippin had suggested coming to this family first. She reminded Merry of Frodo in every possible way.

He finished his water and food, declined further refreshments and stood. His hostesses rose to their feet. “I thank you again for allowing me to impose upon you. I will not take up more of your time. Now, if you could point me in the direction of the thrift shops?”

Ioveta herself led Merry back to the door and pointed to an alleyway just a few houses down. “Follow that alley to the street, then turn right. The thrift shops are past the gate to the fourth circle, on your left.”

“Thank you, Mistress Ioveta,” Merry said. He bowed and stepped outside. He expected her to close the door as soon as he exited the garden gate, but when he reached the alleyway and turned back, she was still standing there.

“That’s the one, Sir Merry!” she called.

Merry waved his gratitude and entered the alleyway, coming to the street just a few moments later. Now, why couldn’t Bergil have given him these directions? He looked up at the buildings that stood at either side of the alley and committed them to memory before trotting off in the direction of the thrift shops, already making plans for inviting the ladies to tea. No, luncheon.

“Forget about golf. These people need a teatime,” he muttered.

He passed the gate leading to the fourth circle, missing the three figures that stood in the shadows on its other side. One figure stepped into the light as he continued down the street and narrowed his eyes at the hobbit.

“What are you up to?” Legolas said.

“I doubt he’s planning treason,” Elrohir said as he and Elladan joined him. “Are we to trail him all afternoon then?”

“I just want to know where he’s going,” Legolas said. “Come on.” They slipped into an alleyway and headed in the direction Merry had taken, foxes after a single hare.

To be continued…

GF 1/12/09
Published 4/6/09

Note: A featherie is a golf ball made of leather and stuffed with bird feathers. :)

All the info on masonry comes from About.com. Any mistakes are solely mine.
 
 
 
 

Chapter 7 – Errors and Errands

Legolas, Elrohir and Elladan followed Merry’s progress at a safe distance, their far-reaching eyesight helping them greatly in this endeavor. They were able to stay several buildings away, and Merry helped them by never once looking back. Either he didn’t know he was being followed, or he thought his friends safely occupied elsewhere. They stopped behind the awning of an outdoor café and watched as Merry entered a thrift shop.

“He is merely shopping,” Elladan said. “No harm in that.”

“That depends what he is shopping for, and why,” Legolas corrected. “You don’t know these hobbits as I do. They are not as innocent as they appear.”

“Yes. Father told us about the golf,” Elrohir said, the corners of his mouth creeping upwards despite his best efforts to appear aloof.

Legolas blushed and gritted his teeth. Elrond had sent Legolas with a small group of his House to scout the areas in and around Mirkwood, particularly Dol Guldur on Amon Lanc, to search for the Nazgûl. Finding not even a trace of a footstep or a whisper of discontent in the trees, Legolas and the scouts had returned to Rivendell, parting as they reached the dell. Legolas had wanted to take the long way down the valley so as to fully explore the Last Homely House.

Instead, he had nearly been knocked unconscious by a wayward featherie, which he was obliged to catch so as to prevent permanent damage to his skull – to the outrage of one Meriadoc Brandybuck, and the amusement of his three companions. To add further insult to injury, he had been forced to remain where he stood, not permitted to so much as wriggle a toe, while Merry and Pippin debated over what sort of obstacle he was. They eventually determined that he was to be considered a tree and ordered him to remain in place while they finished their round, which Merry won. Immediately forgiven for his now timely interruption, Merry and the others had recounted the whole, complicated game to Legolas as he tried desperately to outpace them on the trail leading up the cliff wall to the house. Hobbits, he was chagrined to discover, moved rather faster than their little legs would suggest possible.

“Did you really hide the clubs in the tree outside Father’s rooms?” Elrohir asked, as though he didn’t quite believe this part of his father’s tale.

“Is that where that tree was?” Legolas said, preventing himself from groaning in horror at this revelation only by squinting harder at the thrift shop in which Merry had disappeared.

“It was,” Elrohir assured. “Father was quite amused by it all. He said it was the most fun they’d had at home for years.”

“And we missed it, what’s more,” Elladan said with disappointment. “Couldn’t he have sent Arwen to speak with Grandmother and Grandfather?”

Elrohir gave him a look.

“No, I suppose not,” Elladan agreed, then brightened. “But we’re here now and look to be in for our own bit of fun. So the hobbits are planning a prank war. I don’t know why you are trying to prevent it. Seems that the distraction will do them all well, and they wouldn’t do anything to bring harm or embarrassment to the other. I say let them be, but let us be nearby to enjoy it.”

“Perhaps,” Legolas said. “Still, I would like to know what Merry is up to. He’s the planner and not one to let out of your sights.”

“Yet we can’t go in there ourselves. He’ll know what we’re doing,” Elrohir pointed out. “We need an unlikely cohort who we can send in to do some reconnaissance for us.”

He looked about and spotted a young girl of about twelve years haggling with a merchant for a pair of leather slippers. He approached the pair, stepping into their light so they looked up at his shadow. He smiled kindly.

“I will buy the maiden her shoes for your original asking price, if she would but do me one favor,” he announced.

The girl and merchant exchanged looks and shrugged. “What’s the favor?” she asked.

“See that thrift store?” Elrohir said, pointing. “There is a hobbit browsing in there and possibly making a purchase. I want you to go in, observe him and find out what he is doing. Then you are to come back here and inform me. If he sees you or discovers who sent you on your errand, the deal is off.”

The girl’s eyes widened at this. A hobbit? So nearby? But… “Which perian is it?” she asked. She could not in good conscience spy on either of the Ring-bearers, nor would she feel comfortable spying on the Ernil i Pheriannath.

“Sir Meriadoc, Holdwine of Rohan,” Elrohir answered.

“Oh. All right then,” she agreed. She handed the slippers to Elrohir for safekeeping, then twirled around and disappeared into the thrift store.

“Are you sure this is the best idea?” Elladan asked, coming to stand next to his brother, Legolas behind him.

“Decoys are always most effective on the battlefield,” Legolas said.

They chatted with the merchant while they waited for the young maid, who returned some minutes later. “He’s just buying clothes,” she informed them. “A pair of pants, some smallclothes, a shirt and a waistcoat.”

“That’s it?” Legolas asked, disappointed at this news. “Was there anything odd about the clothes?”

The lass shook her head. “Not that I could tell. They couldn’t be for him though. They were too small.”

“Merry is taller and bigger than Frodo,” Elladan said.

“He didn’t see you?” Elrohir asked.

The girl shook her head and held out her hands for the slippers. Elrohir placed a few coins in the merchant’s hands and another in the girl’s along with the slippers. “Your silence in this matter would be appreciated.”

The girl and merchant nodded, pleased with their luck. The elves slipped back to their original stakeout location.

“So Merry is buying clothes for his cousin. What a dastardly schemer. Clearly, he must be stopped,” Elladan said.

“Scoff now if you wish, but I know that Brandybuck is up to no good,” Legolas said. “Still, it is clear enough we will not discover what that is now.”

“Indeed. Come, Leggy. Let us see what your dwarf friend is doing,” Elrohir said, clapping Legolas on the shoulder.

Legolas narrowed his eyes at his companion. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Did you? I don’t recall,” Elrohir said. He and his brother left their hiding place and headed towards the gate to the third circle.

Legolas watched the door to the thrift store a moment longer. Merry emerged then, bag in hand and a grin lighting up his face. The hobbit looked far too pleased with himself, though Legolas had to admit that his own suspicion was likely distorting a look of pleased satisfaction for a gift well-bought into a look of fiendish ill-intent for some devious machination. He waited until Merry passed him by and followed him to the gate to the fifth circle. Shaking off his sense of impending doom, he trotted up the street and rejoined the twins.  

The masonry kilns were located on the first circle. The textile factory was built against the mountainside and partially into it, with many flights of stairs leading down into the bowels of the earth. There the large, room-sized kilns burned nearly night and day. As the kilns were too hot while lit for any man to enter, the fires were fed from outside. Chutes ran from steel-covered windows and coal was poured down the chutes in regular intervals while the bricks were baking.

While the walls of the Rammas Echor and the city were made of stone carved from the mountains or carted over land from the gravel quarries of Lamedon, many of the destroyed homes of the Pelennor had been made of wood or brick. Every man of the city had been pressed into service during the war and many of the masons now lay in the burial pits alongside their brethren. Only a few older masons now remained, but they could not manage the grunt work of making the bricks needed for rebuilding and repairing the Pelennor. Gimli, along with those soldiers recovered enough from their injuries to be of use, were lending their backs to the necessary work of making the bricks.

The men had easily mastered the making of bricks. The mixture required nothing more than well-ground clay mixed with equal parts water. The masons used a brick-rack, or so Gimli called it: a metal frame of ten identical sections into which the mixture was poured so all the bricks came out the same once baked.

The mortar was another issue. The lime mortar the masons and their assistants had been mixing was not up to Gimli’s standards. They made the mixture well and the result was as good as could be hoped for, but lime mortar would hold only as long as it did not get saturated. It was absolutely no good for fixing the bridges and would not hold up under heavy assault, dry or wet. Gimli had been surprised to discover that none of them knew how to make cement mortar, as several of the homes within the stone city had been held together with the strong bonding agent when they had been built so long ago; it was these building that had the least amount of damage.

“The art is lost to us, milord,” one of the old masons had told him. Gimli supposed it made sense enough. The art of mithril was lost to his own people, but they at least still knew how to make concrete.

“It’s simple really,” Gimli had promised them. “It requires only one extra step.”

Lime mortar was made by mixing well-slacked lime with sand and water into a homogeneous paste. In order to make cement mortar, one obviously needed cement, which was made by heating a mixture of limestone with clay and then grinding the mixture into a find powder before mixing it with sand and water.

While simple in theory, the making of it turned out to be more difficult than expected. The difficulty came in finding the right kind of sand, in remembering the right amounts of each ingredient needed, and in the necessity to heat the limestone-and-clay mixture. The kilns were too big and grew too hot, the ovens were too small and not hot enough. If any one of these considerations was not met, the end result would be questionable at best, outright unusable at worst.

Gimli had immediately set the assistant masons to the task of converting a storage closet to an oven, similar to the kilns but smaller in size. Now that this was completed, they had begun experiments with the cement. Once that was perfected, they could move on to experimenting with the mortar itself.

The master mason, a meticulous fellow with a sharp eye for detail and a well-honed sense of intuition for the process, kept notes on all the cement mixtures made from start to finish, labeling them for Gimli’s final inspection. In this way, they had been able to narrow it down to three different mixtures that were close to satisfactory. They were now tinkering with the formula of those three mixes to come up with the perfect product, each of them lost in the process.

As such, they didn’t notice their visitors until Elladan leaned over to inspect the powder they were grinding from their latest batch. “Looks like wet sand,” he commented, making the men and Gimli jump back. Several of them reached for swords that weren’t there.

“I suppose it would,” Gimli said, frowning at the elf, leaving off the ‘to you’ that was nonetheless implied. He could never tell one twin from the other, but as both of them were here, he supposed it wouldn’t matter. They at least had the decency to dress differently. “Ever seen a kiln lit up, Elrohir?”

“I have not,” Elrohir replied from the corner where the baking oven sat, putting out heat and smoke. He wore a burnt sienna robe. Elladan, then, was the one in silver-blue. Gimli stored this fact away for later reference. “Is this it?” Elrohir asked.

“The kilns are down this way,” Legolas said and gave the twins a tour as Gimli finished up with the masons.

“Mix these last two batches,” Gimli ordered. “I’ll inspect them in the morning.”

“Yes, milord,” the men said.

Shortly thereafter, Gimli, Legolas, Elrohir and Elladan were out in the open air of the first circle. The shadows here were already long but they still enjoyed a mild breeze from the distant sea. Gimli pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow of sweat and dust. Even the elves had a sheen of sweat over their skin from their short sojourn underground, but they preferred to let the air dry the sweat, cooling them faster.

“It is a wonder you and the men do not melt away from your days in the kilns,” Elladan said.

“You do get used to it,” Gimli said, “some more readily than others. “The key is to drink a lot of water and to keep fruit near at hand at all times. It is nearly a full time job just to fetch water. A couple of the page boys get the pleasure of that job.”

“You are making progress on your formula,” Legolas said. The last time he had visited the kilns, there had been nothing more than several piles of sand collected from all over Gondor, each being dismissed one after another by Gimli, to the annoyance of the men who had labored to retrieve it. “You have nearly perfected it, I see.”

“Nearly, lad, nearly. We’ll get it right tomorrow if I have to stay there all day to see it done,” Gimli said. “I would have stayed today gladly, except for the feast to welcome the delegation from Harad. Have any of you seen them yet?”

“We have,” the twins answered as one. They did this often, answering at the same time, or finishing each other’s thoughts. “There is much tension in them,” Elrohir went on. “I think they do not quite trust us, nor us them,” Elladan elaborated.

“They met Pippin,” Legolas said. They had heard the story from one of the page boys, who had heard it from a courier, who had heard it from a guard. The tale already had been distorted beyond anything believable, but it was entertaining to listen to all the same. “Apparently, Pippin sang a few ballads and taught them a Shire dance, and they were all but entranced by the time he was finished. The queen even offered to leave her husband for him, but he politely declined.”

“Pippin doesn’t sing anymore,” Gimli said gruffly. If only that part of the story had been true, Gimli would dance himself, but Pippin’s voice seemed incapable of rising in song within the walls of the city.

Pippin had confided in Faramir, and finally the Fellowship, about Denethor’s request for a song, allowing Pippin to put it off for a more convenient time that never came. Now Pippin felt as though Denethor’s ghost was hovering around every crook and corner of the city, waiting for his song. The very thought of it dried Pippin’s throat so he could barely speak, much less sing.

“It would do him well to overcome this fear before leaving the city,” Elrohir said, “lest he carry it with him to the Shire. Fears are not kind enough to allow themselves to be left behind.”

“We have spoken of it at length. There is little we can do to help the lad in this,” Gimli said. And yet… He patted his breeches pocket, where a small bundle was securely wrapped within. He might be able to help Pippin in some small way, at least enough to allow him to face his fear. He needed only the right opportunity to present it.  

Frodo strolled along the fourth circle, taking the back streets and side alleys for privacy. He was long familiar with the smaller streets of the city and could get around without being seen by too many. He found the crowds that gathered when he and his friends went out together to be unsettling, and he longed for wide open spaces and quiet rambles like he used to take in the Shire. Scooting about the back roads was the best he could manage in the meantime, and he meant to make use of it today.

He pulled his cloak around his shoulders, relishing his rare moment of solitude. Everyone was occupied elsewhere today. Even Sam had needed to run errands and for once hadn’t insisted that he come along for the fresh air. He should be concerned about this; he knew that Sam was in league with Merry and Pippin, if not with the prank then with some other scheme. Yet his desire to be by himself for just a few moments had been so overwhelming he actually feigned tiredness in the hopes of being left alone.

Frodo put aside his musings over his friends clandestine activities, at least for now. Plenty of time to sort that all out later. Right now, he had his own errand to run. He slipped through the alleys until he came to the shop he wanted, tucked into the narrow lane and sided by two empty buildings. Still, it was a busy shop and he had to wait several minutes before he could be sure of being alone inside.

The proprietor leapt to his feet when he saw Frodo. “My lord!” he exclaimed, wiping his hands on his shirt tails, which he then hastily tucked into his breeches. He bustled around the counter to stand in front of Frodo. He was an older man, Frodo guessed in his middle years by the greying of his hair. He had a lean frame and bony face, common among those who had not seen enough food during, or even after, the war. The man bowed hastily. “Are you needing assistance, my lord?”

“I am,” Frodo said. “I will need a product made within the next couple of weeks, and you are just the one to make it for me.”

“A product?” the proprietor asked. “I can get you anything you need today, sir. As you can see, I have plenty of supplies. How severe is the problem?”

“There isn’t a problem, which is precisely the problem,” Frodo said and explained his purpose as briefly as he could, to the proprietor’s increasing astonishment. “So, it is possible?” he finished.

“Of—of course, it is, my lord, quite possible. Not a problem, really,” the proprietor assured. “If that is your wish?”

“It is.”

“I shall see it done, then.”

“Excellent. I shall send word when I require the desired product, and will come to pick it up myself,” Frodo said, shaking the man’s hand.

Frodo returned to the alleyways, whistling a jolly tune. The next move belonged to Merry.
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 2/7/09
Published 4/20/09

Chapter 8 – Hall of Feasts

The Hall of Feasts was crowded with dignitaries, military commanders, political advisors and the royalty of the many provinces and outlands of Gondor. Erkenbrand and his riders were present, representing King Éomer and Rohan. Elrohir and Elladan and the Rangers of the North were also among the throng awaiting the arrival of King Elessar and the embassy from Harad. Everyone was dressed in their finest garb, their swords and armor left at home or in the barracks. Still, the sharp glint of fire on metal peeked out here and there from dirks worn tucked under coats. The glow of the hearth fires, wall sconces and hanging candelabras lit the hall brightly, and the buzz of excited chatter bounced off the walls, making private conversation difficult, but not impossible.

Sam leaned in close to Frodo and murmured, “At least it ain’t us on display tonight.”

Frodo nodded his agreement, glad to be momentarily overlooked as they stood between the pillars along the front wall. He breathed deeply in a vein attempt at gulping fresh air and dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief, already wilting with perspiration. He could feel sweat forming around his neck collar and under his arms. One drop broke lose and trickled down his back, making him want to scratch. He settled on his rolling his shoulders forward, pulling the shirt taunt beneath his coat.

‘Why do Men insist on wearing so many layers with fires roaring at all sides?’ he wondered for the tenth time since entering the hall a half-hour earlier.

He glanced up and down the hall. The Feast Hall was a marvel of stone and slab, with marble pillars along either side, a stage at one end and three massive cooking hearths at the other. The tall, vaulted ceilings rose thirty feet above their heads, wooden beams crossing the expansive ceiling from one pillar to the next all the way down the hall. There was a second level: curtained booths protruded from the walls for forty feet from the stage, waiting for a performance to give them an attentive audience.

The Hall was normally cool and silent during the day, making it a favorite retreat from the heat of early summer and the noisy bustling of the city below. At night, it was transformed into an oven, an impression compounded by the hearth fires blazing at the back. The scents of the cooking meat, seasoned with… Frodo sniffed but couldn’t place any of the smells he detected beyond the sharp tang of meat and garlic, the sweet juice of onions and the heady fragrance of parsley and coriander.

Smelling the food so deeply had been a mistake. The heat from the fires, the press of so many people, the fragrance of the food: surely they were slowly being cooked alive, even as they prepared to eat their meal. Was this what a frog felt like?

Frodo swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at this thought and wiped his forehead again.

“You all right, sir?” Sam asked as silently as he could.

“I’m fine,” Frodo lied then turned to Pippin before he could be peppered with questions on his welfare. “I heard you met with the Haradrim king and queen and their son, Pippin. You put on quite the show, by all accounts.” He attempted a teasing smile, succeeding quite well in his ruse.

Pippin grimaced. He too had heard the rumors circulating about his introduction to the embassy. “It was the prince who started all the trouble,” he said. “He seemed to recognize me, or at least to know what I am. I wonder if they have any tales of my Great-Granduncle Isengar. He traveled to the Sunlands, you know.”

“What exactly are they cooking over there?” Merry asked to no one in particular. His eyes and nose were drawn to the hearths. In two of the hearths, they could see what looked to be a rack with several small spits adorned with long strips of meat, each being rotated by a handful of harried cooks over the flames. Liquid fat rained from the strips and into the fires with tantalizing sizzles. In the third hearth, a giant cauldron steamed with smoke, a stew or soup of some sort simmering away. Earthenware bowls sat covered on the floor around all the hearths, steam rising from holes in the lids.

“According to the cooks,” said a man who stood near to them, “there is a beef and lamb stew, some sort of rice dish, something else called a kabob and some sort of vegetable dish. That’s not counting the pudding and desserts.”

Pippin and Sam put their noses to the job of trying to sort out the scents coming from the hearths. “There’s parsley and onions, and those kidney beans,” Pippin assessed. “Coriander, salt, pepper, and… walnuts? I can’t tell what the other smells are.”

“I hope it ain’t spicy like dwarf food is. I have quite enough odd dreams without any help,” Sam said.* “I don’t smell any cumin at least.”

Frodo turned away from this conversation and spotted the master minstrel a few feet away with the other court musicians. Curious, he excused himself and edged towards the minstrels and bards. They usually ate early, so as to be able to perform while everyone else dined. They should be warming up for their performance now, but they were clearly dressed as guests.

“Good evening, Lord Frodo!” they greeted with obvious adoration.

“Good evening, Good Masters,” Frodo replied, bowing and doing his best to ignore the feeling of immediate suffocation increased by their adulation. “I am surprised to see you among the guests tonight. I was looking forward to hearing your prose.”

“You will get to enjoy it still, Lord Frodo,” said the master minstrel, an elderly fellow named Beriso. “We will perform while dessert is served. Our guests of honor are providing the opening entertainment. I am told they have quite the spectacle planned for us.”

His apprentice nodded eagerly. “They have instruments similar to ours, as far as purpose, but they are made of a wood and in a manner as to give them wholly unique and enchanting sounds and qualities,” he said with obvious awe.

“We heard their musicians rehearsing earlier,” said Radigis, a bard. His eyes flashed with excitement though he was better able to control his fascination than the young apprentice. He thought for a moment, determining how best to describe the indescribable; he wasn’t a bard for nothing. “It is primal, but exquisite, though that does it little justice. It seems to pull at you, somehow, to draw you in. You can nearly forget yourself. Have you ever felt that way?”

He asked the question to his fellow artisans, but it was Frodo who answered. “I have,” he said before he was even aware that he was speaking. His voice sounded flat and hollow even to his own ears. He could little blame his companions for their sharp and shocked expressions. Frodo cleared his throat and put on a smile. “You describe it so well, I nearly feel as though I’ve already heard it.”

“It is beyond imagining,” Radigis said, quelled at the explanation. “You shall have to hear it to understand how poor is my description.”

“I shall look forward to both performances,” Frodo said and dabbed at his upper lip and forehead with his kerchief. His was not the only rag saturated beyond usefulness. He tucked it back into his pocket, wishing he had brought more, and tried desperately to remember he was in Minas Tirith, safe and far away from the putrid stink of Mordor. ‘It seems to pull at you, somehow, to draw you in. You can nearly forget yourself.’

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, appearing at his side as if by magic. He touched Frodo’s elbow, a gentle pressure that anchored Frodo firmly back in the present. Sam frowned at Frodo’s expression but only pulled lightly on his elbow, not yet letting go. “It’s time, sir. Mr. Merry found our seats.”

“Of course,” Frodo said. He bid farewell and good luck to his companions and followed Sam to the front of the hall. All over the Merethrond, the press of bodies was shifting as groups separated as everyone sought their seats, which were designated by placards set on empty plates.

The hobbits might not be the guests of honor tonight, but they were still the city’s heroes. They therefore found their seats at the table nearest the stage, just off to the left of it. Legolas and Gimli were also there, as were Elladan, Elrohir, a few of the Riders and the Rangers of the North. In the next table near the center of the hall were the rest of the Riders and Rangers, sitting with some of the Guard of the Tower. Frodo and Sam took their seats at the center of the table near their friends and turned towards the high table on the stage.

“Wait a minute,” Pippin said, noticing for the first time what had escaped nearly everyone else’s attention until just this moment. “Where’s the high table?” The stage was empty.

“Beriso said the Haradrim would be performing,” Frodo said, picking up his placard and fanning himself with it. He was glad to see others doing this also, even Merry.

“Look!” said a lady from the table on their right.

They looked to see where she was pointing then followed her gaze to the booths overhead. The curtains had been drawn back from the first booth on either side of the stage to reveal their first occupants in nearly seventy years. The booth to stage left contained Faramir, Imrahil, Anborn, Dervorin and Duinhir and a handful of Haradrim, including Prince Shahzad. To stage right, directly above the hobbits’ table, sat Aragorn, Gandalf and Erkenbrand in Éomer’s place. Also in their booth were King Ashraf and Queen Farzana and two other Haradrim.

The Gondorians all wore dark and somber suits or bold, colorful dresses with little decoration, while the Haradrim wore the same tan or white vests, kilts and dresses they had worn that morning. Only the royal family had changed their clothes, exchanging their deep blue attire for saffron. The only other difference was that they now also wore necklaces of gold, bracelets of precious stones, and their hair, while still plaited for the men, for the women was hidden beneath lacy and jewel-studded veils.

Gradually, everyone’s attention was drawn to King Elessar, for Elessar he was tonight with the Star of Elendil upon his brow, and the buzz of conversation lowered to a murmur. When Elessar stood and raised a hand, the hall fell silent, as though everyone had collectively taken a breath and held it.

“Good evening my honored guests and blessed friends,” Elessar began.

Behind the visiting king and queen, one of the Haradrim bent forward and whispered translations into their ears and the ears of his other companion beside him. Erkenbrand gave this man an odd look but quickly smoothed his features into mild interest in Elessar’s address. Gandalf merely gazed out over the gathered mass, his eyes settling here and there before moving on. His eyes finally landed on the hobbits; he winked conspiratorially and went on to search out the next point of interest; he shared the hobbits’ dislike for lengthy speeches.

Elessar continued, oblivious to the byplay taking place behind him. “Welcome to the Hall of Feasts. We are joined tonight by our new allies, Sultan Ashraf and Sultana Farzana of the Sultanate of the Moon of Far Harad, and their royal court: their Grand Vizier, Faheem.” The other man behind the king and queen bowed his head at the introduction. “The Amir, Shahzad,” Elessar continued, indicating the prince in the booth across the hall, skipping over the translator entirely. The hobbits noticed then that another translator sat in the booth with the prince and the remaining members of the royal court, who were introduced by their positions and names. Again, Elessar didn’t not name the translator.

“They must be slaves,” Legolas surmised, following the same line of thought as the others at these omissions.

“So they don’t have any names,” Merry said, incredulous.

“They have names,” Sam reasoned, “they just don’t warrant an introduction is all.”

“Shhh,” Gimli said and they quieted to return their attention to their king.

“Our honored guests have been given leave to go as they will within the city. They are eager to see our fair city and to meet its citizens. I trust that we will be gracious hosts and make them welcome.”

Elessar resumed his seat, and Sultana Farzana stood to take his place. She held her head high and looked out over her audience with a sharp, assessing gaze. Evidently pleased with what she saw, she clasped her hands in front of her, her elbows held out at right angles from her body, her fingers of one hand folded around the fingers of the other, so they nestled against the palms. She began to talk, her voice a rich tenor-alto that floated through the air down to those sitting below. She spoke clearly and with passion, the odd words of her language like the music of water trickling in a brook.

The translator kept his seat behind her, hidden in the shadow of her body, but when he spoke in Westron, everyone understood the shocked reaction of Erkenbrand on hearing his speech: the man was a Gondorian. Tanned to a dark brown from constant exposure to the desert sun and marked with the same tattoos as the others, no one had suspected he was anything other than Haradrim. Yet his speech was flawless, with no hint of an accent. Suddenly, the rumors that the Haradrim were hiding their prisoners of war in plain sight seemed not only more plausible but actual reality.

Frodo shook his head at this revelation, turning to quickly assess the other translator in the prince’s booth. Could he be Gondorian also? It was impossible to tell without hearing him speak. But surely these men were not prisoners, nor slaves. Surely, Aragorn would not have allowed such a thing. Would he?

Elessar, noticing the babble of excited whispers at the translator’s speech, stood again and held up his hand for silence. When it was once again given, he took his seat and motioned for the translator to try again. Sultana Farzana narrowed her eyes at her audience, their violet shade looking nearly black in the candlelight illuminating her, giving her the appearance of having no eyes at all when they were slanted so. An involuntary shiver went down Frodo’s spine.

The translator repeated the queen’s greeting. “Good evening, warriors and ladies of Gondor. I am Farzana of the House of the Moon, daughter of Rakhshinda of the House of the Moon, our former Sultana. My House is one of five great Houses of Harad. For many years, since the Great Eye first returned to our land, my House and our allies were forced to live in squalor and were hunted by those who would seek to gain the Great Eye’s favor.”

The queen then continued her speech, stopping now and again to allow for translation. She gave a brief history of her people, one of the three Houses who resisted the tyranny of the Great Eye and dissuaded those who would believe His lies for the truth. Once the most populous of the Houses, they were now little more than scraps left after the devouring dogs fought over their food – Frodo and his friends lifted their eyebrows at this alliteration. Despite this, they strove now to undo the damage of the Great Eye, gathering their strength to deal a final strike on the two Houses still loyal to the teachings of the Great Eye. Civil war was looming on their horizon, but for now, they have peace. For now, they can celebrate and they can breathe.

“We look to you not for help, not for show of force, but in the hope that when the dust settles and all is done and returned to the ways of our ancestors, before the tainting of Sauron, that you will join us in rejoice at our victory, and we can celebrate our freedom together.”

The queen tilted her head as she finished and took her seat. Sultan Ashraf stood next and stepped forward. He placed his hands on the railing in front of him and leaned forward. His gaze was equally as penetrating as that of the queen’s, his deep rumbling bass just as impassioned.

“Good evening, Neighbors of the North. I am Ashraf, Sultan of the House of the Moon, son of Amira Khurshed of the House of the Sun. I come also as ambassador of that House, at the behest of my cousin, Sultana Semira, and her husband, Sultan Amros, and I bear similar sentiments from them as my good Sultana has already stated. So I won’t bore you by repeating them!” He grinned through the Gondorian’s translation, laughing heartily once the man reached the end, surprising everyone in the hall. Sultana Farzana smirked and shook her head while the others laughed in relief of tension partially broken.

“In appreciation of your hospitality,” Sultan Ashraf continued, “and in honor of our most gracious hosts, we have brought gifts. First, our ladies will perform a dance for you, to the accompaniment of the music provided by our men. Then, you will eat the finest delicacies and drink the tastiest beverages of our land, prepared both by our cooks and your own, so that you may enjoy them even once we are gone, yes?”

Ashraf waited until the translation was completed, then grinned and winked, allowing for further laughter. “In Harad, our dances tell a story. The story you will see performed tonight was created especially for you. It is a visual history of the struggles of our people, and our redemption at the defeat of the Great Eye. Please, sit, watch, enjoy!”

He was about to take his seat again when the translator leaned forward out of his seat and asked him something. The king nodded, turned back around to his audience and held out his hand for full attention. Once he had it, he held up one finger and spoke in a jovial tone. “One more thing. Do not touch the women,” the Gondorian translated. The king continued, his voice now severe, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. “It is strictly forbidden, a crime that cannot, will not, go unpunished should any dare to insult our ladies in such a crude fashion.”

As though to illustrate the truth of this fierce statement, the Gondorian reached up and casually scratched at his cheek with his…

“Is that a hook?” Sam asked, aghast.

“It is,” Merry confirmed, gulping. “Pippin. Put your hands in your pockets.”

Pippin opened his mouth, about to argue Merry’s implication, then seemed to think better of it as he promptly closed his mouth and stuffed his hands as far into his pockets as they would go.

The hall was again abuzz with speculation and excitement, fascinated horror at the hook, as well as determined denial.

“It’s a fake hook,” said a Rider, Bealdred, from the table behind them.

“How can you tell?” asked another Rider named Osric.

“The metal didn’t reflect any candlelight,” Bealdred said.

“Perhaps it’s wood,” said Ingold, one of the Rangers.

“What good is a wooden hook?” asked Hammitt, one his companions. “You’d always have to be replacing it, wouldn’t you? Couldn’t get too close to a fire.”

“Perhaps he lost his hand in a fight or to infection, and just has a flare for theatrics,” suggested a Rider named Offa. “Does anyone know who he is? Or the other one?”

There was much head shaking among the Guards of the Tower in answer.

“There’s wooden legs,” said Bealdred, apparently unwilling to give up his argument so soon.

“My cousin had a wooden leg once,” said Wulf woefully. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“What happened to it?” Merry asked obligingly.

“It was eaten by termites,” Wulf answered to groans and guffaws.

“You just had to ask him, didn’t you?” asked Offa.

“He fell asleep one night and in the morning it was gone,” Wulf continued with an air of dismay. “Nothing left but wood dust and sated white ants.”

This earned giggles from Pippin, Frodo and Sam, and more groans and eye-rolling from the other Riders.

“Ask him about his aunt’s carbuncle next,” suggested Penda, who was quickly hushed by his companions.

“We’re about to eat,” Ludeca chided.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Wulf. “It’s about so big.” He held up his left hand, the index finger and thumb forming a circle. “And about so deep.” He turned his hand and held the same two fingers about a half-inch from each other. “All hard and smooth and this deep, dark, blood red color.”

Pippin’s nose crinkled at this description of a festering boil and Frodo reached for his placard, fanning himself fervently.

“It’s the envy of all of Rohan,” Wulf went on, “which is why she only wears the garnet for special occasions.” He winked at the hobbits. It was now their turn to groan.

“Is this what you do while you’re keeping watch?” Merry asked. “Make up puns?”

“There’s a whole routine, Master Holdwine,” said Ceorl. “At least you don’t have to ride next to the man.”

Wulf was about to object to this slight when the same lady from the far right table suddenly hissed, “Look! Someone’s on the stage!” Everyone turned their attention to the stage, where indeed a man sat tailor-fashion in the center.

The brief babbling of speculation that had erupted after the translator’s dramatic demonstration of the king’s warning fell now to a curious hum. A few women gasped appreciatively at the man on stage and all over the hall, fans snapped open to cool their flushed owners. The men snorted or frowned at this, giving the Haradrim man a closer look.

Wearing only a kilt of bleached-white, his milky brown skin glowed bronze in the candlelight, while dim shadows played in the shallows of the large muscles of shoulder, neck and chest. The kilt was nothing more they two square flaps of hide, held in place at the waist with a chord. Sitting as he was, the two flaps separated at the sides, fully exposing the lean muscles of thigh and calf while the front flap pooled in front to cover his most important aspects, which would have been covered in any case by the lute-like instrument he held. He wore a flat disc of cobalt from a chord around his neck and from his ears hung feathers of bright green and brilliant yellow.

“He might as well be naked,” complained one man, glaring down at his entranced wife.

“If the women are clad thus, they’re going to need to bring in buckets of cold water afore everyone passes out,” Sam murmured to Frodo.

“Where does he hide his dirk?” asked Ingold.

Wulf opened his mouth to answer.

“Don’t!” warned Osric with a hiss, which earned many other such warnings from the surrounding tables as the hall fell into silence once more.

The show was beginning.
 
 
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 02/21/09
Published 4/29/09 
 
 
 
 
 
* - In "With Their Heads Filled With Dreams" the dwarves cook the hobbits a spicy meal, which give them strange dreams that night.

Chapter 9 – Eat, And Drink to Your Fill!

The Hall of Feasts slowly grew silent as everyone waited for the performance to begin.

The Haradrim man on stage sat still, quietly plucking the three strings of the long fingerboard and adjusting the sit of the small, circular body of the instrument in his lap. He seemed to be waiting for his audience to conclude their observations and settle back into their seats. At any rate, he did not acknowledge the audience until the hall had again fallen into silence. He looked up for the first time, revealing eyes of emerald green to the further approval of the ladies and disgruntlement of the men. He looked up to the booth where his king and queen sat, bowed his head, faced forward and began play.

Frodo understood then what Radigis had meant. The lute, or whatever it was called, made a sound that was indescribable and the rhythms used were unlike anything he had ever heard before. They went straight to his core and he could feel their echo strumming within him. The quick and intricate finger work of the player created a music both primal and intimate, a sound so thrilling and strange as to inspire curiosity, awe and enchantment. It was at once low and deep, an earthy rumble of stone, and high and sharp, hail pinging against armor.

The first player was soon joined by another musician, who had been standing unnoticed in the shadows near the back of the stage. This new musician stepped into the light and set his lute upon the floor; a long spike protruding from the bottom of the lute’s belly settled into a groove in the stage. He pulled a bow across the strings on the soundboard, adding a new range of sensations and notes to the tapestry of the music. Frodo could imagine the call of cats and children, and the buzz of bees, the drone of dragonflies, the whisper of wind.

Two other musicians stepped onto the stage, blowing reed flutes with a low, throaty tone, sounding more like wind over wide open plains than any kind of instrument. They were quickly joined by a couple of men holding a flat, circular instrument, soon revealed to be a sort of drum. Simple enough, as a drum is a drum, but then they shook the frame adding the element of pouring sand.

The combined result was a sensation so powerful that the room and everyone else in it fell away. Even the musicians themselves dissolved, lost in the power of the music. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered. Until the women appeared.

Frodo wouldn’t have thought it possible for anything to break through the haze created by the music, but he soon became aware of several glimmering objects floating towards the center of the stage. He focused with some difficulty and was stunned to see a half-dozen women, clad head to foot in blossoming long-sleeved dresses of beaded silk and flowing lace, their dark hair veiled with lace. The lace was a pure white for all the ladies, but their dresses varied in color. Two wore saffron, two periwinkle and two moss green. All the women were beautiful and enchanting. Their movements were like water down a parched throat, and the shimmer of candles and flames off the beads of their gowns were like the beckoning light at the end of a long tunnel. Had Frodo had a thought to spare, he would have thought that cold water might still be required, despite the conservative dress of the dancers.

The ladies floated down the stage to the hall floor and glided up and down the aisles. As they reached the end of the hall where the cooking fires were now glowing, they were joined by a dozen other ladies, all dressed in bright and vibrant colors. They fanned out so that each table had their own lady dancing for them. Frodo wasn’t sure what story they were telling, but it was one of joy and hope, of the pure pleasure and delight of living.

Suddenly a voice rose up over the music and the swirl of cloth. The voice was clear as crystal, high and sweet and soon was joined by the powerful bass and tenor of the musicians on stage. They sang no words that Frodo could understand but the power of them was such that it stirred his heart and sent shivers of exhilaration down his arms and legs, setting his whole being to buzzing with the music.

Slowly, a strand of brooding was weaved into the music, so subtle at first to be only felt rather than heard. Something was wrong, but what? A second strand and then a third worked their way into the tapestry; the dancers continued as they had been but with a misstep there, a confused shuffle here. The feeling of not-rightness lingered, growing more obvious as the dance became more disjointed. A black figure floated out from behind the stage and suddenly all was madness and despair. For a time the dark and the light warred against each other, but the dark won out. The music grew heavy and lumbering while the dancers became slow and sluggish, struggling to continue. Then the candlelights were blown out and the shutters over the lanterns drawn shut, plunging the hall into darkness, with only the fires of the cooking hearths behind them, casting long shadows on the walls that danced over the women, bearing down upon them.

Frodo closed his eyes and tried to shut out the music, tried to push it out of himself. He was only vaguely aware of reaching out to clutch Sam’s hand and finding that Sam had already done so. He kept his eyes clenched tight and felt himself transported again to Shelob’s lair. He began to shudder, the strain of pushing away the music tightening every muscle of his being, until he was pulled taunt as a bowstring. He could not bear this a moment longer. Surely, he would go mad if this continued.

Then suddenly, the hall exploded into light and there was a great joy of surprise and excitement from the dancers. Frodo opened his eyes to find the dark figure shriveled on the stage. The black strands of music quickly faded as elation and triumph took over again. The joyful music and dance were the same as before, yet it was grander, filled with such hope and celebration as to be even more unbearable than the darkness that preceded it. Frodo noticed then that his hand was still clutched in Sam’s and his friend was crying, a smile on his face and in his eyes that nearly made Frodo weep with joy as well. Tears were already spilling unheeded down his own cheeks, and he slowly came to realize, as the dance grew to a fevered pitch, that he was grinning too.

Now the dancers converged onto the stage, jumping, twirling and leaping to the music as the song began anew, now filled with sorrow as well as joy, enough to shatter hearts and mend souls. Who was the woman who was singing? Frodo searched the stage quickly and spotted her to the side of the stage, a vision in ocher red, with orange and yellow gemstones sewn into blooming patterns upon her dress and veil. He pulled his eyes away from her and back to the dancers and noticed then that a couple of other drummers had joined the musicians. These drums reminded him of a goblet in shape, and the drummers beating upon their tops and sides were glistening with sweat, as were the other musicians. The women must be drenched by this point, but that didn’t stop them from escalating the dance to a flurry of skirts and lace until at length they dropped to their knees, their arms raised in the air in triumph, and the music ended with a deafening bang.

A moment of absolute silence preceded a thunderous applause, accompanied by many whoops and whistles of appreciation. The performers then all fell into a deep bow, their heads upon the ground. At a word from their king, they raised to their feet. The ladies left except for the one in red ocher, who stood talking with the musicians.

“Are you lads all right?” Gimli asked, eyeing all the hobbits sharply. They were all paler than before and their eyes were red with hastily wiped-away tears, but they looked otherwise fine.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Frodo said. “That was an eye-opener, as Sam would say.”

“Aye, it was at that,” Sam agreed.

“I wouldn’t have thought the Southrons would find the coming of the Dark Lord so grim,” said Penda. "They were his allies after all."

“Not from what the queen said, and I don’t even think those as marched against us were all that willing,” Sam said. “You told us how Saruman lied to the Dunlanders to get them to rise up against you. I wondered if it might’ve been the same for them.”

“Sauron was surely no kinder to his allies than he was to his enemies,” Elladan said.

As they had been talking, servers had begun to file into the hall, carrying bowls of food that they spooned onto the plates of the diners. When the servers were at the halfway point, King Ashraf stood in the booth and waved his hand towards their plates, speaking jovially. The translator clarified, “Now it is time to eat, and drink to your fill! Enjoy!”

There was a pause now as the everyone rose, including the Haradrim, and looked to the West. Whether the Haradrim had been instructed to do this, or if this too was their custom prior to dining, they could only guess. After a few moments’ pause, they took their seats again and the festivities continued uninterrupted.

On stage, the musicians formed a half-circle along the back edge of the stage around the woman in red ochre. They started to play softly and the lady removed the outer layer of her dress, revealing a red lace skirt beneath that hugged the curves of her hips and tapered down in a loose fall to her ankles. The shirt, if it could be called that, covered only her bosom, the thick straps falling off her shoulders to rest on her upper arms. The bottom of the shirt was fringed with several tiny gold baubles that rattled when she moved, and there was a ruby pierced through her bellybutton.

The chatter stopped abruptly at this sight, and several of the men borrowed their wives’ fans as the single dancer began to sway her hips and move her arms to the rhythm of the music. So entranced were they that many of them forgot the food they had just spooned off their plates or ignored the servers completely when it was their time to be served.

“We’re supposed to eat while she’s doing that?” asked Osric, a sentiment shared by many of the men.

Pippin turned away reluctantly; an odd prickling sensation had broken out over his skin, and he felt if he didn’t get air soon he might catch fire. As getting up was out of the question, he settled on adverting his gaze as much as possible. “I think maybe I should ask Strider to cuff my hands to the table.”

“Hopefully, she’ll stay up there,” Merry said, patting him on the shoulder. “I can see now why the warning was necessary. I wonder what folk in the Shire would think if our lasses dressed in such a manner when they danced.”

“They’d likely die from the shock of it,” Sam said.

“I’m sure there are some who would appreciate it,” Frodo said before he could stop himself. He blushed fiercely and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m surprised you’re not passed out already, Merry,” Pippin said; teasing Merry always distracted him from anything else. “You nearly passed out when we came across Pervinca and Estella skinny-dipping in the Brandywine once. You couldn’t even look at them.”

“That was years ago,” Merry said. “And you’re talking about your sister!”

“And Estella.”

“And your sister.”

“What is this?” asked Sam, bringing them all back to the matter at hand, that being the food which was currently being scooped onto their plates. Sam was looking at the food rather too closely. A high flush showed on his face and neck as his eyes darted back to the stage for a brief, most improper glimpse.

Contemplation of the food provided a much-needed distraction. The servers were carrying many large bowls of some sort of mush. The hobbits caught the scents of mint and mutton, as well as many other things they couldn’t quite identify. Sam caught the server’s eye. She was dressed in a simple billowing robe of beige, as were the other servers, men or women.

“What is this called?” he asked, pointing to the mush with a questioning expression.

The young woman bowed her head. “Haleem,” she answered, speaking it slowly so they could understand.

“Thank you,” Sam said, bowing his head back.

“Who’s going first?” Gimli asked, sniffing the stuff suspiciously.

“Oh, it can’t be all that bad, if they eat it,” Pippin reasoned and dipped his spoon into the brown mush. He took a generous bite, and his eyes lit up. He smiled and nodded, and motioned for more. The woman obliged, spooning another lump into his bowl before moving on to the next diner.

“It’s like pudding, made of wheat,” he explained once he swallowed his bite, but the explanation was unnecessary. The others were already eating with enthusiasm, except for the elves. Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir ate slowly, lingering over the unexpected burst of flavors.

“Is there nothing to drink?” Legolas asked as a slow burn began to develop at the back of his throat.

As though waiting for this question, another woman came along behind the first, a heavy pitcher in her hand. She poured a frothy, pale white juice into their cups. The juice fizzled excitedly for a moment or two before settling into its new container. They all took a sip of this and were surprised at the hint of mint and the taste of yogurt.

“No ale?” Gimli asked, echoing the hobbits’ disappointment. Legolas though nodded in approval and took a longer drink, discovering that this effectively quenched the burning sensation in his mouth.

“We do not drink spirits,” said the woman, surprising everyone with the fact that she understood them. Her voice was soft and pleasant, and her accent was as lyrical as the music being played on stage.

“You speak Westron?” asked Frodo.

“I do, kind sir,” she answered, glancing at the translator sitting behind the king and queen. The translator was currently employing his hook as a fork. In Pippin’s opinion, the man was too adept at using the hook for it to be a fake.

“Why don’t your people drink spirits?” Elladan asked.

“It is forbidden,” the woman answered. “It clouds your mind, makes men violent, so they do stupid things.”

“What is this called?” Merry asked, deciding a change in subject was in order.

“Doogh,” the woman answered. “It is yogurt water, with mint.”

“What is in this?” Pippin asked, pointing to the pudding.

“Oh, many things. Lamb bone-meat, stewed for many hours, and wheat seeds mixed with water, mixed altogether with mashed lentils. We add mint, ginger, coriander, turmeric… onions… eh, the eh… lemons,” the woman recited the list, stumbling now and then on the correct words. “There is more.”

“It’s very delicious. What else will they be serving?” Merry asked.

Before she could answer, one of the male servers came behind her and asked her a question, frowning at her and the others. She answered him casually enough, and he nodded, apparently appeased. Even so, he made a shooing motion and she scooted off to pour drinks for the remaining diners at the table. The man watched her as she finished and disappeared through a side door; they would not see her again for the remainder of the evening. When she was gone, the man turned on his heel and went back to patrolling the hall, watching the servers and looking for people to raise their hands for more food or drink.

“Are we not supposed to talk to them either?” Wulf asked from the next table, having seen the encounter. Osric still had his eyes glued to the stage, while the others were at least able to alternately eat and stare at the dancing woman. Wulf ribbed Osric hard. “Eat before you pass out in your pudding.”

Osric gave him a dirty look but obliged him by stuffing a spoonful of pudding down his throat.

“Well, that’s just silly,” Pippin said. “You can’t talk to them or touch them? You can only ogle at them? What sort of way is that to enjoy a lass’s company? It would get awfully boring, if you ask me.”

“I think Osric would disagree with you,” Penda said, grinning at his fellow Rider. “Wouldn’t you, Ossy?”

“Maybe this is their plan,” said Ingold. “Starve us by feeding us: entertainment included.”

“In that case, they can starve me with more of this pudding,” Sam said, licking his lips as he reached the bottom of his bowl.

“It is delicious,” Frodo said. “We will have to see if we can figure out how they make it, since it appears we won’t be allowed to ask.”

The pudding was followed by the main course: a small bowl of nearly-black stew, a plate of deep red pie-like soufflé, a gooey ball of rice and cherries, and thin strips of meat. When a male server came past their table with offer of more drink, they asked about the dishes, curious about the tantalizing blend of the flavors.

He did not speak any Westron and there was a great deal of pantomiming before they could make him understand that they did not require more food but merely wanted to know the names of the dishes. He supplied these easily enough, but he was required to repeat himself several times before they could understand the words.

The beef-and-lamb stew, which included at least kidney beans, onion, parsley, garlic, and turmeric, was called khoreshe ghormeh sabzi. In the vegetable soufflé, called kookoo sabzi, the hobbits could identify the taste of walnuts and many of the same spices as the stew, plus a few others. The cherry rice, or polow, also had onions and tumeric, as well as cumin and beef broth. The strips of meat, which the man called shish kebab, were grilled lamb meat, and seemed to be marinated in a sauce of green peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Sam guessed it also had some of the yogurt, as well as lemon.

“We’re going to have dreams again tonight,” Sam lamented, but was unable to stop himself from eating.

“Maybe they’ll be good dreams,” Frodo said. “The food isn’t exactly spicy, not like dwarven food is.”

“This is nothing,” Gimli confirmed around a hearty bite of kebab and polow. “This is so mild, a weaned babe could eat it and not be bothered.”

“It does only leave a mild sort of burn in the throat,” Sam said, still sounding doubtful. “I think that’s just because of the juice though.”

“At least I won’t be dreaming about chickens,” Pippin said, thinking of his own nocturnal adventures after eating too much of the rum cake Glóin had made in Rivendell. “I wonder what they have planned for dessert,” he continued, raising his cup for more of the yogurt drink. He sat back with a smile when a serving woman came to fill the cup and glanced up on the stage.

Throughout the meal, the dancers had changed every few songs, and they all now wore costumes similar to the woman in red ocher. The performance seemed to be winding down. The last few songs had been slow and wistful. Now they finished the current song, and the performers all kowtowed on the stage, until a word from their queen permitted them to leave.

The diners applauded as the performers left the stage. Osric, who had some time ago been goaded into eating his food by threat of being blindfolded, applauded the loudest. With the musicians and dancers gone, the hall seemed to shrink in size and presence, empty now of the wonderment that had filled it to the corners for the last two hours. The servers came around, replacing dirty dishes with clean ones, and then they too were gone.

Merethrond filled again with the buzz of conversation, most of it focused on the entertainment and food just consumed. Most everyone agreed that the food had been delicious, though a few maintained it was not at all to their liking. There were many mixed sentiments on the performers, some feeling the music too foreign and outlandish – which was the whole point, argued the others. The men were careful not to be too enthusiastic in their praise of the dancers, while the women tactfully refrained from mentioning the musicians’ many aesthetic attributes.

A half-hour later, King Elessar rose from his seat and called everyone to attention. “Let us all thank our honored guests for hosting us this evening. I entreat them now to enjoy the entertainment of our minstrels as we await their final treat.”

Applause ushered the court minstrels onto the stage. Despite it being empty of the bulk of the head table, they took up their customary positions on the front left corner of the stage. Frodo watched the Haradrim as they observed the minstrels. The minstrels' costumes were quite different from that of the Haradrim musicians, and there were no women among them. Frodo wondered if the Haradrim would find them dull, devoid of color, and their music tame enough to put the beasts to sleep, lacking the primal call of their own compositions. The Haradrim appeared to be genuinely interested though, watching the minstrels keenly, taking in their appearance in brown breeches, green tunics and brown coats and listening attentively as they began to sing a popular folk song, accompanied by their fiddles, lutes, tambours and fifes. It occurred to Frodo that the minstrels and their ordinary tunes would be as outlandish to the Haradrim as their music had been for the Gondorians.

The dessert was brought out a half-hour later. As with all the other dishes, the dessert was served on their plates by the servants, in portions the diners had at first considered conservative before they realized how filling the food was. The men and women were still stuffed to the corners but politely accepted the two small... things... that were placed on their plates. Merry, Pippin and Sam naturally asked for extra, Frodo being given more by default. He felt that he would have to somehow relieve himself of his dinner before eating any of the dessert,whatever it was, but he could not think of a way to politely excuse himself from the table.

He contented himself by poking at his dessert; he was not the only one to do so. Never before had any of them seen anything like it. A bright, glowing swirl of stringy yellow something shined up at them from their plates. Ever the crusader, Pippin tore at the treat – they had been given no utensils for this portion of the meal – and popped a fair portion of the stuff into his mouth. Everyone watched him intently as he chewed, waiting for a sign of sickness, a glow of pleasure, a blank expression of indecision. Pleasure finally won out and everyone reached for their own treats, taking at first tentative nibbles and graduating to full bites of appreciative delight soon after.

“Tastes like yogurt and sugar and… I don’t know what else. It’s subtle,” Merry assessed.

Sam wrinkled his brow in astonished surprise. “It’s roses.”

“Roses?” Elrohir asked, intrigued.

“Rose water,” supplied a male server who was walking by and had caught one of the few Westron words he knew. He smiled in agreement with their expressions of delight. “That zoolbia.”

“I never did cook aught with rose water afore,” Sam said, looking at the confection with interest. “Reckon you’d have to be careful what kind of roses you use.”

“Rose water, yes,” the man said, bobbing his head, unable to follow anything else that had been said.

Gimli lifted his mug for more drink, his face carefully neutral. The dessert was rather too sweet for his tastes. They must have dumped a whole bag of sugar into the mix with this rose water.

The man poured water into their cups; the yogurt juice had not been served since the fourth dish. Whether they had run out or this was simply custom, they did not know. The man filled everyone's cups, turned and looked around the hall for other raised cups. Seeing some, he trotted off, eager to serve.

“I hope the woman we spoke to before is not in any trouble,” Pippin said, with a glance up at the Gondorian translator

Frodo ate as much of his dessert as he could manage. When he could eat no more, Sam reached over his plate and plucked up the other morsels so casually that no one else noticed the gesture. Frodo reached for his placard only to notice that it had been cleared away with the dinner plates. Having nothing with which to fan himself and feeling as though he might explode at any moment, he remained at table making small conversation as long as he could stand it, that being about twenty minutes. Then he was on his feet, excusing himself.

Merry and Pippin had been absorbed into conversation with the Rangers and the Riders, who were making bets on the authenticity of the translator’s hook. Sam was speaking with a baron and his wife about the rot overtaking their fichus. Frodo motioned for him to stay and finish his instructions; he would wait outside.

Frodo stepped into the welcoming night. The gusts of mild summer evening air felt like a blast of snow on Caradhras compared to the stifling heat of the hall. He sighed deeply, letting go a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, feeling already much relieved. He stepped out of the doorway, standing a few yards away in the glow of the moonlight overhead. He breathed deeply again and let it out slowly, wondering how long Sam would be.

A few minutes passed before he heard footsteps crunching through the grass behind him, coming from the far side of the Hall of Feasts. He turned and looked up into the smiling face of the guard Adrik.

“Good evening, Lord Frodo,” the young man said, bowing.

“Good evening Adrik,” Frodo replied. “Have you been standing guard out here this whole time?” There were always guards on duty during feasts, in case of brawls or other forms of drunken disagreement. The troop on duty tonight was double the usual number, despite the lack of alcoholic influence. ‘Never hurts to take precautions,’ he mused to himself.

“I have, Lord Frodo,” Adrik said. “I was able to hear the music though, now and again.”

“I hope you at least got to enjoy the fare. The food was quite delightful,” Frodo said.

“We took our sup in the buttery, Lord Frodo,” Adrik said.

“Please, do call me Frodo. The ‘Lord’ part makes me uncomfortable,” Frodo said.

“Why?” asked Adrik before he could think better of it. He saved Frodo from having to fish for an answer by quickly apologizing for his rudeness, his eyes widened in horror.

“It’s quite all right,” Frodo assured him, just as quickly. “Do you often stand guard during our feasts?”

“We take turns,” Adrik said. “The others are enjoying the entertainment at the taverns, no doubt, or wisely taking their rest for tomorrow. I am most excited about tomorrow myself, are you not?”

Frodo paused at this. He had not heard that anything in particular was taking place tomorrow. Perhaps the lad simply meant the embassy from Far Harad being in the city. “Our guests will make the city an exciting place during their stay, I am sure,” he said.

“Oh indeed,” Adrik said, with a distracted wave in the direction of the hall. “There will be feasts and galas and rumors run amok. We shall be exhausted from speculation by the time they leave.”

Frodo laughed, though he was still confused. Adrik spoke as one accustomed to such extravagance, as though he hardly saw fit to even entertain such delights as exciting. What could he be talking about then? “I am sure everyone will be sleeping as they walk by the time the Haradrim depart.”

Adrik nodded, beaming again at Frodo. “Long before then, for some of us,” he said with an expectant air. When Frodo failed to find a reply to this, he went on. “I was most excited to learn from my king this morning that Amarlicus and I will be continuing to help you, Lord Samwise and Sir Meriadoc with the redecoration of the House. He has approved all of our suggestions and has already made contracts with some of the laborers in the city. We need only go to them and tell them what we will need and when.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, in his surprise rendered speechless, his usual eloquence in the face of the unexpected failing him in a most betraying manner.

So, Aragorn had discovered a way to keep Frodo and Merry distracted from their pursuit to slaughter each other by forcing them to work together in the most arduous of pastimes – remodeling. Either Aragorn was hoping they’d be so exhausted after the day’s work that they would have no energy left to plan any pranks, or he was counting on Amarlicus and Adrik to quickly separate them when the work became too tedious and they sought relief by attempting to cover each other head to toe in paint and sawdust.

“What about Pippin?” Frodo muttered. This was, after all, his doing.

“He is of course free to join us whenever his duties allow, Lo— Frodo,” Adrik said, catching himself just in time.

Frodo nodded, stifling a sigh. Pippin and his duties. “What time are we to start in the morrow then?”

They talked over the details, as far as Adrik knew them, until Legolas and Gimli emerged from the hall. Sam, after explaining to the baron how to save his suffering garden, had then been entreated upon to answer other inquiries of gardening disasters. There seemed to be no shortage of them after the neglect of the last several months, and Sam had been unable to get away.

Frodo said farewell to Adrik and joined Legolas and Gimli for the walk to their house. He would tell Sam about their forced activities when he came home tonight. Merry, he decided, could find out about them when they woke him at six to go up to the Citadel.

To be continued…

GF 2/28/09
Published 5/5/09

* - If you would like to listen to some samples of Persian music with traditional Persian instruments, you can go here. The instruments being played in this chapter are the setar, the kamancheh, the ney, the daf and the tombak.

Chapter 10 – The Kings’ Men

Aragorn greeted his friends the next morning in the entrance hall to his house, standing where Porcia or Jodocus usually stood to greet guests. Aragorn was not alone. He was flanked on either side by his foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, both of whom seemed to find the situation more than a little amusing. First Legolas and now Aragorn, their own foster brother, newly restored King of Gondor and Anor, were fretting over the perian like so many mother hens. When told this, Aragorn had drawn himself up with all the dignity he could muster and noted that keeping Frodo and Merry distracted from their promise to annihilate each other was more than worth the effort. If the ruse also happened to distract Sam from his intention to spy on him, then that was all the better.

Frodo and Sam greeted their king warmly enough; Gandalf tipped Aragorn a wink over their heads as he came in behind them. Gandalf had been pleased to discover himself awakened by the clunking of Gimli’s boots on the stairs that morning rather than to the cries of the hobbits’ night terrors during the night. All the hobbits had been surprised at how well they slept after their feast of Sunlands cuisine. They had dreamed, as Sam had suspected, but they had been the odd and disjointed dreams of contentment rather than the dark nightmares of weeks past. Only Frodo harbored a mild headache, an unfortunately normal occurrence these days.

The morning’s tranquility had not lasted long, however. Merry and Frodo had both been disappointed to find the other already awake and ready for the day ahead. Frodo’s disappointment was furthered by seeing Merry dressed in his livery; the Holdwine would of course be training with the other Riders this morning. There had still been immediate suspicion on both their parts. Why was Merry so jilted to see Frodo already awake? Why had Frodo wanted Merry to still be slumbering? Conversation over breakfast had been pleasantly interrogating, with neither giving up anything, much to the other’s irritation.

Aragorn winked back at Gandalf. He would hear the specifics later. For now, he only needed to know that his friends were here, or otherwise engaged, would soon be busy, and with luck would be too tired come nightfall to plan espionage or high-jinx.

“My friends,” Aragorn greeted in return. “I see you received my letter.”

Frodo narrowed his eyes, hands curling at his sides. “Letter?” When Merry arrived after luncheon, he would have some explaining to do.

“Humph,” Sam grunted, arms crossed.

“I see,” Aragorn said. On either side of him, his foster brothers lifted identical eyebrows.

Aragorn turned down the hall that led to the library and quickly filled in Frodo and Sam on the specifics, such as they were. “There isn’t much more to explain. I went over your suggestions with Mistress Porcia and Master Jodocus. I approved many of your suggestions, some with modifications, and came up with a few of my own. Elladan and Elrohir know what is to be done for today and tomorrow. By then, Jodocus should have been able to track down the proper commissions to begin next week’s work.

“I naturally don’t want either of you, nor Merry when he joins you, doing anything too strenuous, lest you injure yourselves anew. I will leave it to you to know how much you can and cannot do. If you begin to feel fatigued, you are to stop immediately and rest for the remainder of the day. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Frodo and Sam replied, sounding reluctant but obedient.

“Strider?” Frodo said as they reached the library, where Amarlicus and Adrik were already waiting. The guards promptly stood at attention as soon as Aragorn came into view.

“Yes Frodo?” Aragorn asked, motioning for the guards to stand easy.

“I’m concerned about Pippin,” Frodo said. “He was so looking forward to helping with this project. He would never complain, of course, but I know it is disheartening for him to be left out so. Perhaps he could get a day or two off his regular duties? It would mean ever so much to him.”

“Aye, it would at that,” Sam agreed heartily.

Aragorn knew them too well to be fooled by their friendly concern, but he had to admit they had a point. Pippin had volunteered his friends for this endeavor. It was only right that he be allowed to join in the fun. Also, it would keep Pippin well away from the Haradrim; they had clearly been intrigued by him yesterday and had commented much on the other hobbits during the feast. Aragorn felt no ill-intent in their interest, but thought it better to be cautious until he could discover why exactly the Haradrim found the hobbits so fascinating. Surely, they couldn’t have heard that a halfing had brought down the Dark Lord in the short amount of time they’ve been in the city. Had they somehow heard the stories beforehand? How much had the Southron prisoners he’d released after the battle at the Black Gate known or been able to discern?

Pushing aside these thoughts, Aragorn returned his attention to the hobbits. “I should be able to arrange that,” he said, to the obvious satisfaction of his friends. “I will send Pippin to join you as soon as a substitute can be found for him.” He turned to his foster brothers. “Make sure he is mindful of his back, legs and ankle. It will not take much effort for him to irritate his injuries.”

“Of course,” Elladan and Elrohir said. They had been briefed earlier on the injuries of the other hobbits and knew already from their years of helping their father what signs to look for that would signal the onset of fatigue or strain.

“I will check on your progress as soon as court has been dismissed. Perhaps then I can lend a hand to the work,” Aragorn said.

Frodo and Sam turned to their tall companions once Aragorn and Gandalf had left. Amarlicus and Adrik were waiting patiently near the main table at the center of the library, where a number of fabric bolts were piled at one end. On the other end were several sketch pads, carpentry tools and baskets of textiles. Elrohir and Elladan started towards the table, Frodo and Sam following.

“Estel told us that he wishes this library to retain its current character but wished for more Elven influences, such as you saw in the library at Imladris,” Elrohir explained to the hobbits. “The pillars are a good start. He wishes for that to be extended into the room.”

“How so?” asked Sam, intrigued. Looking around the library, he couldn’t begin to imagine how they hoped to marry the elegance of the Elves to the boldness of the Men, but he decided to reserve judgment until after the project was complete.

“Simple touches throughout,” Elladan said, taking over for his brother. “We will begin with the mantle and the trim around the hearth and windows. We will remove those and replace them with trim of Elven design. The same will be done with the design of the chairs, though he wishes for those to still be cushioned, hence the fabric. Many of the paintings will remain, while some will be moved to other rooms. Over the mantle will go a new painting, of Beren and Luthien.”

“Where will the queen go?” Sam asked.

“Her portrait will be relocated to the master guest suite,” Elladan said.

“Who will paint the new painting?” Frodo asked.

“I will,” said Elrohir, surprising the hobbits and men. “It was I who painted the portrait of Beren and Luthien in the Hall of Fire. It should be simple enough to recreate it.”

“Well, I’m glad at least one of us knows what we’re doing,” Sam said.

“Two of us,” Elladan said with a kind smile. “I will be designing the chairs and trim for the craftsmen that Master Jodocus is commissioning. I will make the mantle and carve the trim for the hearth myself.”

“Is that all?” Amarlicus asked.

“For this room,” Elrohir said. “A new rug and curtains of course, to compliment the chairs. The sempstresses should be kept busy with that.”

“What other rooms are we to help with?” Frodo asked.

“The master suite, the sun room and the guest master suite,” Elrohir said with a smile. “That is all for now.”

“What about the gardens?” Sam asked.

“I am certain the gardeners will be pleased for your assistance, Master Samwise,” Elladan said. “Estel does wish to redesign the layout of the courtyard and eventually grow a maze of hedgerows in the garden behind the House. Perhaps once we have finished with our decisions here, we can go to the gardens and take another look at them.”

“Estel does not want to begin dismantling the garden so late in the year though,” Elrohir said.

“Oh, of course not, to be sure, but I did notice as a few of those rose bushes are overladen, and there’s a few bare spots in the atrium which some plotted plants would fill in neatly,” Sam said.

“The gardeners will be much joyed that you wish to lend your hand,” Elladan said. “Now, Adrik, will you be so kind as to unroll some of these bolts so we can look them over? Amarlicus, perhaps we can get some light in the room?”

The men rushed to fulfill these requests. Amarlicus went around the room opening all the curtains, while Adrik began unrolling the bolts and spreading them across the table. The hobbits pulled out the chairs to stand on top of them, giving them as good a view of the table and its contents as the Big Folk enjoyed. Amarlicus rejoined them shortly, and they bent to their work. Under the gentle guide of Elladan and Elrohir, they began to analyze fabrics, textures, colors and designs and feel that they had some clue what they were talking about.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.  

“What again?” Pippin asked, looking up from his second breakfast plate into Bergil’s eager face.

“His Majesty said that I am to be his personal page today,” Bergil informed him again. He clearly believed it a great honor to be considered a suitable substitute to Sir Pippin in the king’s eyes. “His Majesty said that you are to report to the King’s House to help your friends with the redecorating there.”

“Am I?” Pippin said. He knew he couldn’t keep dodging the project, but he had hoped for at least one more day of freedom. “Only for today?”

“You are to have every Thursday and Sunday off your regular duties to help with the House,” Bergil said.

“Very well. Thank you, lad,” Pippin said, returning to his eggs.

“I have this for you also, Sir Pippin.” Bergil slipped him a folded piece of parchment before turning about and hurrying back upstairs to the throne room.

Pippin finished his second breakfast, bade farewell to his friends, then retreated outside. Once on the path to the King’s House, he opened Bergil’s note to find two more addresses and sets of directions to potential houseguests.

One was the Lord Amlach and Lady Genevieve. Pippin had already met the lady and spoken with her at length the week before, awed by her most unusual hairless cat. His friends had been awed by her cat as well, though Frodo and Sam shied away from touching it or getting too close. He could still hear Sam speculating over the cat later that night at dinner.

“They say as Morgoth made the orcs by torturing elves. Do you think maybe he tortured cats too?” Sam had asked.

“Why?” Merry had replied.

“Didn’t you see that thing? That’s an orc cat if I ever saw one,” Sam had said.

“No, I mean, why would he torture cats?” Merry had elaborated.

Sam had shrugged. “Because he could, I expect.”

“How do you torture a cat?” Legolas had asked.

“They don’t like having their tails pulled. They really don’t like being squeezed. They hate water,” Frodo had said. “I think if Sauron or Morgoth had attempted any of those, they’d have been shredded to death long ago.”

Pippin giggled now, thinking of that conversation, and gazed down at the next address. This belonged to a proprietor on the second circle, whose shop had been among the many to be destroyed in the battle. The man, named Duilfin, had beseeched the king not for help in rebuilding his business but for finding someone who could conceive of some way to help his son move around. His son’s legs had been lost under one of the boulders flung over the walls by the enemy, and he now lay in the Houses of Healing, slipping further and further into depression at his lost mobility. He’d rather die than be a burden to those he loved for the rest of his life. His father, understandably, was in despair for his son’s life.

Pippin slipped the parchment into his pocket and let himself into the King’s House, directing himself to the library. There he found his friends in deep contemplation over two fabrics, both of which looked much the same to him. Taking a deep breath and pasting a brave smile on his face, he entered the library, ready to take his punishment with good grace.

“Hallo!” he said. “I can see you haven’t accomplished much in my absence, but now that I am here, I trust we will be getting to work soon.”

“Pippin! You're just in time to lend us your expertise,” Frodo said, brightening considerably. “You are so much better at this sort of thing. You decide which one would look best hanging from the windows.”

Pippin walked around the table and climbed onto a third chair. Looking at the fabrics up close, he could better see the difference in the designs. Both were a pale green, the color of new grass, but one had hints of amber and amethyst in the color, while the other was printed with a floral design that added texture but not color. Pippin couldn’t say he cared for either of them by themselves and glanced at the discarded bolts with a swift eye. Spotting a third bolt, this one a solid lavender that complimented the amethyst nicely, he indicated for Amarlicus to unroll it and place it alongside the other two.

The twins nodded but the others merely looked confused. Pippin glanced behind him at the windows that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. “They’re long windows,” he explained. “You’ll want some variation in the curtains, so the eye doesn’t get bored. We can combine these three textiles. The lilac for the top three feet or so, closer to the ceiling. Then a shorter strip, of about a foot, of the printed fabric; the printed design can be overlaid with ribbon to match the lavender and amber to give the three a sense of unity. This solid green can make up the rest of the curtain. The printed green can also be used for making the sashes, trimmed on either side with amber.” He stood back in triumph, beaming at his own ingenuity.

Sam nodded, liking this idea immediately. “That’s a neat idea, Mr. Pippin,” he said. “My sister Daisy did somewhat similar when she first married and moved into her new house.”

“So did Pimmie,” Pippin said. Sometimes, it helped having three sisters. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as he thought of them all. He’d even be glad to see Pervinca again and would happily withstand her interrogations just to be able to hug her, provided of course that she would allow it.

“I believe our own sister would approve of that idea,” Elrohir said and set the three bolts aside. “Which shall we use for the seat cushions and the rug? This one, I think, for the seats.” He pointed to the solid lilac, which Pippin approved.

“A rug though, in such a high-traffic area, will need to be of much more solid material than any of these,” Pippin said. “These won’t survive being walked on for long.”

“No, naturally,” said Adrik, jumping into the debate. “But the rug should emulate the curtains, surely?”

“I think so,” Amarlicus agreed. “Perhaps the printed design around the edges, with the solid green in the middle. As the chairs will be the lavender, we won’t want to use that again. Or will we?”

“No,” Pippin, Sam and the twins said as one. “Best to keep the lavender as minimal as possible,” Sam elaborated. “The wood’s dark enough without adding to it too much. The lighter colors for the rug are best.”

This agreed upon, they went on to discuss the designs of the trim, mantle and chairs that Elrohir had sketched the night before.  

Aragorn was holding a closed court this morning. Gandalf, Faramir, his advisors, the captain-generals, the princes and lords of the many regions of Gondor, and Erkenbrand were all present. Also present was the embassy of Far Harad.

They had exhausted discussion of the feast yesterday night and the various foods and entertainment provided, the translators speaking quickly to convey the many compliments of their hosts. Aragorn watched the translators closely. He had discovered quickly their true origins, as had the diners in the Hall of Feasts last night. To look at them, one would never suspect there were not Haradrim, yet there was no mistaking their Gondorian roots when they spoke Westron. Aragorn had withheld comment yesterday; so much else needed to be conveyed and done. Now he hoped to find an answer to this riddle, if he could.

Discussion of the feast came to an end, and Aragorn moved to the next item on the agenda. Curious as he was about the translators, he felt it necessary to discuss the hobbits before anything else. If he felt the Haradrim harbored grudges towards his friends, then any further attempts at negotiation would be pointless.

Aragorn turned to the prince and, smiling kindly, said, “You were most interested in meeting one of my knights yesterday morning. The stunted one, I believe you called him.”

“Hobbit,” Amir Shahzad said slowly after waiting for the translation. He remembered the odd word the Pale King had used for the stunted ones. He smiled in return, thinking of them. “He… eh… he…” He struggled to find the right words and finally gave it up as a lost cause. He slipped into Haradrim, explaining with enthusiasm why he had taken notice of the hobbit.

“It was the feet, yes?” the translator said between the pauses in the prince’s rhetoric. “I noticed them because I thought he wore sandals, as we do. Then I saw that they were dirty, most unwholesome, for in Harad, to be clean is sacred and so we bathe often. But as I got closer I saw it was not dirt but hair upon his feet. That of course would make anyone take pause, yes? But you see, I took special notice because of the stories in my household of the stunted one. A long time ago, in the youth of my great-great-great-great grandfather, there came to our land a stunted one, half the height of any man, with curly hair upon his bared feet! That is why I stopped, yes? I had thought it just a story, but there was a stunted one before my very eyes! Imagine my delight to see so many more of them at the feast! If I had been able, I would have asked them if they were related to the one from the tales, but I fear that I did not have the chance, nor the words, to do so.”

Isengar Took immediately came to Gandalf’s mind. He knew that Isengar had sailed around much of the world in his years away from the Shire and had spoken with him at length upon his return to his homeland. Isengar had told him of his year in the Sunlands, hiding in a household that sought to protect him from discovery by the Black Númenóreans, who he had accidentally run ashore in a storm.

“Does the tale tell how this stunted one eventually left your lands?” Gandalf asked in jilted Haradrim.

Shahzad nodded. “He died there.”

Gandalf grunted in surprise at this. Not Isengar then. Perhaps Hildifons or one of the Boffins?

“This is the only tale you have heard concerning hobbits?” Faramir asked.

Shahzad nodded. “It is a great tale. Would you like to hear it?”

“I am sure that the hobbits would enjoy hearing it as well,” Aragorn said. “We will wait until they are present.”

“It is a gripping tale,” said Sultan Ashraf now, through the translator. “My son tells it well. You will not be disappointed, I do not think, but it is not only grand tales that have brought us here, I fear. The destruction of the Great Eye, that is what concerns us most. As we said last night, there are two Houses who allied themselves with the Eye when He first came into our lands, claiming to be a god of unequaled power. Clearly, this is not so true, for how could a god be destroyed?

“Already many in those Houses are awakening and would seek forgiveness from us whom they have wronged. Their leaders are most corrupted and they are adamant that they should not falter in the Great Eye’s plans, and there are many yet who still follow them. There will be civil war soon. This we must deal with when it comes. For now, we seek only to acquaint ourselves with the White King and learn if he is an honorable man. So far, we believe that you are.”

“I hope that I may continue to meet your expectations,” Aragorn said, satisfied for now. “Let me begin with the remainder of your embassy. I understand that you left a number of them at the Gate. We have found accommodations for them in the city and have sent a guard to escort them to their apartments and show them around the city.”

“That is most generous of you,” said Sultana Farzana; the translator softened his voice somewhat when speaking for her. “We will send word that your guard is coming. I hope that they are not scattered about too much. This is a city that is easy to become lost within.”

“They will be housed on the fourth circle, in a row of empty homes there,” Aragorn said. “They will be neighbors with the Rohirrim. In this way, they can begin to build a friendship with our allies to the west.”

“This is good news,” said Ashraf, nodding approvingly with a warning glance at his wife to not take offense. Should things have been reversed, they too would house the visiting embassy close to their guardhouses.

Farzana inclined her head slightly. “Yes, it is good news,” she agreed, though she met Aragorn’s eye with a calculating gaze. “It is good that we begin our friendship with such open trust.”

“A trust, I am sure, that will only grow stronger over the coming weeks,” Aragorn said, inclining his head in return. “As a show of your good faith, let us speak now of your translators and the other prisoners in your possession.”

Both translators stopped midway through this translation. They narrowed their eyes at Aragorn, ignoring the confusion of their companions. A silence fell over the room until finally one of the royal translators spoke. “We are not prisoners,” he said in severe tones. “We are Haradrim, and we hold no prisoners in our ranks.”

To be continued…

GF 3/7/09
Published 5/14/09

Chapter 11 – The Translators’ Tale

Aragorn, Faramir, Gandalf and Erkenbrand exchanged glances at the translator’s astonishing announcement, and there was much mumbling among the other Gondorians present. For the translator to declare himself as Haradrim was curious indeed. Clearly, there were more tales to tell than that of Shahzad’s four-times great-grandfather’s Stunted One. The translator though was not yet finished with his rebuke.

“You dare to make such accusations of my Sultana and Sultan?” he asked. “On what basis do you speak such words?”

“What is happening, Soroush?” Farzana asked calmly, though she was greatly alarmed at her translator’s harsh words. That he should speak out of turn could mean only that the Pale King had provoked him terribly.

“I aim to discover it, Your Majesty,” Soroush said, forcing himself to speak calmly to his queen. He returned his glare to Aragorn. “Well?”

Aragorn bowed his head in apology to Farzana and Ashraf. “Peace, my brothers,” he said to Soroush and the other translator,  who also looked ready to join the rebuking. “I regret the need to speak so harshly of your king and queen. You must know, and so must they, that there have been rumors in the city for weeks prior to their coming that they would be returning prisoners with them as part of their negotiation strategy. It was believed that they would hold the threat of the prisoners’ lives against me and my people. When the scouts brought back word that there were no prisoners to spy amongst your ranks, a second rumor began that they were hiding the prisoners in some manner that was yet to be seen. Then you and your friend arrive, both clearly of Gondor, looking so much as one of them that this second rumor is regrettably even now taking root in the hearts of my people. I needed proof that you were not being held against your will.”

“Couldn’t you have simply asked?” the second translator asked.

“He did,” Gandalf asked in return. “You mean, why couldn’t he have asked politely? The answer to that is simple: a calm question, a calm reply. It would not dispel the suspicion of a lying tongue. Harsh words bring harsh responses, heated with passion, and in such a moment only truth may be spoken.”

“Indeed, we learned more by your response than what your words told us,” said Aragorn. “You are not afraid of your king and queen, to speak out of turn, even if it be on their behalf. Nor did you take the opportunity to hint at a desire for release from their service. You are not prisoners, nor are you held against your will, for even the most kindly treated slave may reserve some resentment for their masters. In turn, the king and queen are not reprimanding of your actions, but instead were distressed at your anger and concerned for your agitation. There is love here, and that is good. I trust there is no more doubt among any in this room that your words are true, and those in the city will soon learn the truth also. Alas, it will not entirely dispel the rumors, but it will guarantee the safety of your people while they dwell below.”

The translators stared in astonishment for several moments, until Ashraf finally asked, “What is being said, Soroush?” He spoke kindly enough, but there was a sharp edge to his voice that demanded an explanation, and now.

“I am sorry, Your Highness, and I beg apology,” Soroush replied, bowing his head graciously. Down the table, the other translator was beginning to reiterate all that had been said, and Soroush rushed to do the same. “The king Elessar asked how many prisoners you have among the company, besides myself and Ashtir. I was offended for your honors, Your Majesties, and spoke out of my turn, telling him there are none. I told him we are Haradrim and asked him the meaning for speaking so unjustly of you. It was but a ruse, Your Majesties. He wanted simply to see how things truly stood between Your Majesties and myself and Ashtir, if we be prisoners, slaves or free men. He is satisfied now that we are in your service willingly.” He then paraphrased the last of Aragorn’s explanations and ended with, “I will go to my room now to await punishment, if that is your wish.”

Then something remarkable happened. Farzana and Ashraf laughed. It was the first time any there had seen the queen smile, and it transformed her from a statue of hard beauty to a being of radiant light, lifting the hearts of all who saw it and heard her sweetly lilting laugh. Ashraf’s booming laughter filled the corners of the room, astounding everyone but Gandalf and Aragorn, who had been near enough last night at the feast to appreciate its full vibrato.

“You have stones!” Ashraf said. “I like that.”

“A well-played hand, my lord,” Farzana agreed. She often believed that diplomacy would only get one so far, which was not very far at all.

Soroush forwarded their sentiments and Aragorn laughed in his turn. “I am honored, and much relieved, that you do not take offense,” he said, and in that instant, all tension in the room was broken. Everyone settled further into their chairs, postures still upright but relaxed, no longer posed for an outbreak of instant mayhem.

“My punishment, Your Highness?” Soroush asked, head bowed.

Farzana flipped a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Who will speak for us if you go? Do not think you have escaped punishment altogether though.”

“Shall it be my other hand then, Your Highness?” Soroush asked, a small smile on his lips. Ashtir, Shahzad and the others chuckled at this.

“It would be your tongue if that did not render you useless to me,” Farzana said, but she too was smiling and her soft words were in jest.

Even so, Shahzad shuddered, for he knew what the translators did not. In some Houses, such a crime as they had just committed was in fact punishable by the swift removal of the offender’s tongue. Thankfully, in his mother’s House, the sentence was only a hundred lashes of the whip and removal from the office. But surely his parents would not dismiss Ashtir and Soroush, nor yet whip them for defending their Sultana and Sultan! After all, they were not in their own lands. Perhaps this incident could be overlooked somehow.

“As for your hand,” Farzana continued, “perhaps I could find suitable use for it. You will not be so loose with your opinions if you are weary.”

“I will do any task you put me to, Your Highness,” Soroush said.

“Your Highness, there is a required punishment for their crime,” the Grand Vizier Faheem whispered.

“They have committed no crime,” Farzana said, speaking so all could hear her.

“Naturally, they have not, your Graciousness,” Faheem said. Shahzad beamed.

Ashraf looked across the table to Aragorn, Gandalf and Faramir. “You must later thank your Sultana for your pardons, my sons. For now, tell King Elessar that surely if we had brought prisoners-of-war with us, we would have handed them over immediately as a sign of good faith, just as he so graciously released our men from his bonds after the war. However, our House being in its position of servitude during the War, we were ourselves prisoners until the Dark Lord was destroyed: we still wish to know how this was done.”

Soroush nodded and addressed Aragorn. “Sultan Ashraf says that they would gladly hand over any prisoners in their keeping, if they had any, just as you yourself did. However, the House of the Moon was itself held prisoner during the War. We have only recently been freed by the destruction of the Dark Lord, and they are most eager to discover how this victory came to be.”

Aragorn held the eyes of the king, queen and vizier, then addressed the translator. “Just as we wish to discover how our soldiers came to live in their lands. The two of you cannot be the only ones. What of the Houses of the Eye? Do they yet hold any of our men as prisoners?”

“He wants to know about the other Gondorians in Harad, and the prisoners taken by the Eye,” Soroush told his king and queen.

“That is a fair question,” Farzana said. “The ones who dwell in my lands, and the lands of my cousin Semira and our ally Sultan Cothos of the Sun, came to us as refugees. We sheltered them against discovery from the Eye, and those who wished to return to their homes after the War were escorted to the northern borders of Near Harad. Of your soldiers taken by the Eye, I cannot say, though I doubt their fate was better than that of our men and women taken for their means. They would have been worked to death. It is rumored that those who yet lived were slain when the Great Eye was defeated. If, however, there are any who remain alive when we go to reclaim our own, we will free yours as well. Gladly will we nurse them back to health and return them to you if that is possible.”

“I will gladly send soldiers to aid you in this effort,” Aragorn said.

“Why wouldn’t you want to return to your home? Your families?” Faramir spoke up suddenly, voicing the opinions of many in the Hall. “Surely there are those who would be worried for you, who would fear you dead and be eased by knowing your fate.”

Soroush forwarded these comments to his king and queen, which began a quiet discussion between them and Ashtir that went on for some time. Finally, Farzana held up her hand and spoke in her clear, commanding voice. She bowed her head to Ashraf, ignored the comments of Faheem and smiled at Soroush. She waved a graceful hand towards Aragorn and spoke a few simple words that did not require translation, for their meaning was clear. “Tell them.”

At a similar nod of consent from his king, Soroush looked first to Ashtir, who shrugged consent. They both then addressed the Gondorian court. Soroush began. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, then opening them commenced to tell their tale as briefly as he could.

“I was born Methedos, son of Beregos of Belfalas. My Haradrim name is Soroush,” he said. “This is my cousin, Sador, son of Tangor, my uncle. We came to Harad as soldiers in my father’s company, commissioned by Denethor to intersect a regiment of Southrons moving through Near Harad on their way to Mordor. This was at a time when such movements were rare and easier to stop.

“That being so, we went with confidence that many of us would return to fight another day. However, our efforts were thwarted. The regiment we met was much larger than reported and they were ready for us. Nearly everyone in my company was slain in battle. Those few of us who survived were tortured for information, and failing to give them any, we were left for dead in the summer heat of the desert. We later learned the regiment we fought were from the Houses of the Sea and Earth, allies of the Great Eye, traitors of Harad.”

Ashtir took over the story now. “Three of us survived that first day. Only three. The third was Xantos, the son of my father’s body servant, and even we would have died from heat stroke the next day had a small band of nomads not passed through that night on their way to the sea. They were but one of hundreds of such bands, survivors of attacks from the Sea and the Earth on their homelands, traveling remnants of their once great Houses. They took us to the home of Lala, the niece of Sultana Taja of the House of the Stars. She called a wise-man to heal us, but alas Xantos was beyond his skill. Only Soroush and I survived and that was a near thing. I was dehydrated terribly; they could not give me enough water, and Soroush’s hand was diseased with infection. It had to be removed to save his life. He was not happy about it when he finally woke from his fever dreams a few nights later.”

“I was not,” Soroush agreed. “I did not understand where I was, or how I came to be there. I remember little between being left for dead and waking in Lala’s home. It took me many weeks to trust them.” He chuckled. “I even devised an escape, thwarted by the cooks, who came to bring us traveling provisions at their mistress’s behest. It was then I realized that we were among friends.

“We planned then to come home once we were healthy enough to travel; to remain there against Denethor’s orders would have been treason. They conceived a way to remove us from the country over the bay, but the scouts of the enemy saw us approaching the sea and sent a small company to disband us. We managed to return to the House of the Stars without losing too many people. Sultana Taja learned of our difficulties and proposed to keep us hidden within the palace until it would be safe to try again.

“A month passed before a small company from the House of the Sea came to the sultana and demanded that any Pale Skins, for so they call us, kept in her house be turned over to them within a week. Lala devised a scheme. We were Pale Skins, but we didn’t have to be, if they made us Haradrim. We had to choose: committ treason against Gondor for our lives or surrender to the enemy and go to our deaths. We chose to stay.”

“It was a heavy choice for me,” Ashtir said. “I was betrothed at the time and thought I might still be able to return in time to assure my family of my survival. I thought over it, looking at it from every conceivable angle. Surely, there must be a way to attempt one last escape. Alas that the roads and paths to the sea were heavily guarded by the allies of the Eye, hoping for just such a foolish attempt. It has vexed me to think of my family grieving my life when I still lived, and my lovely Ingeltrude, mourning the husband she would never know. I have felt often a coward for staying, but I hoped that by remaining, some other opportunity might yet present itself to allow me to return. It took rather longer than I feared. Seven years longer.” His smile was bitter and sad.

Soroush moved as though to take his hand, but the distance between them was too far. Still, the motion eased some of the grief from Ashtir’s face. They smiled at each other, then Soroush continued.

“I, however, had no reason to return to Gondor; I had no family left. I did though have reason to remain in Harad: Lala’s maid servant, Karima, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I thought if I became Haradrim, I would be permitted to court her and, once I secured a job and some holdings, to marry her. So I stayed happily and we both swore allegiance to the Faithful Houses of Harad. Lala’s plan worked in that their enemies were not able to force us from her home, but we were forbidden by the Enemy to ever set foot outside of the lands of the Faithful Houses, lest our lives be forfeit.

“As for Karima, being Lala’s maid servant, she was not permitted to marry. To remove the temptation, they sent me and Ashtir to the House of the Moon where we were to serve the sultana as tutors, teaching her the ways of the Pale Skins. Seeing our loneliness, we were both eventually given a freed slave to marry. Ashtir politely refused; he still hoped to return home. I took for my bride a cook in the palace named Razeena, a beauty and a delight to me in every way. It was not long before we had a family of our own, two robust sons of Harad, and she just informed me last night that we are to expect another child, a daughter this time we hope. That is our story, as we can bear to tell it.”

“Soroush!” Ashtir exclaimed, slipping into Haradrim in his excitement. “Your Razeena is giving you another child!”

Similar regards were spoken by the Haradrim. Soroush beamed. Farzana raised a hand for silence. “I am pleased to hear this. I worried about her when she did not return to the Hall of Feasts last night.”

“She took ill, Your Majesty. She always gets her sickness at nights,” Soroush said. “She is well now.”

“Congratulations,” Aragorn and Faramir said as one. Gandalf grinned, mirroring the expression of the rest of the court; all men were united in their celebration of new life.

Ashraf patted his translator on the arm but looked down the table to Ashtir, who was sitting now in contemplation of the events so briefly recalled. “Do you require refreshment, my son?” he asked.

“If you will allow, Your Highness,” Ashtir said.

Ashraf raised his arm and one of his servants stepped forward to pour juice into Ashtir’s cup. Ashtir drank slowly, savoring the cool, sweet taste of the juice but wishing it were mead.

“Do you require a break?” Aragorn asked.

Ashtir shook his head. “No, it is only that we have never told this story to anyone, not since it first happened. I will be all right. You may continue with the rest of your proceedings.”

“Your tale is fascinating, full of sorrow though it is,” Aragorn said. “I see that your unique perspectives may be of help to us in understanding our new friends the better. I would like to speak with you further of your experiences in Harad, if you both wish.”

“We are not traitors to you then?” Soroush asked.

“You are not,” Aragorn assured.

“Then we may talk, if my sultana allows,” Ashtir said.

“It will be arranged. Now, is it known how many other Gondorians such as yourselves there are in Harad?” Aragorn asked.

“In the sultana’s palace, there are only us,” Soroush said. “As my Sultan already told you, many of the Gondorians who were being hid from the Enemy were taken to the northern borders of Near Harad. Admittedly, that number was not as great as it could have been. Many still remained for fear of persecution for treachery, yet there are others such as myself, who wished to remain for they have lives there now and have come to love the people as their own.”

“Then I shall write down the edict that they are pardoned and may return safely to their homelands,” Aragorn said. “A monument shall be raised in honor of the lost soldiers of Gondor in Pelargir, where their more fortunate brothers met their retribution in the Battle of Corsairs. I am satisfied that in the Houses of the Moon, Sun and Stars we have faithful allies.”

Soroush translated these sentiments to Ashraf and Farzana, who both nodded in agreement. “So too shall we build a monument, to all those lost so that we may hope for more peaceful days ahead,” Sultana Farzana said. “Now, perhaps, you would be willing to share a tale, that of the Eye’s destruction.”

Gandalf cleared his throat, Faramir drummed his fingers on the table and Aragorn met the queen’s curious gaze and nodded. He would gladly tell her anything she wanted to know about the Ring-bearer, except his identity and race, for now.

“Perhaps you have heard in Harad that long ago, Sauron, as we call the Great Eye in our lands, forged a Ring of Power and into it he bled much of his power and strength…”  

Gimli yanked the glove off his right hand and ran his fingers through the latest batch of cement powder. For this batch, they had used clay dug up from the quarries south of Osgiliath and from lands approaching the western branch of the Emyn Muil north of the city. Both samples had been promising from the moment the carts had been unloaded the day before. A group of masons now stood around him, eagerly awaiting the verdict. Did they go back to the start or move on to the next phase?

When he initially told the rest of the Fellowship of his intentions, they had all wondered at the wisdom of hunting all over Gondor for clay and sand. To them, one type was the same as any other, and they saw little need to go so far and wide for something that could be found right outside the city gates. Only Pippin had been foolish enough to voice this opinion, thus dooming them all to an impassioned lecture on the many intricate differences of not only clay and sand, but rock, dirt and stone as well. By the end of their lesson, they were all sitting with eyes glazed over and mouths hanging open in mollified boredom. And they had thought Merry long-winded when one of the Rangers dared to ask the difference between Old Toby and the vile weed the Rangers smoked in the wilds!

Gimli raked the powder with his fingers, then sunk his hand into the fine but gritty mush. The powder pooled around his hand, soft as flour but hard as dirt. He withdrew his hand, flicked it once to remove as much excess powder as he could, then rubbed his fingers together, feeling the many miniscule particles trapped between thumb and forefinger. He brought his fingers to his nose and smelled deeply; most people believed that sand, rock, clay and stone did not have their own scents, but Gimli knew otherwise and the aroma he sniffed now was faint and familiar.

He felt a thrill run up his spine, raising goose pimples, as the hobbits called them, on his skin. This was it! He knew it beyond doubt. They had rediscovered the beauty of cement, strong as the foundations of the earth!

He dipped his hand into the bucket of water that stood nearby and wiped them clean with the rag that hung from it. He grinned up at his companions, teeth flashing brightly through his beard, and nodded at the master mason, who stood with the notes for all the receipts attempted thus far.

“We have cement, my friend!” Gimli said. “It was the sand from Emyn Muil that did it. I’d bet my mother’s beard on it.”

This gave everyone pause. The master mason eventually blinked and put a check mark on the sheet with the winning receipt. “I’ll get to writing up a clean copy for everyone,” he said.

“Tell the diggers to pick up their trowels, Valcamir! We’ll need more, lots more,” Gimli said. “We’ll move onto the next round of experiments with the powder we have now. Start with the same measurements required for the lime mortar and we’ll make adjustments from there. We’ll have this mortar perfected by the end of next week!”

The masons and soldiers cheered and patted Gimli on the shoulder and back. Gimli allowed them a few minutes of congratulations before sending them back to work, following a few down to the kilns to inspect the bricks being unloaded. He wanted to have a gross of bricks at the ready to use in their experiments.  

Legolas slipped into the house and listened to make sure he was alone, though he knew already that everyone was occupied elsewhere today. There were no sounds within, no sense of another’s presence. He checked the rooms as he passed them and found them all empty as they should be. He climbed the stairs on silent feet, his passage a mere whisper down the hall to Merry’s chamber.

He let himself into Merry’s room and headed straight for the wardrobe, opening it with ease. At once, he spotted the bag he had seen Merry carrying out of the thrift shop the day before. He picked up the bag and dumped its contents onto the coverlet. Just as the girl had reported, there was nothing in the bag but a pair of pants, a shirt, a waistcoat and smallclothes, all the perfect size for Frodo or Sam.

He laid out the clothes, inspecting them thoroughly for some deficiency. Yet the material was fine, the clothes well-made. The colors even matched nicely, as hobbits reckoned such things, and the pattern and texture of the waistcoat was a compliment to Frodo’s features. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the clothes at all, which only worried Legolas more.

Stumped, Legolas put the clothes back in the bag and put the bag in the wardrobe. He was careful to place it in the exact same spot and position as it had been in before; Merry would notice if it had been moved even the slightest bit. He closed the wardrobe door and went back downstairs, his mind racing.

Could Elladan have been right and Merry was simply hoping to surprise Frodo with a new outfit? Frodo had been complaining that the clothes made for him and Sam after the Quest were too big, and while they had started to fill them out, they were both tired of having to constantly readjust the sit of the shirts on their backs.

Was that what was troubling Legolas? If Merry had intended the clothes as a gift for such a purpose, then why only one set of clothes? Surely, he would have bought something for Sam as well, unless his social status prohibited him from doing so. Legolas huffed in frustration, wishing Boromir were here. Boromir had understood the hobbits far better than he ever had, and the captain-general was no slouch when it came to pranks either. He could have had this riddle figured out with little difficulty.

But Boromir wasn’t here. Legolas would have to make do with those who still remained. Gandalf knew more about hobbits than anyone, but he felt the pranks were a good distraction for them. Perhaps he was right, but that didn’t mean Frodo had to be unprepared for what was coming his way. Aragorn had spent years watching over the Shire and guided the hobbits from Bree to Rivendell nearly single-handedly, but there had been little time during that journey for casual chit-chat. Aragorn knew just as much about the hobbits as Legolas himself did, and he was quite busy enough running his kingdom to be bothered with such a trivial matter anyway. Gimli would gladly help him, but the hobbits would suspect him immediately.

“Oh, Boromir,” Legolas muttered. “If only…” But wait! Faramir might not have his brother’s temperament or inclinations, but he was close to both Pippin and Merry. Pippin had helped to save the prince’s life, and Faramir and Merry had become quick friends during their convalescence in the Houses of Healing. Faramir was his black horse.

Legolas sprinted out of the house, just barely remembering to close the door behind him. He headed for the citadel to await Faramir, hoping the council with the Haradrim would not last overlong.

To be continued…

GF 3/30/09
Published 5/25/09

Chapter 12 – Rumors And Tumors

Merry shrugged out of his training livery, grateful for the steaming bath in which he was about to immerse himself. Two mornings in a row of grueling practice drills might not have been the best idea, but he enjoyed the feel of fatigue in his muscles, knowing they had been well-used. He had been tight and sore when he rose in the morning, but the exercises had melted away any aches and pains. He knew that tomorrow he would wake to newly compacted muscles and no aches to slow him.

He stepped down into the tub, luxuriating in the heat that seeped into his muscles, relaxing any tightness that lingered. Because of his height, he always had to soak on the steps rather than the seat that ran along the edge of the tub. As such, he was always the last one in and the first one out. He didn’t mind this though, as he had always viewed baths as a necessary and languishing interruption in an otherwise busy day.

“What do you think the Haradrim will be like?” Ecgberht asked to everyone in general.

Erkenbrand had brought the news to them last night after the feast that they will be neighboring the remainder of the Haradrim embassy. As part of their neighborly duties, they were to show the Hardrim around the city and make them welcome, while simultaneously keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. They did not doubt that the Haradrim would be observing them likewise, and they were the sole representatives of Rohan in the city.

“They seemed nice enough at the feast,” Erkenbrand said. “A few of them can even understand a bit of Westron, and they were all eager to learn as much as they could about our ways. They had been told by the Dark Lord that we were heathens, barbarians who would as soon cut their throats as look at them, and use their bones to make our bread. Many of them were afraid of coming and were surprised at how kind we were to them.”

“They’re the barbarians,” Offa said. “We’ve all heard the stories of those who were captured by them. They were sold into slavery, branded like cattle, left to the mercy of their so-called masters. They say the men who were rowing the boats when King Aragorn liberated them were little more than skeletons. They just used them up until they died, then tossed their bodies into the bay to feed the fish.”

“It is more complicated than that,” Ceorl said. “You heard the queen and king last night. It sounds to me that Far Harad is not just one nation but several, such as Gondor and Rohan, even the Shire.”

“Yet none of us treat men is such a manner,” Wulf said.

“Perhaps not, but what of the Dunlanders?” Merry said. “They were misinformed and their hearts filled with hatred against you by the lies of Saruman. Yet Théoden forgave them and set them free, and they returned to their lands with a better appreciation of you. Should we do any less for the Haradrim?”

This was met by grumbling and muttering.

“The way I see it, they govern themselves much the same way as Hobbits do,” Merry said. “Every hobbit can trace their lineage back to the one or more of the Great Families, and the families govern themselves. There is no one single ruler. Sure, we have the Thain for raising an army at need, and the Mayor for running the Post, the Shirriffs and Bounders, but even they can’t overstep the ruling of the family head when it comes to his own kin or property. It would be easy enough for one family to veer away from the Rules that all the other families live by and nothing whatsoever for them to do to prevent it. I think something like that must have happened in Harad: some of the families, or Houses, chose to follow the Dark Lord, and others chose not to.”

“No wonder then if they are concerned about civil wars now that the Dark Lord is defeated,” Penda said. “We have won peace for ourselves, but their troubles are just beginning, or continuing, depending what side they’re on.”

They sat in silence contemplating this matter, envisioning such a fraction among the clans within their own homelands and the mayhem it would cause.

“Is there truth to the rumors of eunuchs?” Olaf asked suddenly, looking surprised at himself for having asked the question. The surprise quickly shifted to a dreadful fascination; he wasn’t certain if he really wanted to know the answer.

“I know not,” Erkenbrand said, shifting uncomfortably.

“What’s an eunuch?” Merry asked.

Now all the Rohirrim began to squirm in their seats, blood rushing to their faces that had nothing to do with the heat of the water. Several of the Riders shot glares of contempt at Olaf; anything that transpired now was entirely his fault, the glares all said. Erkenbrand cleared his throat and avoided looking in Merry’s direction.

“It is not known what their purpose is,” Erkenbrand answered.

“What do the rumors say then?” Merry asked.

“It is not important,” Erkenbrand said, finally meeting his eyes. “It is nothing you need concern yourself with and I suggest you forget the matter, for your own good. You have lost enough of your innocence as it is.” He looked each of his men in the eyes and they all nodded at the silent command; they would not speak of the matter to Merry or any of the hobbits. Erkenbrand came full circle to Merry again and waited.

Merry nodded. He would not ask his fellow Riders about the matter, but that wouldn’t prevent him from asking someone else.

“Trust me, Merry,” Erkenbrand said, as though reading his mind. “It is nothing you want to know.”

Merry nodded again, more curious now than ever. What could possibly make these Riders, these brave and fierce warriors of Rohan, quiver in their skins, and did he really want to find out?  

They spent the rest of their bath in silence, speaking again only once they were dressed and on their way to the tavern where they took their noon meal. They spoke haltingly of their plans for the remainder of the day, clearly still bothered by the mystery of eunuchs. Merry was glad to quit their company at the end of the meal, even though it meant going to the citadel to join Frodo and Sam with the redecorating.

He walked with some of the Riders to the stables on the sixth circle but did not go in with them. To see them fondling their horses would only make him miss Stybba, not to mention Taffy, the ginger-and-white coated mare he had left behind in Buckland. He bid his friends farewell and continued to the citadel.

Jodocus admitted him into the house, bowing deeply before escorting him to the library. There they found Pippin and Elrohir leading the group as they finalized their proposals for the twins to take to Aragorn that night. Merry knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Pippin there – if there was anyone capable to stealing pages and knights away from Strider, it was Frodo – but he was surprised to discover how much Pippin was enjoying himself in his role as Master Decorator. Clearly, Merry had failed in his role of older cousin and had allowed Pippin far too much time to be influenced by his sisters. He should have insisted Pippin spend more time in Buckland.

“Shall I bring you refreshment, Sir?” Jodocus asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Merry said, dismissing the butler back to his duties. He stepped into the library and came to stand behind Sam, who was sitting in one of the big chairs, staring down at the materials spread over the library floor. “Not finished yet? It’s a good thing I’ve come then. Maybe now something will get accomplished.”

Pippin snorted without looking up. “Only if nothing is something.”

“Oy, now! I’ll have you know I helped Mother when she wanted to redecorate at home,” Merry protested, looking wounded.

“Moving things where she told you to put them doesn’t count,” Pippin said. “Any idiot can do that.”

“She did ask you to move that rocking chair,” Merry said, grinning impishly. He winked at Adrik, who was goggling at the cousinly repartee; this was not the sort of conversation he was accustomed to hearing, family or no. “So what has been decided upon then? You’re not using that color are you?”

“We are. Elladan assures us Aragorn will approve of it,” Frodo said. He had spoken softly enough, but there was a slight edge to his tone that even an untrained ear could not miss.

“Are you feeling well, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, concerned.

“I’m fine, Sam,” Frodo said and took a steadying breath. The minor headache he had woken with had steadily grown worse as the morning progressed. He had hid it for as long as he could but the pounding was nearly unbearable now. “It’s just a headache.”

“Maybe it’s a tumor,” Pippin suggested.

“It’s not a tumor,” Frodo said.

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a quick glance that went unnoticed by everyone else, preoccupied with Frodo as they were. The Ring-bearer did look paler than normal, now that they took a proper look, and they could almost feel the tension going through his frail body.

“It is time we took a break and a proper meal,” Elladan said. “As we have already finished here and there was nothing else Estel required of us today, you may go about your business as you wish after you’ve eaten.”

“I don’t have to do anything?” Merry asked, perking up.

“No. Amarlicus and Adrik can clean up in here,” Elrohir said. “I will brew some athelas tea for you.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said. He stood and insisted on walking unaided to the kitchen. His friends followed after him, concerned but determined to lift his spirits as Pippin began to berate Merry for shunning his duties.

“How can I be shunning my duties if I’m at training with the Rohirrim?” Merry rightly asked. “That is my duty.”

“Shunning one duty to fulfill another is still shunning your duties,” Pippin insisted.

“Well, perhaps I can have Gandalf split me in half so I can be in two places at once!” Merry said.

“Don’t be silly, Merry. You just need to prioritize better,” Pippin said, their voices growing dim as they walked down the hall.

In the library, the elves and men waited until they could no long hear the hobbits. Amarlicus put his hand on the back of the chair where Frodo had just been sitting.

“It came on so suddenly. He was fine but a moment ago,” the old tutor said.

“Or were we just not paying attention?” Adrik asked, guilt coursing through him like waves crashing ashore.

“I cannot say. Frodo is far closer than I suspected if this headache has been plaguing him all day and we are only now sensing it,” Elrohir assured him.

“Maybe it’s Merry,” Elladan joked.

“I think rather that we simply expected too much, too soon,” Elrohir said, smiling nonetheless. “I will tell Estel. The hobbits should be allowed a couple of days off to rest. When next they come, we will need to be mindful to take more breaks. Estel would rather us finish late than risk further injury to the Ring-bearer and his friends. We have time yet.”

“Not so much time,” Elladan said.

Elrohir grimaced. “We can only do what we can do.”

“So we will not be meeting here tomorrow?” Adrik asked.

“No. Elladan and I will meet with the craftsmen that Mistress Porcia and Master Jodocus commissioned for us,” Elrohir said. “The Haradrim will be entering the City today. You both should remain in the lower circles and keep an eye on the hobbits’ house and their movements. Dress in civilian clothes; two more of the Guard will be sent to help you. Naturally, do not allow yourselves to be seen by the hobbits, unless it cannot be avoided. They cannot suspect that they are being protected in such a manner; they will feel it an invasion and an unnecessary one at that.”

“Yes, my lords,” Amarlicus and Adrik said, bowing.

“Come. Eat as well, or the hobbits will worry,” Elladan said. “We will help you clean after the hobbits are on their way.”

“I will get the athelas,” Elrohir said.

They split ways at the staircase, Elrohir heading for the upstairs garden, the others continuing to the kitchen, where the silence of hobbits eating was sweet in the air.  

Faramir stepped into the buttery, waving distractedly at the chorus of hellos and good-days that greeted his entry. His mind was full of everything he had heard during the interview with the Haradrim king and queen. Very little of what he heard confirmed the rumors that he had grown up listening to, spoken in whispers behind closed doors or under the cover of moonlight and starlight. He had received one shock after another, beginning with tales of hobbits in Harad, continuing with the translators' story, and finishing with Aragorn’s decision to tell the Haradrim about the Ring-bearer.

Naturally, Aragorn would not tell them the identity of the Ring-bearer. Instead, he had given them a thorough recounting of the final days of the War of the Ring. Of Frodo’s part in the War he said only that a Ring-bearer chosen by Providence had come forth at the final hour, and together with his servant and a guide went into the Black Lands and threw the Ring into the Cracks of Doom. He told them that the guide perished, but that the Ring-bearer and his servant yet lived, though they too were very nearly lost, so starved and dehydrated they were, and fallen amongst a sea of boiling lava. The Eagles were only just in time to lift them out of the Black Lands and bear them to safety in Cormallen.

The Haradrim had been fascinated. Long had their ancestors wondered what caused the Great Eye’s long absence from their lands. They had known nothing of a Ring of Power, nothing about the Battle of the Last Alliance. They had always assumed that the Blue Wizards had something to do with it. Little were the wizards seen among those lands, but there were rumors of their passage from Sea to the mountains in the East. Some said they were powerful conjurors, others that they were mere men playing at gods, yet others that they were agents of the Eye, dark and corrupt. The revelation of the Ring was met with some reservation, but eventually Farzana admitted that it was just as likely an explanation as any other.

The Haradrim were naturally curious to discover how the Ring-bearer had come to be in position of the Ring in the first place. A brief recounting of the history of the Ring followed, from Its forging long ago by Sauron in the Cracks of Doom, to Its disappearance after the slaughter of Isildur and Its surprising reappearance when the Ring-bearer’s kin discovered It in a cave, owned by the Ring-bearer’s future guide, and lastly how the Ring-bearer inherited the Ring, not knowing Its true nature.

“But who is he?” Sultana Farzana had persisted in knowing, through the efforts of the translators. “What is this great warrior’s name? We must know, so that we can honor him in our lands, praise him for our freedom, raise monuments in his liking so our people can look upon him and know their liberator.”

“He would be horrified to think that any people were doing such a thing,” Aragorn said. “He thinks very little of himself. A more humble soul will you never meet.”

“Can we meet him?” Sultan Ashraf asked.

“We shall see,” Aragorn said.

We shall see. Such a simple statement, such a heavy prospect. Could the Haradrim be trusted? They were sincere, of that Faramir did not doubt, but what would they do if they saw Frodo and realized who he really was? They were already fascinated with the hobbits, knowing of such creatures from the folklore of their ancestors. What would they make of the connection?

Aragorn clearly wanted to see how they responded with the hobbits one-on-one first, and he was counting on the citizens to protect the identity of the Ring-bearer until such a time as Aragorn chose to reveal it. It was a risky gamble. Many of the Haradrim understood at least a few rudimentary words and phrases in Westron, and others, thanks to the translators, knew even more. Someone could easily reveal the Ring-bearer’s identity, thinking the Haradrim ignorant of the language, before Aragorn even had a chance to broach the topic with Frodo.

So absorbed was Faramir in his thoughts, that he didn’t at first notice when Legolas sat down next to him at the table, a cup of lemonade in hand.

“Farthing for your thoughts?” Legolas asked, borrowing a phrase the hobbits liked to use.

“Hm?” Faramir asked, stirring from said thoughts. “Legolas? When did you get here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Legolas said. “I was hoping you might be able to help me find out what Merry has planned for his prank on Frodo. I don’t want to stop him, necessarily; Gandalf seems to think it might be good for them both to be focused on such trivial things. But with Frodo’s health being so poor, I think it might be best for him to at least know what is coming his way.”

Faramir stalled, pretending to ponder the proposition. Did Legolas know that the prank was merely a cover for an entirely different scheme? Faramir thought it unlikely; Pippin hadn’t even wanted Aragorn to know that.

“I can’t imagine Merry would do anything to Frodo that would cause him duress or harm,” he said at length. “Still, it couldn’t hurt to find out what we can. We will leave it up to Frodo if he wishes to hear anything we may discover. I admit that I would be at a loss of how to broach the subject without making Merry suspicious.”

“I’m confident you’ll think of something,” Legolas said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Faramir said. They clinked their cups together, their agreement sealed.

To be continued…

GF 3/30/09
Published 6/1/09

Chapter 13 – Bones and Stones

The athelas had eased Frodo’s mind considerably and alleviated his headache altogether. Frodo had gone to bed that night feeling better than he had in some time, so it was a shock to him when he woke a couple of hours later, sweating and trembling considerably, as though he had run a great distance. He looked around his darkened room but could see or hear nothing that would have caused him to wake.

“Some night terror then,” he murmured, but try as he might, he could not remember what it had been about.

Yawning, he stretched out his hand and groped on the side table for the glass of water that was kept there. The glass was empty. Frodo frowned. He was certain that Sam filled it just before he fell asleep. Why then would it be empty? Having no answer to this riddle, he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He shuffled his way towards the door, intending to get water from the kitchen, but his feet hit something hard and cold upon the floor. He kicked this aside and continued on his way, but his path seemed strewn with these odd objects.

“What?” he asked, confused.

What could be upon the floor, hampering his movements? He turned back to the bed where the oil lamp sat on the table. To his continued confusion, he found his way once again blocked. The obstacles now hindered his every move and he had no choice but to reach down and toss them aside. He grabbed at one and felt his heart drop into his stomach. The object was sickly familiar, though he was certain he had never held one before. Yet it could be nothing else. He dropped the bone to the floor and stood frozen, his heart racing and sweat streaming down his face. He feared to move in any direction, even as the smell of the bones made its presence known, turning his stomach so that he retched.

“Sam!” he called, but the house was silent and, he knew, empty. There was no one here but himself. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.

“This is a dream. Wake up,” he willed himself. “Wake up.”

A laugh, ominous and low, came from the hallway behind him. He turned and saw a glowing fire burning there, the red light casting a blood-tinge upon the bones in the room. He looked in horror at the bones: Hobbit bones, small and fragile, broken and shattered. He began to weep, his knees weakening.

“Wake up!”

“You will not wake,” the laughter said and suddenly a dark form loomed in the doorway. The Witchking came forth, brandishing his blade of cold stone. “You will join us in oblivion.”

“You’re dead,” Frodo whispered.

“As are you,” the Witchking said. He lifted his blade and thrust it downward, searing Frodo with unearthly pain. The laughter became the roar of the fire and it surrounded him as he screamed.

“Wake up!”  

“Mr. Frodo! Wake up!” Sam shouted desperately. He shook his master fiercely but to no avail.

Gandalf rushed into the room, the rest of the household following just behind him. Gandalf placed his hands over Frodo’s brow and spoke a silent chant. Legolas came up beside him and added his own will to the chant. Finally, Frodo woke with a gasp and a cry. He looked about wildly, not seeming to recognize anyone.

“You are awake now, Frodo,” Gandalf said, urging Frodo to focus upon him. “Your dreams cannot haunt you here.”

“Sam?” Frodo pleaded.

“I’m here, Master,” Sam said, squeezing Frodo’s hand. Frodo clasped at Sam and sobbed. Merry and Pippin climbed into the bed and supported Frodo from either side, lending their own comfort.

Gimli frowned. “I do not understand this, Gandalf. Frodo just had an athelas treatment. He should not be haunted by terrors in his sleep.”

Gandalf rekindled the hearth fire and brought out the pouch of athelas that he carried with him. He poured water from the ewer into the small cauldron kept in the room. He crushed one precious leaf and sprinkled it into the water, then placed the cauldron over the fire. Gradually, the heat of the fire released the healing effects of the athelas, and the room filled with its gentle scent. Tensions eased and Frodo came back to himself, tired and confused.

“Maybe we should send for Strider,” Merry suggested.

“I am fine,” Frodo said breathlessly.

“You are not,” Pippin said.

“I don’t wish to disturb him,” Frodo said. “It was but a dream. It has passed.”

“Perhaps we should wait and see if the athelas will help,” Legolas said. “I can sing for you.”

Frodo nodded and his cousins settled him back in his bed. Sam climbed up with them to hold his master, who was still trembling violently. He bade Frodo to close his eyes as Legolas sang and slowly they all began to calm. Gimli spooned out some of the athelas tea into a mug and handed it to Merry, who then held it to Frodo’s lips. Gandalf was still muttering under his breath, a stray word in some ancient language now and again spoken with more force.

Finally, Frodo calmed enough to sit up and take the mug from Merry. He looked at his friends with embarrassment. “I am sorry to have wakened you.”

“Nonsense,” Gimli said. “We were all tired of sleeping anyways.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pippin asked.

Frodo shook his head.

“It may help,” Gandalf said.

“No. I don’t want to think about it. Thank you all, but you need not remain here.”

“We will see you back to good dreams, lad,” Gimli said. “Then we shall seek our own beds.”

It was another hour before Frodo trusted himself to doze. Gimli and Gandalf went then, but Legolas remained until he was certain that Frodo was deep in peaceful slumber. He went into Sam’s room to rest, as it was clear the hobbits would not be leaving their friend.

The rest of the night passed without disturbance.  

Gimli waited until after first breakfast the following morning to approach Frodo. At everyone’s instance, Frodo had eaten breakfast in bed accompanied by his friends, and Gimli had to chase everyone else from the room before addressing him. “I may be able to help you with your nightmares, Frodo, if you will permit me to try.”

“How so?” Sam asked. He had made no move to leave with the others, which was just as well. Gimli needed him there.

“It is a healing method used by the Dwarves,” Gimli said. “As with all other things, we keep it a secret to ourselves and do not use it on any not of our race. I believe in this case an exception can be made.”

“Thank you,” Sam said before Frodo could find someway to decline the offer.

Frodo frowned at Sam, but Sam lifted an eyebrow in response and that ended the argument. So it was that Gimli returned a half-hour later once everyone was gone on their day’s errands. Gimli reached behind his neck and unclasped the chain that hung there hidden beneath his hair and beard. At the end of the chain was a small tear-drop diamond.

“Lie still and watch,” Gimli ordered. Frodo lay himself down and Sam stood back.

They watched in fascination as Gimli dangled the diamond over Frodo’s body, moving the stone up his form from his feet to his crown. The diamond swung in small circular motions until Gimli came to the base of Frodo’s spine. There the pattern began to change, at times jerking, at others returning to it circular path. Gimli made a note of each of these changes.

“Why do you make it do that?” Sam asked.

“It is not I moving the diamond, Samwise,” Gimli said. “Stones are sensitive to the energy in all things. It moves so because there are blockages in Frodo’s energy. Take the stone and see for yourself.”

Sam did as instructed and while he kept his hand steady, the stone swung or jerked just the same. “So what does it mean then?” he asked, handing the diamond back.

“I’m blocked, apparently,” Frodo said with a weak grin. “Not enough fiber in my diet, I suspect.”

“It means you have too much or too little energy in those places, making you unbalanced,” Gimli said, returning the smile.

“Unbalanced? Like a weight scale of sorts,” Sam said, reaching for the best analogy he could think of.

“Of sorts,” Gimli agreed, not knowing any other way of explaining the delicate energy sources of the stones and how they interact with those of the body. “Think of Pippin when he’s had too much chocolate.”

“There’s a stone that can help with that?” Frodo asked. “Eglantine will be forever grateful to you if there is.”

“Alas, there is none that I have found,” Gimli said. “But for you, Frodo, your nightmares, fatigue and anxiety can all be linked to the unbalanced energies seen here. A few stones in the right places should help to balance you again. For a while.”

Gimli opened the small drawstring purse which he had carried with him throughout their travels. He had never before opened it, and they had never had enough nerve to ask him what it contained. Now Gimli poured out the contents, and Frodo and Sam were surprised at the sea of stones that flowed upon the breakfast tray. The stones were all the size of a large grape and perfectly round. Gimli sorted through them and picked out the stones he required.

“It is important that you allow the stones to do their work,” Gimli said. “Do not fight them.”

Frodo nodded and watched as Gimli began to place the stones over his body. Immediately, he could feel a gentle tingling where the stones were placed. The sensation spread out slowly from the stones, sometimes accompanied by a mild heat, sometimes a hint of chill. He began to relax and feel a calm he had not known since those rare moments after the destruction of the Ring.

Jasper Gimli placed low on Frodo’s belly, amber at the base of the rib cage, rose quartz over the heart, turquoise at his throat, sodalite and a diamond just above his eyes and against his crown amethyst and snowflake obsidian with a second diamond between them. He explained the purpose of each stone as he went. They all helped with protection and healing in some manner, and the sodalite and snowflake obsidian in particular would help prevent nightmares. The diamonds healed as well, and they increased the strengths of the other stones.

Gimli finished and stood back. Frodo’s eyes had shut halfway through the process and his breathing was now deepening into sleep. Within another few minutes, he was fast asleep, his face relaxed and youthful. Sam let out a sigh of relief, unaware that he had been holding his breath until that moment. Gimli gave a nod of satisfaction, pride mingling with worry and regret in his eyes.

Sam sat forward, peering at Frodo’s lithe form and the stones that lay upon him. “So, these here stones can cure folk?” he asked hopefully.

Gimli gathered the remaining stones back into his purse and closed the drawstring. He shook his head. “Nay, they do not cure ailments. They correct the energy and so allow the person who is ailing to heal themselves. I will leave the stones on him for an hour. That is longer than is recommended, but Frodo is much damaged from his trials. He will wake on his own and no dreams should haunt him.”

“Do all dwarves know how to use the stones?” Sam asked.

Gimli nodded. “All dwarves have at least a base knowledge in the more basic uses of the most versatile stones. It takes many years of study to become proficient. I had my father instruct me before leaving for the Quest, just in case. He taught me what he could. I hope that it helps.”

“It’s helping already, and that’s a relief,” Sam said. “Mr. Frodo’s had a hard time of it, though he tries hard to hide it from us.”

“He is a stubborn one,” Gimli agreed. “Can you remember the order of the stones and which ones are placed where?”

Sam nodded.

“Then you may keep them and use them as needed.”

“I can’t do that!” Sam exclaimed. “They’re far too—”

“If you say ‘valuable’ I will be cross,” Gimli said, sounding cross anyway. “They are but rocks hardened by the earth, no more than that. They can be replaced and at little enough cost to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said, “but they’d be best given to Mr. Frodo.”

“I am giving them to you, as you will ensure he uses them,” Gimli said and crossed his arms, daring Sam to say anything against it.

Sam only nodded, knowing a lost battle when he saw one. “Would you mind sitting with Mr. Frodo for a time?” he asked instead. “Mr. Merry’s asked me to see to somewhat for him, and I need to get it done afore the post arrives.”

“Certainly,” Gimli said, stunned and more than a little amazed that Sam was trusting him with this task. “I shall call you if there’s need.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” Sam said. He kissed his master’s brow, careful not to disturb the stones. He opened the curtains above the bed to allow the full glow of the sun into the room, bathing Frodo in a golden light that mingled with his own inner light.

Sam’s chamber was next to Frodo’s, joined by a sliding door that disappeared into the wall. The door was usually kept open at all hours, but Sam closed it now; he needed the privacy. He reached under the bed and pulled out the box of blank invitation cards sent by Jodocus. Just as Frodo had once determined in Rivendell, Merry had now decided that the safest place in the house for hiding anything in connection to a conspiracy was under Sam’s bed.

Sam opened the box, making sure everything was there: cards, mock-up, and Bergil’s note with Lady Bodil’s address. He withdrew the mock-up, the note and a few blank cards, put the box back under his bed, and went downstairs to the study to write the invitation. His many protests that surely Mr. Merry or Mr. Pippin had the fairer hand had fallen on deaf ears. So it was with trepidation that he took up a quill, dipped it in ink and began to carefully, letter by letter, copy the mock-up onto the invitation card, inserting all the necessary information as he went. He finished forty minutes later with a huge sigh of relief and with sweat upon his brow. He put the quill away, sanded the invitation card and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. When the ink was dry, he poured the sand back into its sack, blew on the card twice, folded it and sealed it.

It took him another ten minutes to write Lady Bodil’s address on the front of the card, and when that finally dried, he stashed it at the bottom of the mail pile waiting for the day’s post. He went back upstairs and stashed the remaining cards and mock-up back into the box under his bed. He then checked in on Frodo and Gimli before going outside to the roof to work on his vegetable and herb garden there. Fancy stones might work for his master, but for himself there was no better medicine than dirt and growing things under his hands.

To be continued…

GF 5/2/09 & 6/7/09

Chapter 14 – Out and About

Faramir entered his sun room and there found Merry sitting on the settee with his head thrown back against the seat cushion and his eyes closed. Sitting on the floor at Merry’s feet was a small bag sack, looking equally bedraggled. Merry did not stir as Faramir approached, which he found disconcerting; the hobbits so often teased the men about being able to hear them from a mile off.

“Merry?” he asked, taking extra care to speak gently.

Merry forced his eyes opened and smiled. “Good morning, Faramir,” he greeted cheerfully, despite his obvious fatigue. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Would you happen to have any more of those curtains lying about?”

Faramir glanced at the curtains that hung from ceiling to floor, tied back between every other window to let in the light. He studied them for a moment to take in their grace and elegance; he had not really paid much heed to any of the aesthetic details of the house since his childhood.

“I would doubt it,” he said, sitting next to Merry. “My mother chose those curtains when she first came here. Father never saw reason to redecorate.”

“I wish Strider was so like-minded,” Merry said. “This is all your fault, you know.”

Faramir chuckled. “Had I known Aragorn would be so eager to redecorate, I would have waited until you were safely removed from the city before suggesting it, I assure you. In all honesty, I am surprised at his enthusiasm. Usually, it is the queen who sees to such matters.”

Merry perked up at this. “Do you know of any eligible ladies among the court? Now that Strider is grooming himself regularly, he might be able to catch himself a lass.”

Faramir cleared his throat to prevent himself from smirking. He studied Merry instead and was surprised anew by the dark circles under his friend’s eyes. He frowned. “Aragorn has enough to keep himself occupied without adding courtship to his duties. Does your arm burden you?”

“My arm?” Merry asked, peering down at his appendages in momentary confusion. “Oh, that. It is well. I did not have a restful night, but that is for another reason entirely.”

“Oh?” Faramir said, his tone making it clear that he was interested but wouldn’t press for details.

Merry grimaced. “Frodo had another nightmare. He had a headache yesterday. He was given athelas for it which seemed to help, but…” He trailed off with a dismissive flap of his hand. “He is better now, resting finally if not yet sleeping when I left him.”

“I had hoped his troubling dreams would ease, if not cease entirely,” Faramir said.

“Gimli said he knew something that might help, but he wouldn’t tell us what it was,” Merry said. “He banned us all from the room this morning.”

“Even Sam?”

Merry managed a derisive look.

“No, I suppose not Sam.”

“Quite.”

“Does this change your plans for the prank you are planning to play on Frodo?” Faramir asked. It was as good an opening as he was likely to get, and he wasn’t going to waste this opportunity placed so neatly into his lap.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Merry said. “We’re inviting Lady Bodil and her tenants to luncheon on Highday. Sam will be sending out the invitation this morning, and Frodo should be back to his usual self by then.”

“What of the other prank?”

“What other prank?”

“Pippin mentioned a fake prank,” Faramir prompted. “Do you think it is wise to be toying with Frodo’s emotions in this manner, given his fragile state?”

“Absolutely,” Merry said without hesitation. “It’ll make him laugh, once he figures his way around it, which he should be able to do in all of five minutes. Now, where is this gift for Éowyn on which you required my opinion so desperately? If it’s weaponry or armor of any kind, she’ll adore it.”

Faramir excused himself and retrieved from the study a wooden box. He returned with this to the sun room and sat beside his friend again. He flipped open the lid to reveal its contents. Inside on a bed of black silk were a pair of silver earrings, a silver necklace and a silver circlet, each with a single tear-drop sapphire dangling from a simple yet graceful setting.

“Will she like it, do you deem?” Faramir asked.

“She will love it,” Merry said.

“But she won’t adore it?” Faramir said, smirking.

“Maybe if the earrings were shaped like shields, with the sapphires in the center, and the necklace had a pendant shaped like her sword, with the jewel in the hilt,” Merry suggested, only half-teasing. “The circlet is fine as it is. You can't do much with a circlet after all.”

Faramir chuckled. “I will keep that in mind for next time. Now, do not linger for politeness’s sake. I know you must be eager to return to Frodo. Give him my well-wishes and don’t forget to take some rest for yourself. Has Aragorn been informed?”

Merry nodded and rose to his feet. “Gandalf is likely telling him even now,” he said.

“Your bag,” Faramir said. He stooped down to pick it up and handed it to Merry. “It’s light.”

“Medicaments from the Houses of Healing,” Merry said, suppressing a yawn. “I suppose I should have waited to pick it up, but I’m not exactly thinking very clearly this morning.”

Faramir saw Merry to the door and watched his friend as he strolled down the street. Merry stumbled now and then, his feet scuffling along the cobble stones, but he kept his feet and greeted cheerfully anyone he passed. Faramir waited until Merry turned the corner before closing the door and going to his breakfast.

Concerned as Faramir was, there was little he could do for Frodo other than hope him peace and healing. As for Legolas, he would have little to tell him. He was bound by Pippin’s confidence and so could not reveal the true nature of the prank. Still, he thought he could at least inform Legolas to expect the trap to be sprung before Friday next without fear of breaking his oath.  

The market square grew more crowded each week as more refugees returned to the city and more goods and produce became available. There was still little to be spared and the rations were leaner than desired, but with cunning and ingenuity, there was enough to fill empty stomachs.

Legolas and Pippin took their rations with good cheer. The baskets slung over their arms grew slowly more heavy with each stall and shop they visited. The Fellowship had unanimously insisted upon receiving the same rations as any other household their size, despite having four hobbits amongst their number. They ate so often at the King’s House or the Hall of Feasts that they usually had food to spare for their neighbors, delivered anonymously by Bergil.

They saw groups of Haradim now and then in the market square, each group being led by a Rohirrim Rider or a Ranger of the North. They managed a word with Ceorl, who explained that they were giving the Southrons a tour of the city, or at least attempting to. A few of the Haradrim spoke a little Westron, but none were fluent and the translators, who could have helped, were required for the service of the king and queen. The Haradrim spent most of their tour staring and nodding blankly at whatever their guides told them, jabbering in their own language as they pointed here and there, misusing the few Westron words they had learned so far, and wearing looks of wonder, excitement or even fear. Fear especially took dominance if a ‘Pale Skin’ approached them too quickly or appeared too suddenly.

“It has been a long day,” Ceorl said.

“Oh, it’s still morning,” Pippin informed him cheerfully.

“Is it?” Ceorl asked, deflating even more. He gathered his group and attempted to explain they were now going to the coopery.

The summer sun was nearing its zenith, the heat rising with it and radiating off the stone walls all around, when Legolas and Pippin finally finished their shopping. They ducked into an inn for a quick drink before making the trek back to the house.

The inn was battered down against the heat, the windows closed and shades shut, the doors left ajar to allow the heat of the kitchen fires to escape outside. As a result, the inn was dim and dank and cooler than outside, if still warm. Pippin shut his eyes for a count of ten, so when he opened them again he was able to see his surroundings clearly. Legolas ordered their drinks and they turned to find a booth, Pippin following Legolas.

Pippin’s eyes traveled over the common room and landed on the far corner, where a small square of light was coming in. There he spotted a group of seven Haradrim sitting around a table. Some of the Haradrim were peering outside through the partially opened shades, watching the foot traffic and the general bustle of the city from a safe and secure distance. A few were making cursory attempts to eat their soup with their spoons, the instruments looking clumsy and foreign in their hands. One was looking straight at Pippin, a look of astonishment and excitement on his face. It was Amir Shahzad.

On impulse, Pippin changed directions. He weaved through the booths and tables to the Haradrim. He spotted their guide, the ranger named Ingold, only as he neared their table. Ingold frowned at him and straightened in his seat, readying himself to rise and stand between Pippin and the Haradrim if the need arose. His frowned deepened as Legolas came up behind Pippin. Legolas gave the ranger a small shrug: what could he do about an impulsive hobbit such as Pippin, short of put him on a leash and gag him? Ingold shrugged back, conceding the point, but did not relax.

“Hallo!” Pippin greeted with a nod of his head all around, ignoring this silent exchange.

“Good day, Sir Peregrin,” Ingold said.

“Gud dai, Sur Peargrin,” the Haradrim chimed, nodding their heads in return and grinning freely.

Pippin looked back at Legolas and raised his eyebrows.

Legolas bowed slightly. “Good day. I am Legolas.”

“Gud dai, Legless,” the Haradrim said.

Pippin stifled a laugh and met the prince’s eye. “Might we join you?”

“We should not delay,” Legolas said. “Sam will be expecting us for luncheon.”

“It’s just for one drink,” Pippin said and lifted his mug as evidence.

Shahzad nodded and flicked his hand at two of his companions sitting at the end of the booth. They slipped out and offered their seats to Pippin and Legolas, who nodded in gratitude and sat. Pippin turned to the prince, wondering how to proceed. If what Ceorl told them is true…

“Is there a translator?” Pippin asked.

“I speak,” said a Haradrim woman.

Ingold lifted a hand and shook it to indicate that the woman was not fluent but better than nothing.

“You saw me the other day,” Pippin began, addressing the prince and pantomiming as best he could to help the woman along. “You recognized me, or my kind.”

The woman said something to Shahzad. The prince’s smile dimmed somewhat and he pursed his lips as he considered the stunted one – no, the hobbit – addressing him. He had hoped to meet the hobbit again before leaving the city but had planned on needing patience for such an opportunity. His parents and the vizier had all noted how highly guarded the hobbits seemed to be. Even now, he could sense the tension in their guide and the elf. Either the hobbit didn’t notice this, or didn’t care. Interesting.

Pippin, mistaking the prince’s delay for incomprehension or some mistake in translation, thought of another way to get his point across. “Begging your pardons,” he said to the table in general. He turned in his spot and kicked up his left foot above the table’s surface. “You saw my feet, my foot hair that is, and you recognized something about it.” He put his foot down, then lifted his hands and shrugged. “How?”

Amir Shahzad and his companions did their best not to laugh, though they couldn’t prevent grinning. Legolas and Ingold both looked shocked, embarrassed and amused, with the latter taking precedence.

Shahzad held out a hand and shook his head. “I know yur kind,” the woman translated for him, but she seemed at a loss of how to say the rest of the message. Shahzad looked about and grabbed a bit of spare parchment with several scribbles and drawings on it. He flipped the parchment over and requested the ink and quill from the man next to him. He began to draw a series of squiggles and horizontal lines, connecting them together in what Pippin quickly recognized as a family tree. Pippin watched with increasing fascination as Shahzad finished a very basic tree, put down the quill and turned the parchment to face Pippin. He pointed at the bottom row, which consisted of a squiggle, two circles, another squiggle, a circle and a third squiggle. He pointed at the third squiggle mark, then at himself.

“Amir Shahzad,” the woman said.

From this one statement, Pippin was able to deduce that the squiggles were for men and the circles for women, and that Shahzad had two older brothers and three older sisters. Shahzad had drawn his parents on the tree, and five generations of grandparents on his mother’s side, showing a total of seven generations on the parchment.

Pippin pointed at the marks that stood for Shahzad’s parents. He tapped the squiggle line and the circle, saying the king’s and queen’s names as he did so. Shahzad nodded, impressed with how quickly Pippin had caught on. Shahzad pointed at the top row, to his four times great-grandfather on his mother’s side.

“Sultan Caros see yur kind,” the woman said.

“How long ago was this?” Pippin asked, a small thrill running up his spine. Could Shahzad possibly be speaking of Isengar? Or even, Hildifons? There was always the possibility of a Boffin or two straying to the south, but would they have gone that far? He thought not.

“One honderd furty yers pass,” the woman said, with a shake of her hand.

140 years, more or less. The year 1280 in the Shire reckoning. Isengard wouldn’t leave the Shire for sixteen more years, and wouldn’t come to the Sunlands for another three. “Hildifons,” Pippin whispered, feeling at once stunned and relieved to have finally discovered some news of his long-lost great-great-uncle. What had become of him? How had he come to Harad and why hadn’t he returned? Why had Isengar been unable to discover anything about him during his time in Harad?

Pippin yearned for a way to speak more openly with Shahzad. The woman was clearly limited in her vocabulary and she was slow with what she did know. If only… “Will you come to our house for supper sometime?” he asked the prince. “My cousins, they will want to hear the story too. You can bring the Gondorian translator.”

Legolas and Ingold cringed inwardly at this but there was nothing they could do to take back the invitation. The woman was already explaining to Shahzad, who was nodding eagerly. “Yes! Yes!” Shahzad said in clipped Westron. His next words were in Haradrim, but their meaning was clear. “It shall be arranged.”

Pippin and Legolas then finished their drinks and excused themselves. “Until next we meet,” Pippin said, bowing.

“Nect meit,” the Haradrim echoed and nodded their farewells.  

The sun was past one before Merry at last arrived home from the Citadel. He carried a small parcel of athelas and other healing herbs tucked under his arm. The parcel he placed in the pantry off the kitchen before going upstairs. He found Sam watching over Frodo, who was still slumbering with the blankets tucked in tight around him.

“How is he?” Merry asked, his voice hushed.

“Been sleeping mostly,” Sam said, also speaking softly. “Gimli’s remedy did the trick right well.” He sounded surprised by this, but there was relief and gratitude there as well.

“Where is Gimli now?” Merry asked. Besides the three of them, the house felt empty and quiet.

“Went to the jewelers,” Sam said.

Merry arched an eyebrow at this but received no further information. He shrugged, figuring that the jewelers must seem like an appropriate destination for a dwarf during such a situation. He dismissed Gimli for the moment; he had more pressing things of which to speak. He tapped Sam’s shoulder and motioned towards the adjoining room.

Once in Sam’s chamber he closed the door behind them. “What do you think of finding a lass for Strider?” he asked before he could lose his nerve. He knew from the look on his friend’s face that it was a lost cause before Sam even opened his mouth.

“I don’t think I know enough about Gondorian women,” Sam said, tactfully. “Why?”

“Faramir gave me the idea,” Merry said, plunging ahead. “I think it would distract Strider from his worries. Courting a lass always makes things seem more cheerful.”

“If both are willing, aye,” Sam agreed. “What makes you think as Strider doesn’t already have a lass?”

“He’s never mentioned one,” Merry said, thinking back on all their conversations during the Quest about lasses and loves. “I don’t think it would be very likely for him to have met anyone, what with his duties as Ranger. I had thought perhaps Éowyn, but…”

“His father met a lass just fine, Ranger notwithstanding,” Sam said.

“Strider would have said something,” Merry insisted. “So I think we should find him a lass, someone adventurous and young, but also patient and wise. She will be queen, after all.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Merry. Getting involved in folk’s love lives only ever leads to heartaches. Look at your mother and all those lasses she’s sent Mr. Frodo’s way. Mayhap Strider ain’t interested in marriage,” Sam said.

“He needs heirs, Sam, and he has no kin to adopt,” Merry said. “What harm could it do to make a few introductions?”

“Plenty of harm, to the lass if no one else if he ain’t willing,” Sam said, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality that Merry recognized far too well. "Besides, I rather got the impression there was somewhat going on with him and Lady Arwen. They seemed to be quite close."

“She’s his foster sister,” Merry persisted. “Of course they’re close.”

“I ain’t never looked at any of my sisters that way,” Sam said.

“You can’t marry your sister, Sam.”

“They ain’t actually related, sir.”

“Actually, they are. She’s his first cousin eighty-eight times removed.”

Sam crossed his arms again.

Merry sighed, giving up. For now. “Very well. How is the spying coming?”

“I’ve got something worked out,” Sam said.

“Great. What?”

“A master never reveals his secrets,” Sam said, to Merry’s eternal frustration. “I should get back to Mr. Frodo. He’ll be waking soon, or so Gimli said, and he’ll be hungry.”

“I’ll make luncheon,” Merry offered and went downstairs to do just that.

He was finishing a simple meal of cucumber sandwiches and fruit with yogurt when Legolas and Pippin returned with the shopping. Gimli came in behind them, having met them on the road, a small purse hanging from his belt. Merry eyed the purse, curious about its contents. He was about to ask Gimli about his trip to the jewelers when Gimli tapped Pippin on the shoulder and led him into the study.

“What’s that about?” Merry asked.

Legolas shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll find out eventually,” he said and commenced putting away the food. He spotted the parcel Merry had placed there and lifted it to sniff. “What’s this?”

“Just some athelas and herbs Strider sent down, prepared by his own hand,” Merry said. “We’ll be ready, for next time.” This last part was resigned; there was no doubt anymore that there would be a next time.

Legolas put the parcel back and continued with his task.
 

In the study, Gimli reached into his purse and pulled out a simple leather cord with a small row of four round beads, two agate and two aquamarine. He slipped this over Pippin’s head and tucked it under his shirt before Pippin could so much as blink.

“What’s this for?” Pippin asked, pulling the necklace out again to admire the stones.

“That’s for courage,” Gimli said simply. “It is not wise to wear it all the time, but if you find yourself wanting, put it on and wear it like so, under your shirt.”

Pippin smiled at this, perplexed and touched at the same time. “What would I need courage for?”

“We all have our fears and ghosts to face, lad,” Gimli said.

“Ghosts?” Pippin said, catching on now. “Denethor.” Despite his best effort, he shuddered when he spoke the name.

“Aye, lad,” Gimli said. “I miss hearing you sing. You’ve a bonny voice, to be sure, and it shouldn’t be shut away where no one can enjoy it.” He gave Pippin a rare squeeze on the shoulder.

Pippin nodded, removing the necklace and putting it in his pocket. “Thank you, Gimli. I’ll bear that in mind, though I don’t think I’ll need them to eat Merry’s cooking,” he joked, smiling pertly. “He’s actually a fair hand in the kitchen, despite being raised in Brandy Hall and having his meals cooked for him his entire life.”

“Come then, lad. You must be hungry,” Gimli said, ushering Pippin back to the kitchen, where Merry was setting the table for their meal.

A few moments later, Sam came down the stairs. He was followed by Frodo, who looked refreshed and alert after his long nap. Frodo smiled when he saw the meal spread upon the table.

“You made your cucumber sandwiches!” he exclaimed. Merry always insisted that he did nothing special with the receipt and yet his cucumber sandwiches were better than any Frodo had ever tasted. “How delightful!”

Merry beamed. “Eat up, before Pippin devours them all.”

They sat to their meal while Legolas told his companions of their day in the market and Pippin’s impulsive invitation to the Haradrim prince.

“We shall have to arrange something,” Frodo said. “If they have news of Hildifons, that would be worth taking home.”

Merry, Sam and Pippin met eyes. Their second house guests were now confirmed.  

“Alas, all that Faramir could discover was that Merry intends to spring his trap before next Friday, which gives him an entire week to plot,” Legolas told Frodo later that night. He had sought Frodo in the study, knowing he would be alone. He had expected to find Frodo pretending to jot down notes for his book and had been pleasantly surprised to discover Frodo working busily on his manuscript. “I think also that the clothes he bought at market the other day are part of it.”

Frodo frowned, trying to piece together this information in some sensible way. “I suppose I shall have to set aside an outfit, for precaution’s sake. At least we know he won’t be able to do anything tomorrow.” For Merry would be standing guard at Théoden’s tomb beginning midnight tonight and would be there until the following midnight.

“We shall have a day of rest,” Legolas said, sharing his sentiments. He left Frodo to his work and went upstairs to the garden to look up at the stars.

To be continued…

GF 5/2/09 
Published 6/9/09 

Chapter 15 – A Day of Rest

Legolas remained in the garden until an hour before midnight, then went downstairs to wake Merry per their arrangement. Merry had gone to sleep early that evening, knowing he would need to be awake and on his guard for the next twenty-four hours. He woke feeling groggy; surely the hardest part of his duty was waking up when he would normally be going to sleep.

He thanked Legolas and dressed into his livery, making as little noise as possible. The house was silent, no whisper of troubled dreams from any of the rooms. He checked in on Frodo just to be sure, but his cousin slept serenely, curled onto his side. His next stop was the privy, as he knew it would be another ten hours before he would have opportunity to do so again.

The walk to Fen Hollin was peaceful. The city was a different place at night. In the lower circles, he could see the faint glow of lantern-lit streets and knew that many a tavern and inn were still bright and busy. In the upper circles, there were no lights but that of the stars above, and the tall buildings cast dark shadows in all directions. The moon was half full, enough to see by, and the warm summer air carried the scent of the Sea.

At last he reached Fen Hollin and bade good evening to the guard who stood at the door. The guard allowed him to enter and he strolled down Rath Dínen towards the tombs and the House of the Kings where Théoden’s body was kept. Bealdred and Wiglaf were standing guard, sentries still as statues. He nodded to them but did not expect them to acknowledge him. They would exchange brief pleasantries as they switched posts but otherwise would not speak.

Cuthred arrived a few minutes later. He sat next to Merry under a tree as they waited for the turning of the days. Merry liked Cuthred but did not know him as well as the other Riders. Their guard duty together gave them little opportunity to speak, and Cuthred had served in a different company, which had fought on the other side of the Pelennor from Merry and his éored. Even when they took their one meal at midmorning, Cuthred rarely spoke. It was as if the silence of the tombs and their inhabitants stole his voice away. Merry too found it difficult to speak above a whisper while under the shadows of the mausoleums, and he thought it unthinkable that the disaster that befell Denethor had taken place here, just a couple hundred yards away.

Merry looked to the east to the House of the Stewards. Much of the damage that had taken place on the day of siege was now repaired, but there still lingered an air of hostility about the place, as though Denethor’s spirit indeed haunted the tomb. No wonder Pippin’s voice had been stolen away.

Midnight arrived and the guards switched places, saying their good nights and good mornings in hushed tones. Merry took his position to the right of the door, Cuthred to the left, and both stood at attention, still and silent as the tomb at their backs.

It always happened the same way. Merry was cold at first and felt a heaviness in his chest, a mighty weight upon his heart as he thought of the tomb he guarded and what lay within. The heaviness would continue until the greying of the sky as dawn approached. Mist came often in those grey hours and he thought he could see ghosts walking within it, always at the edge of his vision. Then dawn came and the sky brightened from grey to pink-gold to blue. During the day, he could let his mind wander to wherever it would: sometimes to his friends away in Rohan, sometimes back to the siege of Orthanc or Fangorn Forest, or further back to Rivendell and their two months of refuge in that peaceful home, when Boromir was still with them, and always he remembered the Shire. Then the yearning for home was strong as he remembered how he left his family, just a brief note that explained nothing. He imagined what his homecoming would be like, and imagined it with both great joy and awkward silences, along with the occasional fear, wariness and suspicion that Bilbo had reported encountering upon his return. He knew only one thing for certain: Estella Bolger would by now be married to Gordibrand Burrows and his chance with her was gone forever. Then dusk would come followed by black night, and he would again think of Théoden, a father to him when he had felt the most lost and alone, bereft of his friends; it was only with great effort that he didn’t give way to his tears. Finally Osric and Adda would arrive near midnight to take their shift, and Merry would go home, leg-sore and heart-heavy, but proud to have done his part and eager for bed and the oblivion of sleep.

Merry stole a glance at Cuthred. What thoughts ran through his head during the long hours? Perhaps Merry should make an effort to better know his guard-brother.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Only five hours until the dawn.  

“Are you sure you’re all right to be on your own, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked for the fourth time in thirty minutes.

“Yes, Sam. I’m quite improved,” Frodo answered yet again. “I should be able to manage a few hours on my own. I might even go out for a walk later.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself, Frodo,” said Gandalf, coming into the room. He looked at his friend critically and smiled at what he saw. Frodo’s light was strong and steady. “You are improved, but you may tire more easily than you think. If you simply must walk, then at least wait until someone is here to accompany you.”

“We could go down to the fourth circle to that little outdoor café and have tea, sir,” Sam said, looking hopeful.

Any response about not requiring a babysitter died on Frodo's tongue at that beseeching look. “I suppose it doesn’t matter where I’m walking, so long as I get out of the house for a couple of hours.”

“Remember also that Aragorn will expect you to return to the Citadel tomorrow to commence your activities there. Adrik and Amarlicus are most concerned for you, as are Elladan and Elrohir.”

“Please let them know that I am well,” Frodo said, “and I will be there tomorrow with bright eyes and bushy feet.”

Gandalf laughed. “I will inform them. They will be glad to hear it. Now I must be off. The arrival of the Haradrim distracted us for a couple of days, but court commences today and there is much to discuss.” Gandalf turned and swept out of the room, his white robe billowing around him as he left.

“What with all their talking, it’s a wonder as they find time to actually do anything,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Men.”

Now Frodo laughed. “You can’t fault them their lack of hobbit-sense, but they make do. Come Sam, Gimli is cooking breakfast from the smell of it. Salted pork and peppered bacon with greens, I imagine.”

“There’s bread in the pantry, sir,” Sam said, following his master out the door and down the stairs.

Thankfully, Gimli was not alone in the kitchen. Pippin was there also, and he had brought out not only the bread and butter but had whipped up a half-dozen eggs as well. Frodo and Sam helped Legolas to set the table and when all was made ready, they sat to their breakfast. Frodo especially felt famished after eating so little the day before and helped himself to seconds, much to his friends’ delight.

After breakfast, Pippin, Sam and Legolas washed and put away the dishes, while Gimli and Frodo readied for their days. Gimli was excited; yesterday they had fired their first full batch of concrete. Today he would be inspecting the results and if they were as he hoped, he would set the soldiers to build a small wall to test the concrete and bricks properly. Meanwhile he, Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir would ride to the Pelennor to go over the plans for each home to determine how much material and manpower would be required; once Gimli and the masons were satisfied with the material, they would start rebuilding homes as soon as they had enough supplies.

Frodo on the other hand went to the bathing room and readied his bath. The people of the city used kneeling tubs for their baths, but the tubs were large enough for the hobbits to lie down and soak. Legolas brought in the water from the kitchen, one cauldron steaming hot, the other lukewarm for adjusting the temperature as needed. When Frodo was satisfied, Legolas left him and went with Gimli down to the first circle. 

Pippin left soon after Legolas and Gimli. He had his regular duties at the Citadel, but afterwards would be going to the Houses of Healing to lend his hand in cheering the wounded soldiers there. Sam lingered, tidying up here and there and making sure there was elevenses and luncheon easily available for Frodo when he got hungry again. Then he too gathered his things, a basket full of seed bags and gardening tools, to take to the King’s House. It was his intention to do a bit of weeding in the King’s garden, and if he was lucky, perhaps he might learn a thing or two about what was actually bothering Aragorn these days.

Sam knocked on the bathing room door before he left. “Is there aught else you’re needing, sir?”

“No, Sam. I’m quite all right,” Frodo said as he stepped into the tub and sank into its delightful warmth. He sighed in bliss and closed his eyes.

Sam left then also. He opened the front door and started in surprise to find the laundresses from the citadel there, about to knock upon the door. “Good morning, Lord Samwise,” they chorused.

“Morning, ladies,” Sam said. “You’re early.” Usually they did not come for the laundry until noon.

“We were informed that Lord Frodo might not want any interruptions today,” said one of the laundresses. “Is this not correct?”

“No, I mean, yes, thank you,” Sam said, grateful that Aragorn had been so thoughtful. “He’s at his bath now, so try not to disturb him.” He stepped aside to let them in. They already knew where the hampers were, so he went to the bathing room to inform Frodo of their presence in case he heard them moving about. “I’ll just put your nightgown and other things outside the door for them so as they can take those with them.”

“Very well, Sam,” Frodo said, half-groggily, eyes still closed.

Sam shut the door quietly, dropped the clothes on the floor and left.

He reached the citadel in quick time and gained entry to the King’s Houses with ease. He informed Mistress Porcia of his intentions and she nodded in ascent. After all, the King had ordered that the hobbits were free to go anywhere in the house, so who was she to argue? She saw him to the staircase and left him to climb the three stories to the roof garden alone.

Sam found a handful of gardeners already at work. They were more than eager to let him join them, and for the next couple of hours they worked in comfortable silence, watering and weeding, trimming and clipping. He spoke with them about the gardens in the Shire and the things that grew there as they went through the clippings and arranged them into baskets. The clippings would be placed in vases all over the house, depending on the room’s use and lighting. Sam offered to take a couple of the baskets so that more of the gardeners could remain to pick the vegetables and berries ripe for cooking that week.

“Do you need assistance finding the rooms, Lord Samwise?” asked a young woman.

“I think I can remember my way around,” Sam assured her. They split up at the third floor landing and Sam spent the next hour strolling through the house, putting the fresh flowers in their vases and the dead flowers in a third basket.

Eventually, he worked his way down to the King’s study. He smiled cheerfully at the two guards who were posted there and went inside. He looked around the room; the curtains were open to the light, and the grand and majestic furnishings gave the room a forbidding feel. He gulped and tiptoed over to the desk. A quick, cursory look revealed nothing, so he opened the drawers one by one. He found there only meeting notes, weekly itineraries, lists of advisors and nobles, their connections and holdings.

Abandoning the desk, he replaced the flowers in the vase on the mantle behind it and moved to the hutch. It displayed many trinkets and weapons, such as daggers and dirks, but a few of the panels he guessed were actually hidden drawers. It took him a few minutes to find the releases, but he got the drawers opened and quickly searched the contents. To his surprise, one drawer contained all the plans for the remodeling, with notes written in Elvish. The other drawer contained a list of shops and proprietors of the city which seemed to have nothing to do with the remodeling efforts. There was also a calendar on which Aragorn had crossed out each day since his crowning to the current, but whatever day he was counting down to was not marked. Sam committed the list of shops to memory, closed the drawers, quickly replaced the remaining flower arrangements and slipped outside. He smiled brightly at the guards again and went on to the next room.

The list wasn’t much to go by, but it was a start. At the very least, it should keep Merry preoccupied from playing matchmaker to the King.  

Frodo woke from his nap with a start, spraying water out of his nose and splashing water on the floor. He berated himself for falling asleep, but was too relaxed to keep up the pretense of anger for long. He washed quickly, for the water was beginning to cool, and climbed out of the tub. He dried himself and dressed, and brushed out his hair, head and foot alike. Feeling much refreshed, he went into the kitchen for a mop and returned to clean up his mess. He left the water to sit, not wanting to endure any lectures from the others if they arrived home and discovered he had drained the tub by himself.

He instead went to the parlor and rifled through the table where their mail and the various gifts that the citizens of Gondor felt compelled to send them were gathered over the week. Most of the letters and gifts were sent anonymously, so there was no way for them to send the proper thank-you cards. The letters all said more or less the same thing; Frodo blushed to think of their glowing praises. The gifts though could range from a simple poem to an ash-box or, their favorite to date, wooden pipes with the weed bowl shaped like a hobbit’s foot.

Frodo found the ones addressed solely to him, an embarrassing majority, and sat on the settee to open them. He was halfway through the pile, and growing more embarrassed and horrified with each package opened – one lass had sent him a clipping of her hair! – when a knock sounded on the front door.

“Hallo!” came Bergil’s voice through the door. “Anyone home?”

Frodo gladly abandoned his mail and went to answer the door. “Bergil!” he greeted. He was fond of the lad, as the others were. “Do come in! Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Thank you, Lord Frodo,” Bergil said, knowing by now that it was useless to refuse refreshment. The hobbits always felt that they needed to offer him something and if he refused, they worried that he was unwell or not getting enough to eat. Besides, he needed to go to the pantry anyway. “A glass of orange juice would be appreciated.”

“Come on, then,” Frodo said and led the lad to the kitchen. He bade Bergil to sit, then poured them each a glass of orange juice and divided the bowl of apple-and-raisin salad Sam had put aside for elevenses. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I was nearby and thought I’d check if you have any provisions you wish to be delivered,” Bergil said, accepting the juice and salad. He normally didn’t come until Wednesday to pick up the provisions that were to be delivered around the neighborhood, but it wasn’t unusual for him to make a side trip if he was in the area. It prevented people from knowing when to expect him and so made it easier to keep the source of the donations anonymous.

“We do, actually,” Frodo said. “They’re put aside in their usual place. How is your father? I understand you are to be moving to Ithilien soon. Are you excited about your new home?”

“Father is. He thinks it will be good for me to leave the city, but I don’t want to go. All my friends are here,” Bergil said.

“You will make new friends,” Frodo assured. “Many families will be moving there. You’ll have places to play that aren’t made of stone, and you won’t have the memories of the siege there.”

“Victar’s family is moving there, but we don’t get on very well,” Bergil said. “You were there, weren’t you? You and Lord Samwise? Prince Faramir told my father how he met you there. What is it like?”

“Oh, well, we weren’t there for very long and we were blindfolded part of the way,” Frodo said, stalling. The truth was he couldn’t remember much about Ithilien, nor anything else beyond the Emyn Muil, yet he had to reassure Bergil somehow. He thought hard and wished Sam were here, but he couldn’t rely on Sam for everything either. “Well, there was this oliphaunt,” he began at last and tried to piece together the day they had eaten stewed rabbit and been taken to the Window to the West.

A pleasant hour passed, during which Bergil began to feel a little better about his impending move, and finally the lad had to go. He went into the pantry for the provisions and was about to excuse himself when Frodo stopped him.

“You didn’t drink any of your juice,” Frodo said and handed him the cup. “It’s hot out today, and I don’t want you getting heatstroke.”

“Oh, er, thank you, sir,” Bergil said. He took the cup one-handed and immediately lost his grip. The cup tipped and fell, spilling its contents all over Frodo’s shirt and breeches. Bergil gasped aloud, horrified. “Oh, sir! Lord Frodo! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—I mean I—I’m sorry, sir!”

“It’s quite all right, lad,” Frodo said, reaching for a towel and running it over his face and shirt. “I do have other clothes.”

“No, you don’t,” Bergil said miserably, surprising Frodo.

“I assure I do,” Frodo said gently and patted Bergil on the hand.

“But you don’t!” Bergil said and began to sob.

Alarmed, Frodo ushered Bergil back to the kitchen table and sat him down. He handed the lad a handkerchief and ordered him, in soothing tones, to explain himself.

“Sir Merry,” Bergil finally managed to get out. “He asked me to come here. I’m sorry, Lord Frodo! Please don’t tell my father! He’d be so angry!”

Frodo looked at Bergil in astonishment, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Merry. Clothes. This couldn’t be it, could it? This was far too simple a prank for Merry to pull, far too obvious… Frodo turned and glared out the kitchen window. The sun was still at mid-morning and the laundresses had come early. Panic seized Frodo’s mind as he realized the implications in this, until he remembered that he had dutifully stashed away a set of clothes beneath his bed the previous night after his conversation with Legolas. Feeling instantly elated, he patted Bergil on the shoulder.

“Shush now,” Frodo said. “I know what Merry is up to, and trust me when I say that I know much more about this sort of thing than he does. I am prepared, so don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble, and your father will not hear about any of this from me.”

“Really?” Bergil asked, sniffing and wiping his tear-streaked eyes on his sleeve. “I wouldn’t have, my lord, except Sir Merry can be very persuasive.”

“Yes, it’s one of his talents,” Frodo said. “Here, I’ll pour you another glass.” He refilled the cup and gave it to Bergil, then mopped the floor. When Bergil finished his juice, Frodo saw his guest to the door. “You’re in absolutely no trouble at all,” he reiterated.

“Thank you, Lord Frodo,” the lad said, sniffing still. He turned and walked up the road with his basket, his head hanging.

“Poor lad,” Frodo muttered.

Ten minutes later, he was cursing Merry and Bergil both and seriously rethinking his promise not to mention any of this to Beregond. He had gone upstairs and immediately searched his wardrobe, which he was not entirely surprised to find completely bare except for a set of clothing he had never seen before. Clearly, these were the clothes Merry had bought in the market. Avoiding these like Lobelia’s ire, for all that they looked harmless enough, he rooted under his bed for the clothes hidden there only to find that these too had been taken by the laundresses. Huffing in irritation, he had next gone to Sam’s room, then Pippin’s and finally Merry’s. No clothes anywhere! Desperate, he went into Gimli’s room to see if there might be a spare tunic he could wear while he washed his own clothes and set them out to dry – nothing! Legolas only had one change of clothing, so he bypassed that room. Would Gandalf possibly have something for him to wear that wouldn’t be too cumbersome? He found Gandalf’s old grey robe hanging in his wardrobe. Having no other choice, he pulled this down and carried it downstairs to the bathing room.

The water was cold now, perfect for laundering. He removed his clothes – even his smallclothes had been soaked! – and washed them with rough, irate motions. Then he pulled out the box of sewing things Sam kept in the cupboard there and pinned temporary hems on Gandalf’s robe. He was obliged to also pin up the sleeves, lest he trip over these and do some harm to himself. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to come home and find him sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in Gandalf’s robes which would not, he was certain, even be covering the bare essentials. Moving carefully, mindful of the pins, he went upstairs to the roof garden, thanked the stars that they had no neighbors and that their roof was hidden from view from the circles above and below, and hung his clothes out to dry.

That accomplished, he went back downstairs, tripping now and then despite his best efforts, and finally gained the parlor without too much more adventure. Sitting on the settee, he adjusted the robe around him, trying his best not to feel foolish and failing utterly, and pointedly returned to his mail with all the dignity he could muster.

He was just about finished with his mail when another pounding knock sounded on the door, sending his heart to thumping just as strongly and loudly. Who could that be?

“POST!” came the call a moment later.

Frodo actually growled. He knew the postmen would simply leave the mail on the stoop if no one answered the door, but would they peer through the opened windows first to be sure no one was home? If they did, they’d get a grand view of Frodo sitting on the settee surrounded by opened letters, locks of hair – the first such admirer had not been the last – various trinkets and loaves of bread, and drowning in Gandalf’s grey robes. Not wanting to take that chance, Frodo deftly climbed over the settee and hid behind it until he heard the thumps of packages being placed on the stoop. He waited another five minutes, his thighs beginning to burn from squatting, to be absolutely sure they were gone before taking his seat again.

He cleaned up the mail, putting everything worth keeping aside to carry to his room later, and went into the study where he could hopefully get some work done on his book. He had interviewed some of the Rangers of the North the other week but hadn’t had time since to expand on his notes. He located the scrolls that contained his notes and sat at the desk. He pulled out a few loose sheets of parchment, ink, quills and sand. He arranged the desk to his liking, unrolled the scrolls and skimmed his notes as he sharpened the quills, then set to work.

The windows were open for the breeze, such as it was, and the study thankfully looked over the gated courtyard. He would have time enough to duck out of view should anyone else come calling. In the meanwhile, he could look out at the statuettes on the portico and the plants that hung from the patio and the flowers blooming in the boxes beneath the windows. Now and then a hummingbird would come looking for nectar, or a moth or butterfly would flit past. Frodo tensed every time he heard someone upon the road beyond the walls of the yard, but no one else seemed inclined to have business with the Fellowship.

He eased into his work, slowly immersing himself into the accounts of the northern Rangers, so that everything around him fell into oblivion. He scribbled, scratched out, revised and scribbled some more until he had a draft with which he felt satisfied. Now to write a fresh copy for the Rangers’ inspection.

He wasn’t sure how long ago it was that he stopped working and nodded off to sleep, lulled by the droning of the bees, the warm summer gusts and the homey scents of pipeweed and wild flowers in Gandalf’s robe. He dreamt vaguely of green rolling hills and little streams glittering with sunlight under skies of bright blue, strolling along The Water with his friends, smoking pipes of Old Toby and Morning Star, a picnic basket swinging on his arm. A few children ran past, chasing butterflies and laughing merrily, and Sam approached from the other side of the bridge, looking perplexed. “Now really, sir, oughtn’t you to be wearing somewhat proper?” Frodo looked down at his naked body and woke abruptly.

His mind took a moment to clear from his dreams, then he let out a sigh, looked around to make sure he was quite alone, and returned to his notes. He was grateful to see that he had placed the quill in its inkwell before falling asleep, and he reread his notes, draft and what so far constituted his fine copy in an effort to recapture his last string of thought. He soon gave it up for a lost cause as his mind refused to settle on the words before him. His burst of energy was spent with the morning’s excitement and he found himself yawning more often than writing. He put everything away and went upstairs to his room to sleep more properly.

Some time later, he was awakened by Sam shaking his shoulder. When Frodo opened his eyes and looked up, Sam quickly arranged his features into mild concern, but Frodo caught a glimpse of amusement nonetheless. He made sure the robe was covering everything essential then sat up.

“Afternoon, Sam.”

“All right then, Master?” Sam asked. “What happened to your clothes?”

“Bergil spilled orange juice on them and the laundresses took all the other clothes. I washed my clothes and hung them in the roof garden. They should be more than dry by now,” Frodo said. He perked his ears but the house was silent. “The others?”

“Not back yet,” Sam said. “I’ll fetch your clothes for you, sir. I brought you some water and a bit of a snack. You slept right through luncheon, I wager.”

Frodo thanked him and went to the little table that sat in the corner by the window overlooking the wall to the fourth circle below. Frodo still couldn’t look out this window without getting dizzy or without his eyes eventually straying to the Mountain of Doom in the distance. He settled on watching his food instead.

Sam returned shortly with his clothes, dried and clean, with no visible stains from the juice. He laid the clothes on the bed and opened the wardrobe, more out of habit than need. “Why, there’s clothes here, sir!” he exclaimed, seeing the clothes from Merry. “Why aren’t you wearing these?”

“Those are part of Merry’s prank,” Frodo said. He explained what Legolas and Faramir had uncovered about Merry’s scheme and went into further detail of what had happened that morning with Bergil. “Clearly, it was all devised to get me to wear those clothes. He’s sabotaged them in some way, I’m certain.”

“They look fine enough to me. Did you even try them on?” Sam asked.

“No,” Frodo said, suddenly doubtful. He looked at Sam, who looked back at him, eyebrows raised. “He’s not that subtle.”

“He also weren’t one for letting others do his work for him,” Sam said. “Seems as he’s learned a thing or two since leaving home.”

Frodo fingered the clothes. Could Merry possibly have counted on Legolas giving Frodo his information, and further counted on Frodo to distrust any new clothes that just happened to appear? He pulled off the robe and changed into the new clothes: fine material, expert make, complimentary colors, and a perfect fit.

Frodo scowled at the wardrobe, feeling even more foolish than before. “I’m going to strangle him.”

“He played a fair game, sir.”

“That he did, Sam, but this isn’t about fair. It’s about winning. I do believe I’m in the mood for that walk.”

“To the outdoor café?” Sam asked hopefully.

“Eventually.”

Before Sam could think of a reply to this rather ominous declaration, a knock sounded on the front door below and a woman's call floated through the open windows. The laundresses were back with their newly-cleaned clothes.

To be continued…

GF 5/16/09
Published 6/15/09

Chapter 16 – A Fable and A Table

“You didn’t figure it out?” Merry asked over breakfast the following morning. He yawned widely before his next spoon of porridge, too weary to gloat in his victory. Time enough for that later.

“I did not,” Frodo admitted with what dignity he could muster. He was only glad that no one else had been there to witness yesterday’s debacle, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Gandalf.

Legolas considered the two cousins, looking uncomfortable. “Perhaps my involvement did more harm than good,” he said in apology. “I meant only to warn you, Frodo.”

“I know that, and I thank you. We both underestimated Merry, it seems,” Frodo said.

“So you knew all along that Legolas was spying on you?” Gimli asked. “How so?”

Merry managed a smug grin which turned into another wide yawn. “In that, I was unexpectedly lucky. I just happened to spy Legolas and the twins talking to that lass and sending her into the thrift store to do their dirty work for them,” he said, chuckling. “She was very discreet, I’ll give her that. If I hadn’t spied you myself, I never would have suspected. But be assured, Legolas, it wouldn’t have mattered either way if Frodo had known about the clothes beforehand. Would it, cousin?”

Frodo paused to consider this. Would things have happened any differently if he had no foreknowledge? What would have been his reaction when he saw all his clothes gone, except for one set of clothing he had never seen before? “No, it wouldn’t have,” he admitted at last. “Bergil played his part too well. How did you coerce Bergil into taking part in this prank?”

“I told him that Sir Pippin would have done it without hesitation, had he not been otherwise engaged,” Merry said.

“So I helped!” Pippin said. “That counts. I helped.” He beamed in triumph.

“What did you tell the laundresses then?” Gandalf asked.

“And when did you have time to set this all up, lad?” Gimli asked.

“The morning after Frodo’s nightmare,” Merry said. “I took the clothes with me to Faramir’s, being sure first to grab a different bag for them so Legolas wouldn’t recognize it for what it was. I then told Faramir it was athelas and other supplies from the Houses of Healing. After I left his house, I went to Strider’s and gave the clothes to the laundresses. I told them the truth, more or less. I told them that we were having a prank war, which made you naturally suspicious of anything I might give you directly. Much better for the clothes to be delivered by an anonymous admirer, and to be sure that you actually wore them, they were to take all clothes from the house, including any that might have accidentally been kicked under any beds or fallen behind or under any desks or left inside any desk drawers. I figured Frodo would hide a set somewhere, once Legolas told him the prank involved clothes. They had already heard that Frodo was unwell, so convincing them to come early so as not to disturb him while he rested was easy enough. That way, they were sure to come before Bergil arrived to play his part.”

“You figured out then that I asked Faramir to gather information if he could?” Legolas asked.

This woke Merry up. He blinked at Legolas as this information pierced through the fuzzier parts of his brain. That explained Faramir’s urgent plea to see Merry as soon as possible, but as Pippin had already told Faramir about the prank, he hadn’t thought anything of it when Faramir brought it up. Faramir had not betrayed their confidences though; he had only told Legolas that the prank would take place before Highday. “I didn’t,” Merry said then shrugged. “He wasn’t told anything of importance at any rate. Besides, none of you would have worried about the prank being played on a day I wasn’t here. All I really needed to do was make sure Sam was going to be busy elsewhere. How are the gardens in the Citadel, Sam?” Did you find anything on Strider?

“They’re right fine, Mr. Merry,” Sam said. “I even learned a thing or two, for what it’ll be worth to me once we’re home at any rate.” I did, but naught promising.

“You’ll have to tell us about it later,” Merry said. “Perhaps a tour after luncheon. For now, I think Strider is expecting us.”

They finished their food and left with Gandalf to the Citadel, leaving the clean up to Legolas, his voluntary penance for not protecting Frodo better.  

Gandalf veered off at the White Tower and the hobbits continued to the King’s House alone. They arrived there to discover that much had been accomplished in their absence. Aragorn had approved their plans for the library but for two changes. First, the cushions of the chairs would be a light tan to counter the dark wood. Second, at Mistress Porcia’s suggestion, the making of a new rug had been abandoned. There was simply not enough time to make one, so Mistress Porcia had suggested instead painting the wood floor. Elrohir and Elladan had instantly approved this idea and drawn examples for designs similar to those found in Rivendell. The one chosen would be painted onto the floor as the final touch to the project in colors of white, pale green and tan.

As promised, Jodocus had found them crafters and carpenters, who were in the process of dismantling the library when the hobbits arrived. Jodocus greeted them at the door with a stately bow, despite the banging and loud orders issuing from down the hall. They looked dubiously in the direction of the library and Jodocus showed a rare smile.

“You will be working in the master suite today, my lords,” he said and guided them up the stairs to the top landing. The entire third floor was considered the master suite, and they wondered with no small amount of trepidation what exactly they would be required to do here.

The others were already present, sitting in the dining hall around the table. Adrik and Amarlicus stood as the hobbits entered and offered drink and food while their small companions took their seats. The hobbits noticed then that the sidebar had been stocked with food as well as pitchers of water and juice. No one wanted to risk Frodo, or the others, taking ill again, and for Hobbits there was no better medicine than a well-laid table.

Once everyone was settled again, Elrohir began. “The plan for these rooms were to again change the curtains and add a few elements of Elven artwork, in particular the bed posters in all the chambers, and the tables and chairs here and in the parlor. Estel also wishes to paint more Elven designs onto the floor here and in the sun room.”

“The curtains will be simple white lace,” Elladan said, “with a heavier white satin for the winter months. The designs for the furniture has also been decided on as well. What we must decide is where to place the artwork and what designs to put on which floors. Estel also wanted opinions on potted plants for the sitting room, parlor and the balconies of the chambers.

Sam perked up at this. Finally, something with which he could help.

As they stood to begin their day’s work, Merry turned to Elladan. “Perhaps you and your brother could solve a riddle for us,” he said. “A few days back, when we first toured the house, we noticed that the table in the reception parlor was damaged. I wondered why it would be put there, and Pippin felt it gave the table character. Do you think it is possible for furniture to have character?”

“I know the table of which you speak,” Amarlicus said. “I do not know the full account of its history, but I do know the story of that scar. It is said to have happened during the reign of King Rómendacil. His son was Valacar, the future king who would bring about the Kin-strife. When Valacar was very young and first learning his swordsmanship, it is said that he stole away in the night to practice in the house. Fearing his father would hear him if he practiced in his room, he would go down to the reception parlor, where there was sufficient room. One night, he misjudged the distance, for the lighting was poor, and he struck the desk with his sword. He did not say anything to his father the following morning when the damage was discovered but knowing already of his son’s nocturnal activities, King Rómendacil blamed the damage on a serving lad, a friend of Valacar’s. Only then did Valacar admit to his actions and he had to serve the household in his friend’s place for a month for his deceit.”

“Causing strife even then, was he?” Frodo said with a smirk.

“His reign would not be easy,” Amarlicus said, “though he was often praised for his ability to fight in dim light.”

“It is said he could see at night as owls do,” Adrik said. “Some say it was a skill he learned among his wife’s people, but others say he always had the ability. If your tale of the table is true, then he must have learned it while he was practicing at night.”

Amarlicus nodded. “If it is true,” he agreed.

“As for your question of character, Merry, the answer is yes,” Elladan said. “In fact, I think it would be quite impossible for furniture not to have character.”

“That’s what I told him, but does he ever listen to me?” Pippin asked with feigned exasperation.

“How so?” Merry asked, ignoring Pippin.

“Take this table for example,” Elrohir said. “What do you think when you look at it? What sort of impression does it give?”

“I think of food, and it makes me hungry because there is so little on it,” Merry said. “I much prefer the sidebar.”

The others laughed. Elrohir continued with his lesson. “Beyond food. The first time you walked into this room, what did you think of it?”

“You said it would be good for dinner parties, but you wouldn’t want to eat here all the time,” Frodo said. “Why did you think that?”

Merry frowned. “Well, it’s too dark for one. Rather off-putting. Far too formal.”

“Precisely,” Elrohir said with the air of someone who had just proved his point.

“And that’s all because of the table you think?” Merry said, taking in the room as a whole. The chandelier and candelabra were simple but elegant. The walls were covered with a soft blue wallpaper and the floor was the same dark maple wood as the rest of the house. The table, chairs and the sidebar were stained black and were carved of hard lines and had thick legs.

“You shall see, once they have been redesigned and stripped to their original color,” Elladan said. “For now, there is much to decide upon today. Shall we get started?”

The morning progressed with little excitement. One by one, they went through the rooms, making their notes and coming to decisions, which Amarlicus wrote down for Aragorn’s final approval later. They worked steadily, the Big Folk making sure the hobbits did not overstretch themselves and ate at regular intervals.

At luncheon, they all paused for refreshment in the sun room, which overlooked the wide lawn between the house and the barracks. Frodo entertained them all with a recounting of Merry’s prank, and Merry was now sufficiently awake to gloat throughout and relish in his explanation of his magnificent plan. They then regaled their friends with stories of pranks past. Afterwards, once everyone stopped laughing, it was agreed upon that Merry had at last equaled Frodo’s mastery of prank warfare.

“But not surpassed,” Frodo ended with a sly smirk that sent shivers up Merry’s spine. “You won the battle, Merry, not the war.”

“So there is still another campaign to wage?” Adrik asked, intrigued by this aspect of his new friends. He would have once thought them too dignified for such silly matters, the Ring-bearer in particular. He had quickly learned during their first day together just how informal they really were.

“One final stroke,” Merry said. “I’m eager to see what you’ve come up with, Frodo.”

Frodo merely smiled and finished his meal. Sam poured more water and said nothing.

Midway through the afternoon’s work, Elladan and Elrohir dismissed themselves to take their day’s decisions to Aragorn. Merry looked at Sam pointedly.

“I suppose I should go and have a look at the gardens again,” Sam said a few minutes after the twins’ departure. “I best be figuring out what plants will look and grow best here.”

“We can come with you,” Frodo said, eager for some sun and air.

“Now Frodo, don’t think you can leave Pippin and me alone to test all these paints ourselves,” Merry said. “Amarlicus and Adrik are busy outlining the floors for the murals and we need to test the paint in all of the rooms.”

“Very well,” Frodo said. “Just hurry back, Sam.”

“Are you all right then, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, suddenly worried.

“He’s fine, Sam. Stop coddling him, or he’ll never learn to take care of himself,” Pippin said and shooed him out the door. “Come now, Frodo. Let’s try this periwinkle color first. What do you say?”

“I say you’re up to something,” Frodo said, leading his cousins to the master chamber. “What are you sending Sam to do?”

“Nothing,” Merry and Pippin chimed, a sure sign of mischief if Frodo ever heard one.

“I saw that look that passed between you. I know what that look means,” Frodo said, giving a look of his own that indicated they better talk or suffer the consequences.

Merry sighed. “Very well. Sam’s spying on Strider for me.”

“What?!” Frodo exclaimed. “Merry! That’s treason! Sam could get into serious trouble for that.”

“No, he can’t. Strider gave his permission,” Merry said.

“Strider gave his permission? Merry, that doesn’t make any sense,” Frodo said. “Pippin had something to do with this, didn’t he?”

“Frodo, you insult me,” Merry said. “I am half-Took, remember. I’m just as capable as not making sense as Pippin is.”

“That’s right!” Pippin agreed.

Frodo couldn’t exactly deny this statement. “All right then. Start at the beginning, leave nothing out.”

So Merry told Frodo about their attempt to discover what was distracting Aragorn. Meanwhile, they each took a paint brush from the pile and began to cover the wall of the master chamber with samples of the paints available to them. When Merry finished his explanation, Frodo merely stared at them for a time, as though he was looking at something and he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“I can’t believe you sent Sam to spy for you,” he said at last, disapproval finally conquering his features.

“I don't see why. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Merry pointed out.

“Besides, Sam volunteered,” Pippin said. “In fact, it was practically his idea. And anyway, you were the one who taught him how to spy in the first place, so really, this is all your fault.”

“Sam volunteered to spy on the King?” Frodo asked, ignoring the last part of Pippin’s statement. It was true; he was the one who taught Sam to spy. However, this current situation was hardly his doing. Pippin knew this as well, but his attempt to distract Frodo from the real issue was not going to work.

Merry shook his head. “Sam volunteered to spy on Strider, and Strider, as I already told you, approved it. I don’t understand why you’re having such a hard time with this.”

“Why would Strider approve it then?” Frodo asked, for that was the part of all this that was truly bothering him.

What king would submit to having his own people spy upon his every move, friend or not? Unless he was confident that Sam would not hear or learn anything of great importance, in which case, Aragorn really didn’t know Sam as well as he thought he did. Unless… Of course, a king would have spies of his own, who could report back any suspicious movements to their liege. But who? Adrik and Amarlicus? Elladan and Elrohir? Quite possibly all four of them, and more. There were pieces at play here that he could not see, and that was never good.  

Sam walked downstairs to the king’s private study, stepping casually yet purposefully. He had learned long ago that the best way to go undetected, or at least unsuspected, was to act as though nothing were amiss. If the guards outside Aragorn’s study thought for just a moment that he meant trouble, then trouble there would be. As it was, the guards merely nodded at him, and he nodded back, never once breaking his stride. He listened carefully as he passed, but could not hear any hint of conversation within.

Knowing that Aragorn had planned to take his luncheon in his house today, in order to discuss the renovations with his foster brothers, Sam continued down the hall towards the library. Would Aragorn and the twins perhaps be there instead, checking on the work that the men were doing? Yes, they were. Sam could hear them talking from the hallway, though he could not make out their words until he was about ten yards away. He lightened his step and walked into the library along the farthest wall, where his entry would be blocked by the bookshelves. He peeked through the shelves, but the silence alone told him that the craftsmen had been dismissed for their own luncheon. He was not surprised to see that only Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir remained in the room, and they were all surveying the mess of demolition left by the workers.

“-you’re sure about this?” Aragorn was asking. He sounded both uncertain and hopeful, yet there was something else there as well, a longing that for some reason brought to Sam’s mind images of Rosie Cotton. But that was silly. Aragorn didn’t even know Rosie.

“It looks a wreck now only because it is,” Elladan said, sounding cheerful. “But be of good cheer, brother. By the time it is finished, you will not even be able to recognize it.”

“I cannot even recognize it now,” Aragorn said, though he chuckled ruefully as he said it. “We should have started this sooner. I have already kept you from Arwen long enough.”

“Your need is the greater,” Elrohir said. “You have a kingdom to organize, ambassadors to entertain, soldiers to quarter and nurse back to health, and a city to rebuild. This would naturally be the last thing on your mind but have no fear. Your home will be complete before we depart.”

They then began speaking of the plans for the master suite. Sam waited behind a shelf until they left the library and were far down the hall. When he could no longer hear them, he slipped out of his hiding place and returned upstairs, mulling over all he just heard. So, Elladan and Elrohir did not have much longer in the city, and something seemed amiss with Arwen, yet it could not be anything too serious if they had not gone to her already.

He was still attempting to piece together this riddle when he returned to the master suite and found his friends now in the first bedchamber, diligently working away. Sam picked up a brush and started working alongside Frodo.

“So?” Merry asked at once upon seeing Sam returned. “What did you discover yesterday and today? Don’t worry. We explained to Frodo about Strider.”

Frodo lifted an eyebrow at Sam, who could only shrug in response. What’s done was done, after all.

“I didn’t find much, truth be told,” Sam said. “He does have a secret drawer in that hutch in his study, though it weren’t filled with anything all that interesting, just the remodeling plans for the house, a list of proprietors in the city, and a calendar.”

“What proprietors?” Pippin asked.

“Boutiques, seamers, smiths and jewelers mostly,” Sam said.

“What’s the connection?” Pippin asked.

“I couldn’t be saying, sir,” Sam said.

“What were Strider and the twins talking about just now then?” Merry asked next.

Now it was Sam’s turn to look disapproving. He stopped painting long enough to scowl at Merry. “Now, Mr. Merry, you know as I promised Strider I wouldn’t repeat aught I overheard to you or Mr. Pippin.”

“Fine. We’ll leave the room, you tell Frodo, and when we come back in, Frodo will tell us,” Merry said and began to usher Pippin towards the door.

“I will not,” Frodo said. “I will have nothing to do with this, and Sam, you’ll have nothing to do with it anymore either. If Merry and Pippin want to plan at treason, let it be their own necks in the noose.”

“But Strider gave his permission!” Pippin said.

Sam nodded. “I made sure of it, sir.”

“I don’t care. Strider would never agree to something like this unless he had a reason. I for one will not have you going about the citadel and poking your nose into business that does not involve you until I can figure out what that reason is,” Frodo said. “You are my responsibility, Sam, and I will not be found lacking in my duty to keep you safe.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but one look at Frodo’s determined face melted any arguments on his tongue. “Yes, Master,” he agreed, hanging his head in submission.

“Pulling rank is beneath you, Frodo,” Pippin said.

“Wonderful. Now who am I supposed to use as a spy?” Merry asked.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Frodo said. “You always do.”

To be continued…

GF 5/29/09
Published 6/22/09

Chapter 17 - Luncheon

Despite Frodo’s promise to determine what exactly Aragorn was planning, he made no attempt the rest of that week to discover what that plan could be. Merry suspected that Frodo was stalling only to keep Sam from helping further. Merry did manage to coax Sam into giving him a copy of the list of proprietors from Aragorn’s study, on the basis that Sam had written this out prior to Frodo’s interruption, but Sam would not do anything more without Frodo’s well wishes.

Merry managed to use his time after his morning training with the Rohirrim on Monday to search out a few of the shops on Sam’s list, as well as visit a couple more potential guests for luncheon. The shops were as he expected. One shop belonged to a cobbler, another was packed of women spinning fabric, and yet another belonged to a jeweler. None of them had yet received any commissions from the king. Merry could only assume that Faramir had told Aragorn about these shops, but why the list was hidden with the remodeling plans continued to elude him. If only he could send Sam to look at those plans again; he must have missed something that would explain the connection.

Sam, though, was off limits and Frodo, drat him, was not letting Sam out of his sight. Merry was hard-pressed to find a suitable substitute. He could not even use Bergil for this. Getting the lad to help with the prank on Frodo had been hard enough. He would never agree to spy on his king. Instead, Merry would likely find himself standing before the court attempting to explain his actions while Aragorn sat in his throne trying to look stern with laughter in his eyes. Pippin was likewise bound to secrecy by his oath of fealty, and asking Legolas and Gimli for aid was equally out of the question. Legolas was still stewing over his failed efforts to warn Frodo of Merry’s plan, and Gimli was simply too busy with actual work to be of use.

Every night, Gimli returned to their house on the fifth circle more excited and dirty than the night before. The cement was now perfected and they were building mock walls with the bricks and mortar, which they were then attempting to smash, shatter and otherwise demolish by any means necessary to determine just how strong the mortar was. The results were beyond Gimli’s expectations and the soldiers who were helping him and the masons were eager to get to work on the actual rebuilding. A few of them were farmers themselves, and others had friends or family who once farmed on the Pelennor. They wanted nothing more than to see the Pelennor returned to its previous glory.

“Naturally, even cement cannot protect against the most determined enemies,” Gimli warned. “That battering ram of the Enemy would level any home but for those hidden beneath the mountains. Still, it makes for a mighty wall and the farmers can rest well at nights, knowing they are safe.”

Gimli announced to the court on Tuesday that rebuilding could begin the following week. He had the soldiers and masons working in three shifts around the clock baking bricks and firing cement. While they could always use more hands, he had enough that they should be able to keep up the supply to meet the demands of rebuilding. Aragorn wished to send more help, but all available hands not working on rebuilding the city were in the Pelennor, clearing the fields and staking out the areas where the homes were to be built, or else retrieving the materials necessary for the making of the bricks and mortar. 

In an unexpected move, Sultana Farzana offered her own men to help and Aragorn gladly accepted. The citizens were not so sure. While they were slowly growing accustomed to seeing the Haradrim in the city and were beginning to interact with them, there was still trust to be built. Aragorn hoped that by working side by side trust may begin to take root and flourish for the betterment of both their kingdoms. For their part, the Haradrim found the process of brick-making most fascinating. Their own homes were built of adobe, mud that hardened in the sun, and their palaces were built in the same manner as the city walls: large slabs of granite sitting one upon the other, their weight alone keeping them in place.

Despite their inexperience, they were quick to learn the job, requiring no more than one or two demonstrations. Soon enough, they were working as quickly as the Gondorians and they fell into a rhythm, singing in their strange tongue as they worked. The Gondorians would sing also, and they began to take it in turns, even learning a few words as the days went by. Gandalf and the hobbits listened in amazement as Gimli and Legolas, who was lending his hands to the effort as well, told them about the Haradrim and Gondorians working side by side, singing songs in each others’ languages, or attempting to, and sharing laughs over jokes they couldn’t possibly understand except in a vague, general sense.

The hobbits were eager to share their own rebuilding stories over the dinner table at nights. Pippin listened most raptly, so that when he rejoined them, he would know what to expect. When Thursday came, he dashed up to the House, eager to see what work had been done since Sunday. Merry missed this, as he went to his training with the Rohirrim that morning, but Pippin had been kind enough to share his thoughts as soon as Merry came to the House later that afternoon. Pippin, who had seen quite a few remodeling projects thanks to his mother’s incessant need to redecorate at least one room of the house every year or so, was not at all bothered by the wreck the men were leaving in their wake all over the House. In fact, he was impressed that they were working so quickly and efficiently. The others did not share his opinion but were wise enough to keep their doubts to themselves.

On Thursday, they laid down the plans for the last room to be redecorated and began the work themselves in dismantling it. Adrik and Amarlicus tore up the trim, pulled down curtains and hauled away furniture while the hobbits took up their customary job of testing paints on the walls. The Big Folk didn’t seem keen on allowing them to help with any of the heavy lifting and were uncomfortable if they attempted to assist them by handing them tools and picking up fallen nails. Elrohir and Elladan spent the rest of the day running about the house, checking on the progress in the various rooms and lending their hands to the designing of the trim, chairs and tables.

At last, Friday arrived bright and warm. Merry had worried that their efforts in the King’s House would cause Aragorn to forget about Highday, but Aragorn knew his friends well. When he had arrived at the house to survey the latest efforts before dinner, he had reminded the hobbits of their day off before he had done anything else. He had looked at them each critically, as though expecting one of them to fall over in a faint from their day’s efforts, but they had simply grinned.

“Trust me, Strider, we don’t need to be reminded not to work!” Pippin had quipped.

So Friday morning found the hobbits relaxing in their own house and grateful that they wouldn’t have to blink dust from their eyes or smell wet paint again until Saturday.

Gandalf was setting out on Shadowfax to attend to some business matters out in the wilds over the next two days. The twins were to accompany him and they stopped by the house on their way to the gates. Frodo took this opportunity to speak with them about any ulterior motives Aragorn might have in allowing Sam to spy upon him. While Frodo was thus preoccupied, Merry gathered Pippin and Sam in the kitchen.

“Lady Bodil confirmed she would be coming today, correct?” Merry asked Sam. In all the excitement of the last few days, they had had little time to speak about their actual prank and the luncheon invitation that Sam had sent out last Friday.

“She is,” Sam said. “She will be bringing her tenants as well. They should arrive at half-past eleven. I suppose it’s customary to sit and talk for before the meal in the parlor, as it is in the Shire.”

“What are we making?” Pippin asked.

“I’ve got a chicken stew going already. I thought a green salad and some bread with jam and cheese would go nicely with it,” Sam said. “You don’t think as they’d be expecting aught fancy, do you?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Merry said, thinking of the simple fair they had given him on his unexpected visit and the nature of all the luncheons they’ve been served by Mistress Porcia over the last couple of weeks. Supper appeared to be the only meal that was expected to be fancy here, and then only when there was a feast.

“I could also make a custard to serve with some fruit for afterwards,” Sam said, still sounding doubtful. He had never cooked for anyone but the Fellowship and Faramir before. He wasn’t at all sure how his humble Shire cooking would be received by a noble woman and her friends. “I’ve got teas for drinking, naturally. Perhaps I should open up a cask of ale too.”

“What are you three talking about?” Frodo said from the doorway, making them all jump. They had not heard him come in. How long had he been standing there?

“Just luncheon,” Pippin said, trying not to sound too guilty. “Does custard with fruit sound good to you, Frodo?”

“That depends. Who are we making it for?” Frodo asked.

“We were going to tell you, but we didn’t want you worrying, especially after your night terror the other day,” Merry said. “I’ve invited some ladies over for luncheon. They were kind enough to help me find my way when I got lost on the third circle last week. I was trying to get to the thrift shops and went the wrong way out of the gate.”

“It’s a circle, Merry,” Frodo pointed out.

“Yes, and a rather big one. They helped me find my way and they were very kind,” Merry said. “So I invited them to luncheon. They’ll be arriving at half-past eleven.”

“I suppose that custard with fruit and chilled tea will do well, lemonade if we’re out of tea,” Frodo said, answering the original questions before narrowing his eyes at his friends. “The three of you have been planning this for some time then. You seem to be conspiring together quite frequently these days. Any other plots I should know about?”

“No,” they chorused.

“I’m that sorry, Mr. Frodo. We should have included you sooner, it’s just… Well, like Mr. Merry said, we didn’t want to be bothering you is all,” Sam said.

“Why would houseguests be a bother to me?” Frodo asked.

“You ain’t exactly been enjoying the dinner parties,” Sam said, looking at his toes. Oh, why hadn’t they expected this? Why hadn’t they realized that Frodo would feel left out of their planning, and likely think himself weak and a nuisance to boot? “We just thought…”

“You thought blindsiding me with houseguests would be the solution?” Frodo said and shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know how the three of you keep from tripping over your feet coming down the stairs every morning.” Then he laughed.

“You’re not angry with us then?” Pippin asked.

“I’m not. Just promise me you’ll tell me of any future houseguests. I could have had other plans.”

“Yes, Frodo,” Merry and Pippin said. “Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said.

“Do you require help?” Frodo asked.

“We’ve got it in hand,” Merry said, suppressing a sigh of relief. “You get to your writing. Holler if you need anything.”

“And maybe, if you’ve the time, you could tidy up the study a bit?” Sam suggested.

Frodo gave a small smile and nod, then went to his study. They didn’t breathe easily again until they heard the door click shut behind him.

“I feel dreadful,” Pippin said, holding his stomach. “He’s right. We should have said something sooner.”

“Perhaps, but your plan worked, Pip,” Merry said. “Frodo has no clue this is the real prank, and now he’s even willing to help! Brilliant.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Pippin said. “Still, I don’t want to be keeping anymore secrets from Frodo. We should tell him about future guests.”

“And let him help with the planning when he wants,” Sam said.

“Quite,” Merry agreed.

“We best get to cleaning up then,” Sam said.

While they were never messy in their housekeeping, there were obvious signs of neglect throughout the house: a cloak thrown here, a pair of boots tossed there, a couple of empty cups and mugs scattered throughout and whetstones and polish left sitting on tables rather than returned to their shelves. They went through the rooms, putting everything to rights and sweeping and dusting as they went. They brought chairs from the other rooms into the parlor for extra sitting and pulled back all the curtains for lighting.

They finished with just enough time to begin the final preparations on the food and to set the table. While Merry and Sam took care of the food, Pippin climbed into the kitchen closet and brought out the finest tablecloth he could find. His mother had always said that it was the details more than the food served that let your guests know how highly their company is valued, and Pippin intended to make his mother proud. In the end, he brought out not only the tablecloth but the nicer hand towels, a pair of candles set in silver sconces for the table and a colored-glass vase for the centerpiece which he filled with cut flowers from the gardens, with Sam’s permission. He was just placing the vase on the table when the bell rang.

From his seat overlooking the patio, Frodo saw the women and girls approach first. He slipped from his chair before they could spot him and trotted the short distance down the hall to the entryway, where he waited for the others. Outside, he could hear the women debating if this was the correct house or not and the girls exclaiming over the flowers and plants hanging from the patio. A few moments later, they pulled the bell and the women hushed the girls.

Merry, Pippin and Sam came from the kitchen within a heartbeat. Once they were situated, Merry, as host, opened the door. Frodo looked curiously past his shoulder. On the stoop were the two women, one a noblewoman appearing to be in her middle years, the other a young woman with old eyes. Behind them on the walk were the three girls, lined up by size and age. The youngest, who looked to be about three or four, was peering just as curiously around her mother’s skirts; she was very much a miniature version of the young woman.

Their guests sank into a deep curtsey. “Good morning, Sir Meriadoc,” they greeted their host and rose. The noblewoman held forth a basket of bread and baked goods. “We are honored to receive your invitation. May our gracious host accept this gift as a symbol of our gratitude.”

Merry took the basket and bowed in return. “At your service,” he said. “I thank you for your generous gift and invite you into our home.” He and the others stepped aside to make room for their guests in the entryway.

“May I introduce to you my kinshobbits, Frodo Baggins and Peregrin Took, and my dear friend, Samwise Gamgee.”

The hobbits bowed. “At your service,” they said.

“My friends, these radiant beauties are Lady Bodil of the House of Seaward, and Mistress Ioveta and her three daughters, Miss Ogiva, Miss Gerwinda and Miss Leudreda.”

The women and girls curtsied again. “Your servants, masters,” they said, except Gerwinda, who merely mouthed the words.

Introductions completed, Merry handed the basket to Sam and whispered so only he could hear, “Serve this alongside our own food,” then led his guests into the parlor. They settled into their seats, Ioveta and her daughters upon the settee, Bodil and Merry in the stuffed chairs, and Frodo and Pippin in the spare chairs from the other room. Sam returned from the kitchen with a tray of lemonade, several glasses and a few small bowls of nuts and berries. He poured drinks for everyone.

“You must be parched from your walk,” he said as he sat next to Frodo with his own glass.

“Thank you, my lord,” Bodil said graciously, though she looked about the room with a sense of mild confusion.

“We don’t have servants,” Merry volunteered, guessing at her concern. Her face cleared immediately upon hearing this. “We prefer to do things for ourselves.” There was no need to mention that Sam technically was their servant. While everyone in the city knew that the Ring-bearer had gone into the Black Lands accompanied by his servant, no one seemed to be able to make the connection between the servant in the tales and their beloved “Lord” Samwise. Reminding their guests of that now would only lead to discomfort.

“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Merry said. “I would likely still be lost somewhere on the third circle” – here he shot Frodo a look that pleaded for silence – “if it weren’t for you.”

“It was our delight to serve you that day, and all the days that shall pass from now forth,” Bodil said.

“Our Merry is always getting himself, or his things, lost,” Frodo said, unable to let the opportunity pass. “The day he lost his marbles, we thought we’d all go mad with having to hear about it.”

Merry smiled, a little too widely. “Yes, well, the city is quite large. We’ve all gone astray at one time or another.”

“Are the cities not large where you come from, masters?” Ogiva asked.

“We have no cities in the Shire,” Pippin said. “Most hobbits live on their farms or plantations or in groups of cottages and homesteads. We do have towns though, that are set up a bit like your Pelenor Fields were, except that we have hills, and our homes are built into the hills, under the ground, or in single-story dwellings above the ground where all the hills have been delved. Our smallest towns have no more than a couple of dozen families living there. The larger towns, such as Tuckborough and Bucklebury, can have whole clans living there, along with several other families. Only the largest towns have post stations, but nearly all towns, except the very smallest, have inns.”

“How very fascinating,” Bodil said. “You bring to my mind memories of my homeland and make me all the more eager to return there to be with my daughters and their families. We do not delve into hillsides for living quarters, but in every other respect, our homesteads and market centers are much the same. Clans, though. I fear I am not familiar with that word.”

“Clan is our word for family,” Pippin said. He thought for a moment, trying to discern the simplest way to explain their complicated family systems. He spotted the bowls of nuts and berries on the table. “Pardon me,” he said and, grabbing a handful, dumped them upon the table. There were cashew, peanuts and walnuts, and cranberries and blueberries. He sorted them accordingly and sat back. “These would be clans.”

“The largest nuts would be the Tooks,” Frodo said, smiling innocently. At Pippin’s frown, he elaborated, “The largest number, because there’s more of the them. They’re the largest clan among Hobbits and even have their own sort of ‘kingdom’ called the Tooklands. In fact, the head of their family, called The Took, is also the Thain, our version of a Steward, if you will. Except he does not rule over the Shire. In times of trouble though he can call the Shire Muster and the Hobbitry in Arms together for defense.”

“Who rules then?” Ioveta asked.

“The heads of the family,” Sam said. “That’d be the eldest male and his wife, or sometimes the eldest female, depending. Their word is law within their own families. Of course, there’s more’n one family in any given clan. When troubles reach that level, then it’d be the head of the clan as settles things. Taking our example here again, the various nuts would all be one clan and the berries another. If a nut were to marry a berry though, then it’d be the larger of the two clans as settles the matter, or the two clan heads can get together and decide upon the outcome that would be best for both.”

“How many clans are there in the Shire?” Ioveta asked.

“There are hundreds, if not thousands, of families, but only fifty clans or Great Families,” Frodo said. “Thirty clans are among the gentry, or the nobles, if you will. The rest are commons.”

“You give your commoners their own separate status?” Lady Bodil said. “In Gondor, they are considered as part of the households for which they serve.”

“A master can only advise or discipline his servants in matters related to their work, not their personal lives,” Pippin said. “The family rules their own, no one else.”

“Fascinating. You have a truly extraordinary system. In the country, it is only natural for one to mind their servants in matters of the land and household. They so often know what is going on more than yourself. Here in the city, I fear their voices are rather drowned out by all the bustle,” Bodil said. “You must be eager to return home after so long an absence.”

“We are indeed. We miss it very much, but King Elessar has asked us to remain a while longer,” Merry said. Deciding this was as good a time to get to the heart of the matter, he turned to Ioveta. “When last we talked, I believe you said something about moving back to the Pelennor, Mistress Ioveta. Has anything more come of that?”

“We will be remaining in the city, Sir Meriadoc,” Ioveta said.

“Mother has received a few commissions for gowns,” said her eldest daughter, Ogiva. Frodo guessed she was close to Bergil’s age of twelve. “I’m helping her.”

“I help too,” Leudreda said.

Pippin smiled at her. “I’m sure you are all a great help to your mother. What do you do?”

“I hold the thread so Mother can tie it,” Leudreda said with importance.

Ogiva grinned. “She has the perfect fingers for it. I help with the sewing and ironing, and Gerdy helps with the cutting and measuring.”

“You’ve got steady hands for that then,” Sam said to Gerwinda. “Whenever I helped my sisters, they always complained that I never cut the fabric straight enough.”

Gerwinda nodded and held up her hands to show how steady they were.

“How old are you, if I may ask?” Frodo ask.

Gerwinda held up seven fingers, and Leudreda three. “I’m three!” she said. “I’m turning this many next month.” She looked at her hands as she lifted a fourth finger to be sure of the count before showing the hobbits.

“You’re a big lass for three,” Merry said. “Hobbit lads and lasses of that age would still be in nursery.”

“If they have one,” Sam said with a grin. “Otherwise, we’re sitting ‘round our mother’s knees and helping, as you lasses are.”

“I’m twelve,” Ogiva said, confirming Frodo’s earlier guess. “I was never in a nursery either.”

“You have lovely daughters, Mistress Ioveta,” Frodo said.

“Thank you, my lord. They are such a comfort to me,” Ioveta said. “These last few years… They have been difficult for everyone. If I didn’t have my girls… They are my heart’s joy.”

“Did you help your mother sew?” Leudreda asked Sam.

“Nay, lass,” Sam said. “Most younglings do help their mothers, but my own passed of the coughing disease when I was four. We were carted off to the Widow Rumble, though she weren’t a widow at the time, so as my dad could do his gardening for Mr. Bilbo.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Ogiva said.

“That must have been a difficult time for you,” Bodil said.

Sam shrugged. “So I’m told. I don’t remember it much. My eldest sister Daisy took over for Ma in a lot of ways, and we had the folk on the Row and Mr. Bilbo to help of course.”

“Do you remember her?” Ogiva said. “Sometimes, I have trouble remembering Father.”

“I remember some things, mostly just little scraps of memory,” Sam said. “My dad was always good about telling us stories about her, so as us youngest ones would know her. My sister Marigold was only a bairn when she passed, about six months, so all she knows about Ma is the stories she’s heard.”

“We don’t talk about Father much,” Ogiva said, with a lift of her chin that mirrored her mother’s perfectly.

“This is not the time for this discussion,” Ioveta said. “I am sorry for her behavior.”

“No apology is needed,” Frodo said. “Sometimes, it is difficult to speak of painful things. I don’t speak of my parents much either.”

“You lost both of your parents?” Bodil asked. “Were you very young?”

“I was eleven. They were in a boating accident,” Frodo said. “I am fortunate to remember them. My mother was an accomplished sempstress as well. She loved nothing more than to sit at her loom weaving blankets or at her rocking chair by the fire with her needles. I would help her too, unrolling the thread and keeping them from getting tangled. She’d tell me stories as she worked, little nonsense things or anecdotes from her childhood. My father was a carpenter. He made her that rocking chair, and the loom, and many other things besides. I would help him too, but the sawdust always made me sneeze.”

“We would help Father with the farm sometimes, Gerdy and me,” Ogiva said. “We’d help milk the cows or gather the eggs. I was just getting old enough to help with the sowing and harvesting when he went off to march. I guess I didn’t learn enough.”

“It is not your fault we lost the farm,” Ioveta said. “Is that what you think?” She turned her daughter’s face towards hers and looked at her closely. “It is not your fault.” She kissed Ogiva’s brow. “I’ll tell you one thing about your father. What he loved the most about you is that you always did your very best at everything. He would be so proud of all you girls.”

Her daughters beamed proudly at this praise.

“He would be indeed,” Merry said, getting to his feet. “Shall we eat now?”

Pippin’s stomach grumbled in reply. “I say that’s a smashing idea,” he said, as everyone laughed. They rose and followed Merry to the dining hall.

“The food is only simple Shire fare, so forgive us if it is not quite up to your standards,” Merry said.

“I am sure that it will be more than delightful,” Bodil said.

They filed into the dining hall, looked to the West and sat. Sam and Merry brought in the food from the kitchen and served everyone while Pippin poured more lemonade. The food was met with many exclamations of delight and praise, and soon Sam was giving them his receipt for the stew. Pippin meanwhile entertained the lasses with riddles and jokes, and Frodo and Merry spoke to Bodil and Ioveta of all the latest rumors and news.

Afterwards they retired again to the parlor for the fruit with cream that Sam had made and the lemon tarts Bodil had brought. They spoke then of family and happier times, and the hobbits regaled them with as many tales and legends of Shire-lore as they wished to hear. By the time the ladies departed, it was nearing teatime and everyone was again laughing and smiling. They said their farewells at the door and waved until their guests were out of sight through the gate.

“That was pleasant, more or less,” Pippin said.

“Does anyone know who her husband was?” Frodo asked.

“His name was Leudred,” Merry said. “Her youngest daughter is named for him. She was with child when he left.”

“It’s odd that Gerdy never said naught,” Sam said.

“She doesn’t talk. I’m not sure why, but I suspect she hasn’t spoken since news came back of her father,” Merry said.

“But that had to be three years ago, at least!” Pippin said.

“Some wounds can never be healed,” Frodo said and went into the kitchen to clean up.

To be continued…
 
 

GF 6/1/09
Published 6/29/09

Chapter 18 – Sador

Court finished just after the noon hour and Aragorn retreated to his private study above the King’s Hall to prepare for his private interviews. On the docket today were Soroush and Ashtir of Far Harad, Prince Imrahil, and Erkenbrand. The Rider arrived first.

“An errand-rider arrived this morning with a message from my king,” Erkenbrand said. “They would have departed Meduseld yesterday and will arrive here on the eve of Mid-Year’s day. King Éomer regrets that he will not be able to come for the holiday, but he will arrive a fortnight later. It is his intention to depart the following day with the remains of King Théoden. He will be more than honored to escort the hobbits to Rohan, as will we all.”

“This is excellent news,” Aragorn said, feeling his heart lift. He retained his calm demeanor, giving away nothing of the elation he felt. Only a very few people in the city knew that Arwen would be arriving with the escort from Rohan. He would have shouted it from the rooftops, but he had promised his foster father discretion, so that the soon-to-be queen’s first day in the city would not be overwhelming. In truth, Aragorn could hardly believe the day was approaching so swiftly, after so many long years of waiting.

“How are your neighbors?” Aragorn asked next.

“They are adjusting to the city and bemoaning that they will have to depart so soon,” Erkenbrand said. “More than a few of my Riders will be bemoaning their departure as well. They have made fast friends among the Haradrim, a surprise to us all.”

“I am pleased to hear it. The queen and her court are also becoming good friends with their neighbors here in the Citadel. This bodes well for our alliance.”

“King Éomer will be disappointed to have missed them.”

“If all continues to go well, they may yet come to visit the city again some day,” Aragorn said. “Is there anything further you wish to discuss?”

“That is all, Your Lordship,” Erkenbrand said. He stood with Aragorn and bowed.

Bergil walked him to the door and saw him outside into the antechamber, where the next person was already waiting. Bergil whispered with the guard and turned towards Aragorn, who was already sitting.

“Master Ashtir of Far Harad for Your Lordship,” Bergil announced with a bow. He stepped aside at Aragorn’s nod.

The translator entered the conference chamber and bowed in Gondorian fashion, fist over heart. His raven hair was hanging loosely past his shoulders, rather than plaited in the Haradrim style, and he had somewhere acquired clothing: brown breeches, leather boots, grey shirt with a ruffled muff, and a brown coat. Aragorn would not have recognized him without the introduction, so complete was the transformation from savage to diplomat.

Aragorn acknowledged his guest with a bow of his head, and gestured for his guest to sit. “Soroush did not wish to attend?”

Ashtir sat stiffly on the edge of the seat and clasped his hands in his lap. “His home is in Harad with his family, Your Highness. He is happy there,” he said. “I come to speak only for myself and any others who may wish to return to Gondor. It will sadden me to say farewell to my cousin after all we have been through together, but in truth gladly would I remain here and reclaim my rightful name when the embassy leaves. I wish to travel with them to Pelargir and then continue on my way to my homeland in Belfalas. I yearn to see my family and discover what became of my betrothed.”

“Of that I can assist you already,” Aragorn said. “There are several wounded soldiers in the Houses of Healing from your homeland. Their captain-general, Brondir, son of Brandor, stated he knew you. He was most uplifted to learn of your fate.”

“Brondir is here!” exclaimed Ashtir, his face lighting up with joy. He forgot his apprehension entirely. “That clumsy oaf became a captain-general? Truly your situation must have been desperate.”

Aragorn laughed. “I know him to be nothing more than a decorated and well-admired leader of Men, and he remembered you and Soroush immediately.”

“We lived on neighboring farms, Brondir and I,” Ashtir said. “Soroush would stay with my family over the summer, and the three of us would get into such trouble. Brondir was younger than us and so still in his training when Denethor ordered us to march. How he envied us that day. Is he gravely injured?”

“He was fortunate. He suffered nothing more than a couple of broken ribs and a fractured wrist,” Aragorn said. “He volunteers at the Houses of Healing to assist his fellow soldiers and tell them stories. He is most eager to see you. You may go the Houses after our meeting. I have informed the master healer that you will be coming. Do you know where it is?”

Ashtir nodded. “I thank you, Your Highness.”

“As for the news I received from him,” Aragorn said, growing serious again, “much of it is grim. I will allow you to hear to worst of it from him; it may come easier to hear from a friend than a stranger. Know that your sisters and their families are well. You have many nieces and nephews now. Your brothers-in-law run the farm together.”

He paused to allow Ashtir time to absorb this, for there was only one reason his brothers-in-law would be in charge of the farm, of which his mother would have taken command after her husband and firstborn son failed to return from battle. She would have managed the farm only until her younger son come of age, but it was not he who managed it now. Ashtir swallowed, his eyes misting, but he retained composure and nodded for Aragorn to continue.

“Your betrothed married two summers after your failed campaign,” Aragorn continued. “She removed with her husband to Dol Amroth.”

Ashtir slouched at this news. “I expected as much,” he said gruffly. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Is she happy?”

“So far as Brondir knows, she is. Her husband is lame in his right arm, so cannot fight. He is a merchant and is known for his kindness and generosity. He adores his wife and child.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Ashtir said and smiled wistfully. “I thank you for telling me these things, Your Highness.”

“You are most welcome, Sador,” Aragorn said. He grinned at Ashtir’s look of surprise. So long it had been since he was last addressed by his given name that he had forgotten the sound of it. “If you wish to remain in the city, I have a position for you in my cabinet of advisors. You know the Haradrim better than any of my men, and the Haradrim trust you. You would be not only an advisor but my chief ambassador to Harad; there need be no reason for you to say farewell to your cousin entirely. You may take up quarters in the city once you find a suitable home if you wish. Until then, you will be housed in the citadel. Your appointment will begin in the spring, to allow you time to return to your homeland and visit your family. Prince Imrahil will be departing the city next month. You may travel with his company, as they will be passing through Belfalas.”

Now Ashtir was astonished, for he did not expect such a generous offer. Pardon only he had sought and then he had expected to make a new life by his own means, whatever those may be. “I—Thank you, My Lord! I am honored.”

“You accept the position then?” Aragorn asked.

“I do.”

“Then welcome, Sador, son of Tangor!” Aragorn said and rose to shake his hand. “You will of course be required to pledge fealty to me and the kingdom before you can take up your new position. This you will do the day the Haradrim depart the city; on that day, you will no longer be bound by your pledge to the queen.”

Ashtir nodded. “Of couse, My Lord. I would expect nothing less.” He took his King’s hand with a firm grip. Bergil stepped forward to escort Ashtir to the door but the man was not ready to depart just yet.

“What of your pardon to the other refugees?” he asked.

“I’ve already written it and it is signed,” Aragorn said. He reached for three sealed scrolls from the shelf behind him and handed them to Ashtir. “Queen Farzana will carry these to Harad, one for each House of the Faithful. Return now to your queen. You will remain in her allegiance until the Haradrim depart the city.”

“As you command, Your Highness,” Ashtir said with a bow, but still he did not move to leave.

“Is there any other business you wish to discuss?”

“One more thing only, Your Highness, if it is permissible.”

Aragorn sat again and indicated for Ashtir to do likewise. Ashtir took his seat and breathed deeply. “I am a farmer, Your Highness,” he began. “Gladly will I serve you as your advisor and ambassador, but I fear I may grow slothful without soil to till and crops to grow. I thought I would go mad in Harad until my queen permitted me to assist the farmers. You said I may take up residence in the city, but I was wondering if there is available farmland?”

“You will not have much time to devote to a farm, Sador,” Aragorn said kindly.

“Nor did I have much time to help the farmers in Harad, but even an hour a day was enough to ease my mind. The farm of my homeland is not great. At least, it is not great enough for two to share,” Ashtir said. “My brothers-in-law share it out of necessity I deem. It will not be difficult to convince one of them to join me here.”

“What if you should one day marry and have your own sons?” Aragorn asked.

“I do still hope to marry, if I am lucky enough to find another. I will cross that road when I come to it.”

Aragorn considered the man for a time, then nodded. “One of my dearest friends is a gardener and would not be happy should he be denied access to growing things. Even when he could not garden, he still had plants and flowers to admire and trees against which to lean. As soon as he was brought to his home here, he gathered what seeds and plants he could and went to work in his garden. I could not imagine denying him such joy as he takes in getting his hands dirty, and so I will not deny you.

“There are some farmlands available for anyone willing to claim them, but yours is not the first request. I will see what can be arranged. Go home to your family and when you return with them in the spring, it will be settled. You will not be able to begin work on a farm until that time at any rate. If we should find suitable farmlands before you depart, you can give your plans to the builders for a house before you leave. They can at least build the necessities: the kitchen, parlor and a bedchamber or two.”

“You are most generous, My Lord,” Ashtir said with a bow of his head. “I can see now why your men sing your praises so loudly.”

Aragorn rose and Ashtir too regained his feet. He bowed again, then turned and followed Bergil to the door. He stepped into the antechamber and walked a good distance down the hall before letting out a whoop of excitement. A startled cry around a near corner followed a half-moment later. He leaned around the corner to find a woman carrying a tray of food and looking startled. When she saw him, she frowned with derision.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “A good day to you.”

“A good day to you, sir,” she said and watched him curiously as he went down the stairs. She shook her head and continued to the conference chamber.

The guard in the antechamber saw her approached and knocked on the door, which Bergil opened a few moments later. He waited for the tray and took it from her, then carried it to the side table where Aragorn took his meals.

“Your luncheon is arrived, Your Lordship,” Bergil said.

“I will eat later,” Aragorn said, absorbed in one of the many scrolls upon his desk.

Bergil bowed. “Excuse me, Your Lordship, but Sir Pippin said to always insist that you eat your food. ‘A king needs his strength and wits about him.’ That’s what he said.”

Aragorn chuckled and put down the scroll. “Then I shall eat now. I wouldn’t want my misbehavior getting back to Hobbit ears. I’ll never hear the end of it.” He rose and came to the table. The tray was loaded with enough food to fill an oliphaunt. “I see he’s had words with the cooks as well.”

“Sir Pippin and the others worry about you, sir. They think you’ve lost weight,” Bergil informed him. “They think that perhaps you are not eating enough, and that the lack of food is making you restless. Perhaps this is why you are seen so often on the parapet, looking out over the lands.”

Aragorn looked at Bergil closely. “Did Merry or Sam put you up to this?”

“Put me up to what, sir?” Bergil asked, confused.

“Never mind. Join me. Pippin will be no happier if I allow you to faint from hunger.” After they stood a moment looking upon the West, the King sat.

“I don’t faint, Your Lordship,” Bergil said, taking the seat across from Aragorn. “That is something only girls do.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, Your Highness.”

“I thought so once myself, until one day in my youth I was overcome with fever during a training exercise. Had I known that boys also faint, I wouldn’t have attempted climbing that cliff wall. It would have saved me a mighty headache.” Aragorn laughed at Bergil’s look of surprise. “Do you think less of me now?”

“Of course not, Your Lordship!” Bergil assured.

“Shall we eat then?”

They each served themselves from the tray and ate. Bergil was famished, having not eaten anything since breakfast, but he forced himself to eat at the same pace as his king, who was thankfully eating with a healthy amount of zest. Much to Aragorn’s surprise, he cleared his plate and even had a bit of seconds before sitting back with a satisfied sigh. He drank the tea and was surprised again to discover it was the yogurt juice of the Haradrim. The juice had been popular at the feast and the receipt was highly requested. For the buttery to be making it said much of the drink, for soldiers were traditionally only happy with mead.

He poured another draught and returned to his desk and scrolls while Bergil finished his meal, cleared the table and carried the nearly-empty tray back to the antechamber. There the attendant was speaking with the guard while she waited, but she hopped to her feet the moment the door opened. She took the tray from the lad, said good day to the guard and retreated down the hall. Bergil then returned to his king’s side.

“Your Highness,” he said, steeling himself. Sir Pippin had told him not to be afraid to ask his king questions.

“Yes, Bergil?”

“I am confused about something the translators said the other day,” he said.

Aragorn looked up from the scroll he was studying. “What might that be?”

“They said that they feared returning to Gondor after staying so long in Harad because they feared Lord Denethor would try them for treason. But, it wasn’t their fault what happened.”

“That might be, but they gave their allegiance to the enemy,” Aragorn said.

“So then why do you not try them for treason now?”

“Because they are no longer our enemies,” Aragorn said. “At least, the Faithful Houses are not. They never were, though we could not have known that sooner. It was one of the Dark Lord’s greatest devices, separating the races of Man, Elf and Dwarf. He knew once divided we would be weakened and his victory all but guaranteed. That he was so successful in separating the Men of the West from the Men of the South, even during his long absence, is one of his more tragic victories. Had we but allied ourselves to each other sooner, his legions perhaps may not have grown so strong.”

“The Faithful Houses,” Bergil said, thinking. “You gave Ashtir, or Sador I should say, three scrolls, one for each of the Faithful Houses. What of those in the Houses of the Eye?”

“If they are not dead or imprisoned, they are allied to the Enemy,” Aragorn said simply.

“And those imprisoned?”

“They will never survive an attack on the palaces. They will be slain. In this I do not doubt the Queen.”

“Everyone in the Houses of the Eye is evil?” Bergil asked.

“Everyone has the capacity for good and for evil. It is what we choose to do with it that matters,” Aragorn said. “There will be those in the Dark Houses who will seek refuge in the Faithful Houses. There are also those who will seek entry only to corrupt those Houses from within.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“There are those in the city who believe the embassy to be just such a group: spies of the Enemy. What do you think?”

Bergil thought for a time, aware of his King’s eyes upon him but knowing he was not pressured to hurry his decision. At length he spoke. “I believe they can be trusted, Your Highness. Their eyes are kind and they love laughter. Their music celebrates life rather than death, and they are loyal, even to strangers of foreign lands. I believe they are good.”

“You are most astute, Bergil,” Aragorn said with approval. “I believe they are good as well. Others will come to understand these things in time. That the Haradrim work alongside our own people to rebuild the Pelennor has already bridged many of those gaps between us.”

“Perhaps one day I can go to Harad as part of an embassy,” Bergil said.

“Perhaps. Now look sharp, lad. Prince Imrahil will be here soon.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Bergil said. He took his position behind his King, ever at attention.

To be continued…

GF 6/6/09
Published 7/7/09

Chapter 19 – The Cat and The Bag

“Next time, we need to do the marketing before luncheon,” Merry said over his shoulder to Pippin, who was struggling to keep up.

The luncheon with Lady Bodil had been more successful than they could have hoped, but the consequence of their conspiring was that they were now forced to do the marketing at midday rather than the morning. The market square was now as packed as Lobelia’s umbrella after a visit to Bag End, making navigation nearly impossible. There were people at every turn, lining up for their rations, haggling over prices and bartering their services. So great was the crowd that they hardly noticed Merry and Pippin attempting to cut their way to the butcher’s shop.

Pippin looked over his shoulder and grinned. Of course, Frodo and Sam would not have such problems. The crowd parted for them wherever they went, breaking before them and circling around them with a wide berth, so that they moved freely from booth to booth. If they were hampered at all, it was because whenever one of them looked at or picked up something, a half-dozen eager admirers would step forward and offer to purchase the item for them.

Every time Frodo and Sam made an appearance in the city, the same thing happened. Pippin knew what the post would bring them tomorrow: baskets filled with home-baked treats, parcels packed with whatever the Ring-bearer and his stout-hearted servant had shown particular interest in but had not purchased, and, absurdly enough, shoes. The hobbits now possessed more shoes, slippers and boots than even a Man by rights should own. Gimli found it so amusing that he kept a running tally of how many shoes each hobbit received. Sam, much to his embarrassment, was far in the lead. When the citizens learned that Sam’s feet had been so gravely injured carrying his master up Mt. Doom, they had all come to the bizarre conclusion that a tough pair of shoes would have prevented the injury.

“What should we do with our shoes when we leave?” Pippin asked, catching up to Merry at last.

“We can give them out at Yule as oven mitts,” Merry said. “That’s what I use them for.”

“The slippers maybe,” Pippin agreed. “But surely not the shoes or boots.”

“The boots do pose a particular problem,” Merry said. “Perhaps we could trade them with dwarves who pass through.”

“What do you trade boots for?”

Merry shrugged. “Gloves. Speaking of oven mitts, I’m still missing my slipper.”

“I told you already, I don’t know where it went,” Pippin said. “Besides, they come in pairs, you know. Just use the other one.”

“But it’s the right slipper. I’m right handed,” Merry said and sighed. He looked around, considering. “I think the cobbler’s shop is around here somewhere. Perhaps he will buy the shoes back. He must be running low on ready-made supplies. Maybe he has a spare right slipper.”

He looked back expecting to find Pippin rolling his eyes. Instead, Pippin was stopped a few paces back, staring in the direction of the outdoor café. Pippin pointed when Merry rejoined him.

“Isn’t that the Haradrim woman who served us at the feast?” he asked. “The one who was sent away for talking to us?”

Merry followed his direction and nodded. “And she is with the translator with the missing hand. What did Strider say his name was?”

“Soroush,” Pippin said. “Something’s wrong.”

The woman was standing rigid and was shaking her head. Soroush was doing his best to speak to her and urge her forward, but the woman refused to move. They were receiving many looks of concern, as well as suspicion, and Pippin knew it was just a matter of time before a crowd gathered and worsened the situation. He made a gut decision and headed towards the couple. Merry hurried to follow him.

“Hallo!” Pippin greeted them cheerfully. The couple turned in surprise, startled out of their argument.

“Hello,” Soroush said.

“Peregrin Took at your service,” Pippin continued with a courtly bow. “This is my cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”

“Your servant, sir, madam,” Merry said, bowing also.

“Soroush of Harad, at the service of you and your family,” Soroush said, returning their bows. “This is my wife, Razeena.”

“I shall serve you well,” Razeena said, though in her fright she forgot to bow. She again pulled against her husband’s clasp on her hand.

“Is there something the matter that we may be able to assist you with?” Pippin asked.

Soroush nodded. “My wife is frightened of the cat.” He pointed with his hook towards the café just across the square.

There at a table under the portico sat Lady Genevieve and upon the table on his beaded pillow was the hairless cat her husband had brought her from the land of the Easterlings. Lord Amlach had told his wife only that the cats were believed to have magical qualities and so only the royalty were allowed to own such creatures. He had been forced to sneak the cat, then a kitten, away in his soldier’s pack to bring back to his wife, who fancied exotic animals and trinkets.

“Surely, she is accustomed to such cats, working in the palace?” Pippin said.

Razeena shook her head and muttered in Haradrim. Her husband shushed her soothingly and whispered reassurances to her, to little effect. She only gesticulated over herself and continued muttering in what sounded like a chant.

“Is it because they are magical?” Merry asked.

Soroush shook his head. “How did it get here?” he asked instead.

“Her husband brought it from the East,” Pippin said.

“Is he mad?” Soroush asked.

“No,” Pippin said. “I have seen Lord Amlach at court quite a few times and he always appears perfectly lucid.”

“Can you be certain? Perhaps he is under some enchantment of the Enemy,” Soroush said.

“I’m quite sure,” Pippin said, remembering the madness of Denethor with a shudder. He patted his pocket, where the beads that Gimli gave him were hidden. Somehow, just knowing they were there did seem to give him more courage. He shook off the memories of Denethor’s madness and patted Razeena’s hand. “Perhaps we should go inside somewhere and get your wife something to eat or drink. Lady Genevieve should not be here much longer.”

Soroush nodded and gently turned his wife away. They went into a tavern a block down the street, away from the noise and bustle of the market square. The tavern though was just as crowded with midday shoppers, seeking refuge from the sun and refreshment after their shopping. They managed to find a curtained booth and slipped into it. Pippin ordered ale and tea, remembering what Razeena had said about Haradrim not drinking spirits, and carried the tray to the booth himself. He and Merry were both surprised when Soroush poured himself a healthy dose of the ale and gulped it down.

“All right then?” Merry asked, pouring Razeena the tea.

Razeena nodded, though in truth she looked no calmer for being out of the cat’s presence. She was finally able to speak though. “That is an evil creature,” she said severely. “What was that man thinking to bring it here? He must be possessed. There is no other reason.”

“We’re missing a part of the story, and not a small part,” Merry said. “What is so evil about a cat? I’ll admit, it could be prettier, but it’s harmless enough.”

“They are spies of the Enemy,” Razeena said. “They are forbidden from our lands.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged looks of alarm. “Spies of the Enemy?” Pippin repeated.

Soroush nodded. He refilled his glass, this time with tea, and took a small sip. “That is the belief. It is said that all cats can see spirits, and they can warn their masters of coming danger. Cats are highly revered for this. But those particular cats, the Withered Ones they are called, can also understand the speech of Men, and they carry all they hear back to their masters. They are thus used by the Houses of the Eye.”

“Orc cats,” Merry and Pippin whispered. “Sam was right then?” Merry asked.

“Orc cats?” Soroush said, his brow wrinkled. “I suppose that would be an adequate description for them. I always assumed the rumors had something to do with the legends of Queen Beruthiel.”

“Who’s Queen Beruthiel?” Pippin asked.

“She was the wife of Tarannon Falastur, twelfth King of Gondor. Not much is known of her. In Belfalas where I grew up, there was a legend that Beruthiel had ten magical cats. Nine were black and these she would send into the city to spy for her while the white one looked over the nine. Men were afraid to touch them and whenever one was spotted, all would go silent and fear would grip their hearts.”

“Wraith cats,” Pippin whispered.

Soroush smirked. “It is said that her husband banished her to the Great Sea with only her cats for company, and that she disappeared to the South, never to be seen again. I often wondered, after coming to Harad and hearing their stories of the Withered Ones, if somehow she reached their shores.”

Merry shivered, then laughed. “But, they are just cats!” He did not sound entirely convinced even to his own ears though. “Aren’t they?”

Soroush shrugged. “I cannot say. The Enemy had many spies.”

“I think this Withered One is a good cat,” Pippin said. “He grew up here and never knew the Eye. He likes drinking warm milk, lying in the sun and having his chin scratched. He’s far too lazy to be a spy. I don’t think he could even make it to the city gate without stopping a few hundred times for a cat nap, and dragging that beaded pillow about will only make it more cumbersome. It would take him forever to get to Mordor.”

Razeena laughed at this, despite herself, and the others relaxed their guard.

“I think you’re right, Pip,” Merry said. “Imagine his surprise when he gets there and sees nothing but a large sandpit! You’ll be able to hear his yowls of indignation all the way in the Shire!”

Now they all laughed and Razeena looked more settled, if still a little spooked.

“Don’t worry, Razeena,” Pippin said, reaching over to pat her hand. “If King Elessar can turn one of the Eye’s Palantír to his will, he should be able to manage a cat, if there’s ever a need for it. In fact, Strider did meet that cat and quite liked him. There’s no better proof of goodness than that, if you ask me.”

“Strider?” Soroush asked. “This is how you address your King?”

“That is how we were introduced to him,” Merry said. “We didn’t know he was the future king until much later.”

“How did you meet him?” Soroush asked.

“We met him as a Ranger, one of a group of Men who patrol the wilds for common rogues and agents of the Enemy. He was their captain, though we didn’t even know that at the time either,” Merry said. “What we did know was that the people of Bree were very suspicious of the Rangers. Figured them for troublemakers and thieves, even.”

“Bree?” Soroush said. He sat forward with interest. “That is where he met the Ring-bearer. You know him then! The Ring-bearer and his servant! You traveled with them.”

“We did,” Pippin said. “You still haven’t discovered the Ring-bearer’s identity then, have you?”

“It is the one they call Frodo,” Razeena said, surprising even Soroush.

“How do you know this?” he asked his wife sharply.

“I was watching him in the bazaar, before I saw the… cat. He was with the fourth one of your kind. The people were so worshipful of them both, and they called the dark-haired one ‘Lord Frodo’ and his servant ‘Lord Samwise’. In Harad, a servant would never be addressed as a lord. I wondered why this was. Then I saw that Frodo was missing a finger on his left hand.”

“What makes you think Sam is his servant?” Merry asked, curious.

“He walks a half-step behind Frodo, not at his side as an equal,” Razeena said. “He is the Ring-bearer then, is he not? We knew it had to be one of your kind. The amir thought it to be you, Pippin, until we discovered your deeds at the Black Gate. Nor could it be you Merry; you are well-renowned as one of the slayers of the Witch-King and we know you remained in the city with the injured.”

Before Pippin or Merry could think of a response for this, a light knock sounded upon the wall outside the booth. A moment later the ranger Soronto drew back the curtain. He bowed. “I apologize for the interruption, but your friends were looking for you,” he said to Merry and Pippin. “Several people told me they saw you come in here. I thought I would come and inform you.”

“Of course,” Merry said. “It was rather spur of the moment. Tell Frodo we’ll be there shortly.”

“Amir Shahzad will also be looking for us, if he too is not standing paralyzed outside by the cat,” Soroush said. They finished their drinks and left the tavern. The market was just as packed as before, but Frodo and Sam were easy to spot in the center of their circle.

“Come. You may as well be introduced,” Pippin said to Soroush and Razeena. “Do you see your prince anywhere?”

“There,” Soroush said and whistled sharply in some bird call that caused everyone nearby to jump and cover their ears.

Shahzad turned and smiled. He came towards them and smiled more broadly as he saw Pippin and Merry. He nodded to them and spoke excitedly.

“Well met, my friend,” Soroush translated. “How fortunate an opportunity to meet you here, in the presence of my trusted translator. Now by chance we may speak of your ancestor, yes?”

Soroush shook his head. “I am sorry, Amir, but your father did want us to return immediately upon purchasing the produce. That was the condition he set for allowing you to venture into the city without proper escort.”

“Mother won’t mind,” Shahzad said.

“She will mind if you make the cooks late for preparing her supper,” Soroush said.

“Very true this is. We shall arrange a meeting then with the Stunted Ones,” Shahzad said. “Their friends are just over there. We shall arrange the meeting now.”

“Amir Shahzad wishes to arrange an interview with you and your friends,” Soroush told the hobbits. “We do not have the time to talk today, but he is most eager to tell you the tale of the Hobbit who came to our lands so long ago.”

“We are eager to hear it. Let’s see what Frodo and Sam say,” Merry said.

They walked over to the cart where Frodo and Sam were test-tasting a mixed-berry preserve. Frodo looked up as they approached and held out two bites of the jam-smeared bread to his cousins.

“You have to try this!” he exclaimed. “It’s delicious. We’ll take two jars.”

“This is what you wanted to see us about?” Pippin said, taking his piece. He bit into it and hummed happily. “This is delightful!”

“See you? About what?” Frodo asked. “Where’s the meat?”

“Meat?” Merry said. “You mean you didn’t send Soronto to look for us?”

“No.”

Merry and Pippin gaped at him. “But he said— They’re spying on us!” Merry said, aghast. “That little—”

“Hullo,” Frodo said, seeing then the company his cousins had brought them. “Prince Shahzad, I believe.”

“Hilo,” Shahzad said.

“Sorry, cousin,” Pippin said. “We forgot. Prince Shahzad, this is our cousin, Frodo Baggins, and our friend, Sam Gamgee. Frodo, Sam, this is Soroush, the royal translator, and his wife, Razeena.”

“You’re the lass who served us at the feast,” Sam said after the pleasantries were exchanged.

Razeena nodded. “I am,” she said.

“You didn’t get into trouble on our account, did you?” Frodo asked. “We were worried when you did not return to the hall.”

Razeena blushed prettily at his concerned regard. “I was in no trouble, Lord Frodo. I was feeling not so well, but I am better now.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Frodo said. “You speak our language well. Your husband is a good tutor.”

“He is very patient with me,” Razeena said, “though I am not as quick a learner as our Sultana.”

“The queen speaks Westron?” the hobbits exclaimed as one. “Does Strider know this?” Pippin asked.

“If he was paying attention, he does,” Soroush said with a shrug. “As I told him, Ashtir and I were employed primarily to teach the queen the ways of the Pale Skins. This would include their speech, as well as their customs.”

“He knows then,” Frodo said.

“What about the king?” Sam asked, then glanced up at Shahzad. “And the prince?”

“The House of the Moon is a Queen’s House,” Soroush said. “She rules, and so she must understand the ways of her allies and her enemies. The king must know these things too, but not as intimately. He is there only to support her decisions and help carry them out. He knows some of the basics of the language, but he is not fluent. Amir Shahzad has learned some of the language as well since coming to the city.”

“Frodo, the prince wanted to arrange a meeting to tell us about the hobbit who came to their lands long ago,” Pippin said, feeling that the sooner this conversation ended, the better. If only there was some way to ask Soroush and Razeena not to reveal their suspicions of Frodo’s identity as the Ring-bearer to Shahzad and the other Haradrim - if they did not know already, that is!

“Of course,” Frodo said. “Merry has his guard duty to perform tomorrow, and we are having dinner at the King’s House Sunday night. How about Monday supper then? Is that agreeable?”

“Perhaps Sunday night would be better,” Pippin said. “They could come to the King’s House. I’m sure Strider won’t mind, and he and the others wanted to hear the story as well. Gandalf and the twins will be back by then.” Better also to keep the Haradrim from discovering where their own house was located, he thought.

“We’ll need to ask Aragorn before we can confirm that,” Frodo said. “We’ll send word to you.”

Soroush summarized this to Shahzad, who nodded his understanding. The prince spoke again and nodded with a small bow.

“Then it is arranged. We shall come whenever you are able to receive us,” Soroush said.

“Excellent,” Merry said. “It was our pleasure meeting you today and being able to talk, privately.”

Soroush and Razeena bowed. “The pleasure was ours,” Razeena said. “You were most kind to us. It shall be repaid.”

“We thank you for your words of assurance,” Soroush said. “Be assured in your own minds that the words spoken between us will remain so.”

They said farewell and watched the Haradrim make their way through the market square.

“What was that about?” Sam asked.

“Razeena figured out Frodo is the Ring-bearer,” Merry said. “We were talking to her and Soroush about Sam’s orc cat, which turns out actually is an orc cat—”

“Descended from a wraith cat,” Pippin put in.

“And she informed us that she knew you were the Ring-bearer, and that’s when Soronto interrupted us to tell us that you sent him to find us,” Merry said.

Frodo frowned. “Wraith cat?”

Pippin nodded. “They belonged to Queen Beruthiel.”

“Who’s that?” Sam asked.

“She was queen long ago, a wicked woman,” the proprietor said, jumping into the conversation. “Some even say she was a Black Númenórean. There are several descendants of the Black Númenóreans among the Southrons, you know.”

“I see we have much to discuss when we get home then,” Frodo said. He handed a few coins to the proprietor for the jars of jam, then searched the crowd until he spotted who he was looking for. “Soronto, if you’re going to be following us anyway, perhaps you could make yourself useful and carry some of these bags.”

Soronto stepped out of the crowd, pink with embarrassment. He bowed. “Of course, Lord Frodo.”

“That’s handy!” Sam said and searched the crowd himself. “Are there any others?”

“Let’s get the meat and go home,” Frodo said with a laugh. “I’m sure we’ll pick up more eager helpers along the way.”

They crossed the market square to the butcher’s shop. As they passed the outdoor café, Pippin looked towards the table where Lady Genevieve had been sitting and sighed with relief when both she and the cat were gone.

To be continued…

GF 6/8/09
Published 7/13/09

Chapter 20 – Of Isengar and Hildifons

On Sunday night, the Fellowship, Faramir, Elladan and Elrohir met at the King’s House for a private dinner. Also present were Sultana Farzana, Sultan Ashraf, Vizier Faheem, Amir Shahzad, Ashtir, and Soroush and Razeena.

“We should have brought some lasses too,” Merry whispered to Sam but his eyes were on Aragorn. Sam stoutly ignored him.

The banquet hall was decorated with all the finery of the household: silk tablecloth and linen hand towels, gold dining ware, crystal goblets and vases with fresh-cut flowers. The food, prepared with attention to the minutest detail, was of both Gondorian and Haradrim fare and covered the sideboard from end to end, filling the room with enticing scents. The candelabras were lit, their golden light shining down upon the room and illuminating the portraits on the walls.

A servant escorted each guest to his or her chair. The long table fit twenty people comfortably, so everyone was able to spread out and enjoy themselves. Aragorn sat at the head of the table, with Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry and Gimli to his left, and Faramir, Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas to his right. Farzana sat facing Aragorn; since Gondor had no queen, the highest ranking member among the guests was seated opposite the king. To her right were her husband, Soroush and Razeena, and to her left were Faheem, Ashtir and Shahzad. Her son nodded politely to the elves seated next to him, but all his attention were for the hobbits across the table.

“Welcome to my home. May you eat well,” Aragorn said and sat. His guests took their seats. “I apologize for the disarray of the house. Just as the city is being rebuilt, there was need to repair a few of the rooms in the house.”

The hobbits waited, curious if the queen would respond in Westron or Haradrim. They were not surprised when she waited for the translation before responding in her own language, with Soroush serving as her translator.

“We thank you for your generosity and hospitality, Your Lordship,” Farzana said. “The food smells delicious. No apology is required. My own palace is often in a state of reorganization.”

“She is not happy unless she is tearing something apart,” Ashraf agreed. “Do not marry a fickle woman, my Lord. Never can they be satisfied.”

“Your queen I could never describe as fickle, my Lord,” Aragorn said, “but I will bear your advice in mind. Now, shall we eat?”

At their king’s signal, the servants each took a dish from the sideboard and circled the table, spooning out the food onto the waiting plates. More servants followed, pouring wine or yogurt juice.

“I would like some of the juice,” Pippin said, smacking his lips. “It’s quite delicious!”

“Is there going to be more of that sticky yellow stuff for afters?” Merry asked.

“Zoolbia,” Razeena said, while Soroush and Ashtir rushed to translate. “We made more, yes.”

“How is it made?” Sam asked.

“You take the starch and mix it with a little of the sugar and some water,” Razeena said. “You add the yogurt and mix it again until it is, um, um… smooth and all the same. In a pan, you heat some oil until it bubbles, little bubbles. Then you pour the mixture through a…”

“Funnel,” Soroush said.

“Through a funnel into the pan in circles and fry both sides,” Razeena continued with a grateful smile to her husband. “Then in another bowl, you mix the rest of the sugar with the rose-water and a cup of water, and you heat that to syrup. Then you soak the zoolbia in the syrup for five minutes, and you are done!”

“My wife told me you were much interested in the food at the feast,” Soroush said, leaving Ashtir to translate. As this was an informal dinner, they were free to speak as they wished. “It surprises us how many people have asked for the receipts.”

“We loved the food!” Pippin said. “Hobbits are able to taste each individual ingredient and spice in any dish. It’s just about the only thing we pride ourselves on, but there were so many things in the food we weren’t familiar with.”

“It would be my honor to teach you how to make any dish you desire,” Razeena said.

“It would be our honor to learn,” Frodo said. “I know Sam has been wanting the receipt for the yogurt juice.”

“Oh, that is simple. Mix some dried mint, salt and a bit of pepper into water, add the whipped yogurt slowly until it is like milk, and leave it to sit for a few days. You can also add pennyroyal to the water if you like. My mother would also put in crushed cucumber sometimes.”

“May I ask, for I am quite curious, are all of you related then?” Shahzad asked the hobbits. Everyone was becoming so accustomed to the translators that they barely noticed them and instead could almost believe they were speaking to the Haradrim directly.

“We are, except Sam,” Frodo said. “Merry is my first cousin once removed on my mother's side, and both Merry and Pippin are my second cousins once removed on my mother’s side and my third cousins once removed on my father’s side. Pippin is Merry’s first cousin and second cousin once removed on his father’s side. Sam is our dearest friend. If it were possible to make him a brother, I would.”

Sam blushed and looked down at his food.

Soroush winced. “Now you sound like my queen! Scrolls and scrolls she has detailing her lineage all the way back to Sultana Badra, first Sultana of the Moon before the Eye’s Coming. That’s over a hundred generations!”

The hobbits grunted in appreciation of this.

“I like your queen,” Pippin said, flashing her a grin. “It’s refreshing to know there are some Big Folk who understand such things. Most of the people we’ve met on our travels couldn’t tell their first cousin twice removed from their second cousin once removed, even if one was serving them tea and the other spooning the sugar!”

Ashraf laughed. “We have noticed that also!”

“Not all Men are so hopeless,” Faramir said with a smile. “It only took two lessons before I learned the difference, I am proud to say.”

“Your brother was not so fortunate,” Gimli said. “Many a night he had to endure the hobbits’ lectures. He even threatened to throw Merry and Pippin from the boat one night.”

“I do believe he was merely teasing the hobbits at the end,” Legolas said. “He was correct far more often than he was wrong.”

Aragorn laughed. “I once woke while Boromir was on guard and I could hear him reciting to himself the relations he had memorized that day. ‘My great-grandfather’s grandson is my first cousin once removed. My grandmother’s grandson is my first cousin.’ He wanted very much to impress you.”

Everyone laughed now, Faramir and the hobbits the hardest. “That is my brother,” Faramir said.

“He did that?” Merry asked though he did not doubt it. He could envision the scene Aragorn described only too well.

“Where is Boromir now?” Faheem asked through Ashtir.

“He fell in Parth Galen, fighting the Uruk-Hai of Saruman,” Aragorn said, replying in Southron. He spoke the language more easily now than he had when the Haradrim first arrived. “Saruman is a wizard who allied himself with Sauron, the Eye. He was supposed to retrieve the One Ring for Sauron but he wanted it for himself. He sent his Uruk-Hai to bring the Ring-bearer to his fortress in Orthanc and destroy the rest of the Fellowship.”

“This wizard knew then who the Ring-bearer was?” Ashraf asked.

“He knew the Ring-bearer’s race,” Gandalf said, also in Southron.

“So the Ring-bearer was not a man, if this Saruman wanted him returned alive,” Farzana said. “Nor a wizard; this we knew already. Neither an elf nor a dwarf, as there was only one of each in your company and so there would be no question of his identity. We come near the point.”

“We shall see,” Aragorn said.

“I believe we see already. You should be proud of your people, King Elessar. They are quite reluctant to say anything within our hearing of the Ring-bearer. However, they are not so reluctant to tell us about everyone else, yes?” Farzana said. “We know where were two of the Stunted Ones during the War, but curiously, no one saw the other two.”

“Then you know who the Ring-bearer is?” Frodo asked, after Razeena explained what was being said.

The queen smiled at him fondly. “I believe we do,” she replied in Haradrim.

“We shall speak of your investigation later then,” Frodo said, “lest we get away from our purpose. I believe Shahzad had a story to tell us, and I for one am most eager to hear it.”

“As are we,” Merry said. He caught Soroush’s eye but the translator only shrugged in a helpless way. Had the queen discovered the Ring-bearer’s identity prior to Friday’s market? Had Razeena only been attempting to confirm her queen’s guess when she spoke with him and Pippin? Or had they somehow known before coming to the city? We knew it had to be one of your kind. What exactly had that meant? The more he thought about it, the less he liked it.

“The hobbit was Hildifons, was it not?” Pippin asked, sitting forward eagerly. “Hildifons was my great-great uncle, the sixth son and child of Gerontius, the Old Took, my great-great grandfather. Hildifons went into the Blue, as we call all lands outside the Shire, and he was never heard from again. Sixteen years after Hildifons disappeared, the youngest of the Old Took’s children, Isengar, went away to Sea hoping to find some word of Hildifons. He traveled to many shores, including Harad, but never discovered anything about his brother. He returned home with many tales of Adventure and treasures from many lands, but no brother. It would trouble him the rest of his days, happy though they were.”

“Where in Harad did Isengar land?” Faheem asked.

“He always called the place where he landed Maroon’s Valley, but that was just a name he came up with on his own,” Frodo said. “At least, that is what he told Bilbo once.”

“Bilbo?” Ashtir asked.

“Another of our cousins,” Merry said. “He’s older than us. In fact, he’s one of the Old Took’s many grandchildren. Isengar and Hildifons were his uncles.”

“Did Bilbo remember anything else?” Elladan said. “A more direct account will be more accurate than tales told around a fire.”

“Isengar wrote down all his accounts of his journeys. I’m sure that Pippin memorized them long ago,” Frodo said.

Pippin nodded. “His ship was caught in a storm and he was run afoul of another ship belonging to some Black Númenóreans, as he would very soon discover. He came to shore not far from them, and they pursued him. He managed to escape them by doubling back and hiding amongst their wreckage. He made it back to the water and swam, for he had learned the skill from the Brandybucks in his youth, in the direction opposite of where they were looking for him. After a few days, he returned to land, but he was still cautious of approaching anyone so near the crash. For many weeks, he lay hidden by day and wandered by night, until at last he came to a house where he could seek shelter. It was the home of a fisherman and his wife and family. They befriended him and they agreed to give him a boat in exchange for a year of service. The master’s name was Aban, and his wife was Fadia.”

“This tale we have never heard,” Ashraf said. “He never learned in whose House he resided?”

“What service was he required to do?” Razeena asked.

“If he did not know where he landed, where then was he headed before the storm threw him asunder?” Faheem asked. “In what direction did he travel?”

“He resided in Aban’s house,” Pippin answered, misunderstanding the first question. “Aban was a fisherman, as I said, so Isengar helped him with his catch and the repair of his boats. He was also required to help build a new boat to replace the one that would be given to him. He never knew the place where he landed. As Frodo said, he made up the name Maroon’s Valley for it. Before the storm, he had been headed to a port called Nail’s End, which some fishermen out at Sea told him about. Aban’s home was called Dawn’s Harbor.”

“Dawn’s Harbor?” Farzana asked. “You are certain?”

“That is the name he used whenever he told the story,” Gandalf said. “The fisherman lived in a very small hamlet off the main river. There was little adventure to be found there, for which he was glad! The river was called, in our language, Swift Water.”

“Swift Water?” Shahzad repeated, looking startled. Even his parents were having difficulty hiding their alarm at this news.

“That is the name as I recall it as well,” Frodo said. “Why? What is the matter?”

“If all you say is true,” translated Ashtir for the king, “the fisherman was of the House of the Sea.”

“Ain’t that one of the Houses of the Eye?” Sam asked.

“It is.”

A stunned silence filled the hall as they pondered the implications behind this revelation. Had Isengar not revealed the true nature of his wreck to the fisherman? Probably not, if he was pursued. So the fisherman was not defying his masters in harboring Isengar, for though Sauron had long been absent from Harad, the Black Númenóreans who served the Eye still ruled their Houses with fists of iron on the belief that the Eye would one day return to reclaim his throne there. They held the seat of the Eye much as the Stewards of Gondor held the seat of the King. To hide a stranger who had run one of their ships ashore would have been high treason.

The fisherman had, though, made a deal and kept it, when it would have been much more profitable to claim Isengar as a slave and sell him for a premium price. Isengar would be considered an oddity, an exotic creature, and would be a prized possession to whoever was fortunate enough to outbid his competitors. The fisherman had honor and more, for it would have been impossible to go through an entire year, nor even a month, without some word of the wreck and his masters’ pursuit of the fugitive reaching his ears. The fisherman would have learned the story from the merchants he traded with, if not from the scouting parties that patrolled the ports, docks and homesteads along the rivers and sea. Still, the fisherman kept his word and protected Isengar from discovery, at risk to his own life and that of his family.

“I begin to believe your claims of Took luck,” Elrohir said after some time, putting down his spoon.

As with everyone else, he had taken advantage of the silence to finish his meal. Now the servants stepped forward to clear the plates and bowls and pour more drink. They would have a half-hour before dessert to discuss matters without interruption.

Elladan nodded in agreement with his brother. “Isengar could have knocked upon a slave trader’s door just as easily or entrusted himself to a man who seeks only profit.”

“Perhaps, yet I cannot help but recall what he told me of his time in Harad,” Gandalf said. “He mentioned the times when the Black Númenóreans would come sailing up the river on their patrols. Often, news would reach them well before the black ships appeared on the horizon, for such was their fear of their masters. Aban would then bid him to hide swiftly. They even devised a place for him to hide, a secret compartment in the pantry – so he would have food to eat if he had to be there long. Yet he was free to go as he wished at any other time and there were several who knew he was there. He survived a year thus.”

“They are not all our enemies,” Faramir said.

“A hundred years ago, mayhap,” Aragorn said, deep in thought. “There is much to consider.”

“It explains why Isengar never learned about his brother,” Legolas said. “I assume there is not much communication between the Houses of the Eye and those of the Faithful.”

“There is none, except threats and evil deeds,” Faheem said.

“And what about Hildifons?” Pippin asked. “Tell us about him.”

Shahzad waited for his parents to nod their approval before sitting forward. He began to speak in the low, measured tone of a master bard, which Ashtir mirrored perfectly, both of their words filled with wonder of the tale. Frodo, Merry and Pippin leaned forward also, eager to hear the tale of their lost relative.

“In a time long ago that none now remember, there came to this land a most unusual creature. Peculiar he was, for he stood at his tallest but half a grown man’s height, and twisting hair there was growing upon his head and both his feet. Laugh and sing he did often and to hear it cheered the hearts of all men.

“‘I come from a land far to the north and west,’ he spoke. ‘There many of my kind live in holes beneath the ground and always is there drink and good food. I departed my home to see the World and meet its people. In what land do I now find myself?’

“A young man just come into his grown years stepped forward. He was Amir Roshan of the Stars, betrothed to Amira Suri of the Moon. ‘You are in the House of the Stars, good friend,’ spoke Roshan. ‘Welcome and may the stars shine upon you so your path is well-lit!’

“From that moment on, Roshan and the stranger, who came to be known as Hildos, were the fastest of friends. Hildos came away with Roshan to the palace and there he lived in luxury for many months. Every night, he entertained the Sultan and Sultana with a different story. Some were from his homeland, often of simple things, such as his adventures with his many siblings. He spoke so often of learning to cook that they allowed him to enter the palace kitchens and help prepare the food. Sometimes, he related a tale of oddity such that no one could believe, such as a wizard who blew smoke from his mouth and could make small suns that exploded in the night sky. He told also many great stories of his travels, and so it was discovered that he came to the House of the Stars over the Sea with merchants he met in Harandor.

“‘So great were their stories of this land,’ spoke Hildos, ‘where the air never chills and the sun shines always, that I determined I must see it for myself.’

“Roshan was glad when Hildos decided to remain yet longer than he planned, and the amir taught the Stunted One all the ways of the Starlands. In each other’s company they could always be seen outside the palace, for the prince took Hildos with him everywhere. Soon it was determined that Hildos brought with him good fortune, for everyone who did him a kindness was well-rewarded. They suddenly caught more fish than ever before, or their plants grew to amazing heights, or their daughters found worthy men to marry.

“When it came time for Roshan to wed, Amira Suri determined that Hildos would join her palace as a vizier to Roshan. A great honor it was and he would be richly paid in gold, jewels and the finest garments. So certain was she that no one could refuse such a service, especially one so devoted to her husband, that she had a room built especially for his accommodation and had several gowns and robes made to fit him.

“She was most surprised when she discovered that Hildos had refused her generous offer and that he indeed determined that it was time for him to leave! ‘Why do you abandon us so?’ she questioned. ‘So kindly we have treated you, have we not? Yet you would refuse the greatest honor we can bestow upon you.’

“‘My Amira,’ spoke Hildos, bowing, ‘great is your beauty and generosity, and great is my love for your husband. Happily I have lived here these many months and happily I could have remained but to see the joy between you and your amir. You may provide for me in every way, but still there will be none of my kind among you and I long greatly for my homeland and a family of my own. I will relate to my homeland the joys of this land and its glorious amira, daughter of the Moon, radiant as the night sky.’

“‘Then go, dearest Hildos, by the swiftest road and safely. I pray for you so that you may see your homeland again,’ spoke Suri. She kissed him and gave to him the talisman of Luna, the Moon goddess. ‘Carry this with you, for it will bring you protection.’

“A month passed before Hildos departed. He took with him his greatest treasures. This did not include, as you would suppose, the gold, jewels and garments given him by Amira Suri, though some of these he took for trade. Instead, his treasures as he determined them were a wooden horse which Roshan had made him, a rock carved into a starburst by a slave girl whom he had befriended, a necklace of bird feathers he had won in a game of chance, and a blanket given him which had once belonged to Roshan in his youth.

“Roshan went with him to see him on his road. Hildos had determined to say farewell to his friends in the Starlands before departing, so they went first to House of the Stars and there Hildos had many happy farewells. At last, they departed for the road to the Sea. Roshan and Hildos said their farewells at the road, for Roshan must return to his beloved’s side as a great feast was about to commence in the Moonlands for the Longest Night, which was swiftly approaching. Hildos departed under the moonlight and he would reach the Sea in three nights, or so it was thought.

“In the morning when Roshan broke his camp, he spotted on the ground the talisman of Luna. Then a great fear swept through him for his friend was traveling unprotected from the night creatures! Roshan hurried to meet his friend but fate delivered him too late! Hildos had been met upon the road by a deadly asp. Bitten and many leagues from the nearest shaman, Roshan could only hold his friend in his arms until the end, both of them waiting until the poison did its evil work. When his final breath left him, Hildos smiled and said, ‘I am home.’

“So ends the tale of Hildos, also called Tukos, the Stunted One, greatest of the friends of the Moon and the Stars.”

Shahzad reached into his robes and withdrew a small amulet on a length of cord. “The wise-woman bade me to bring this with me. Long it has been displayed in my home, along with trophies of my ancestors. It is said that Hildos wore this and upon his death, Roshan then wore it. It is said to be a memento for Hildos of his homeland.”

Shahzad stood and with great reverence handed it across the table to Merry, who gasped when he saw it. He gave it to Pippin, who showed it to Frodo and they too gasped.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

Pippin held up the medallion for all to see. Sam peered at it closely. It was a small disc of gold, greatly worn by the years, but still there could be seen some detail of the crest upon its face. Sam recognized the stamp of the drawn crossbow over the rolling hills of the Green Hill Country, for he had seen it many times during their Conspiracy the previous spring.

“It’s the medallion of the Thain,” Pippin said. “It once belonged to the Old Took. I read in his journals once that he gave this to Hildifons when he left for his Adventures. Since Gerontius couldn’t talk him out of it, he gave the medallion to Hildifons to remind him to come home some day.”

“But that is handed down from Thain to Thain,” Merry said. “Your father has one. I’ve seen it.”

“Gerontius had a second one made after Isengar returned and it became apparent that Hildifons would never come back,” Pippin said.

“What did he give Isengar when he left the Shire?” Frodo asked.

“A map.”

“What is a Thain?” asked Soroush.

“He is our version of a Steward, but he does not rule the Shire,” Frodo said. “He commands only the Shire Muster and the Hobbitry in Arms in times of emergency.”

“Who then rules the Shire?” asked Faheem.

“Now that the King has returned, I suppose that would be Aragorn,” Frodo said and grinned. “No one will ever believe it!”

“Likely they won’t, after so long an absence,” Aragorn agreed.

“Have any more of Hildifons’s things survived the years?” Pippin asked. “You said he was bringing treasures home, the wooden horse and other items. What happened to those?”

“It is said that the garments were given out to the children of the palace,” Farzana said through Soroush. “The gold was returned to the treasury. The items he considered his treasures were put with the amulet in the Great Hall. I assume they are still there?” She looked narrowly at her son.

Shahzad blushed. “Yes Mother.”

“We will forward them to you upon our return,” Farzana said.

“There is no need,” Pippin said. “This medallion is the only treasure I require. I thank you for bringing it.”

“Did he not keep a journal? A book of writings?” Merry asked. “Our families would wish that to be returned as well, if there is one.”

“It is possible,” Ashraf said in wonderment. “In fact, I once found a small book in the archives with markings unlike any I had seen before. I have not thought of it in years. Perhaps that is it!”

“If you can find it again, and Soroush or Ashtir can verify its authenticity, then forward it here,” Frodo said. “We will receive it eventually.”

“It shall be done,” promised Ashraf.

“Now there is something I want to know,” Merry said as the servants returned with the dessert. “My fellow Riders were speaking the other day of the rumors they had heard of Harad growing up. They named one thing in particular but refused to explain it to me. I thought perhaps you could tell me. What are eunuchs?”

Several of the Gondorian servants nearly dropped their plates. Faramir choked on his wine; Elladan reached over and patted his back. Aragorn grimaced and Gandalf muttered something about horse breeders with soiled minds. Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli looked as lost as the hobbits. Soroush and Ashtir shifted uncomfortably and poked at their food. Farzana’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but her husband, son and vizier were all baffled without a translation.

“This I can explain to you,” said Razeena, when her husband and Ashtir continued their silence.

An illuminating half-hour passed, after which the hobbits sat in shock, their desserts untouched, and gaped at the Haradrim before them. Finally, Frodo cleared his throat.

“Perhaps that explains why Hildifons decided to return home all of a sudden,” he said, avoiding Faheem’s eyes. “Had he known what would have happened though…”

“He still would have chosen the snake,” Pippin said. “Better to die intact than to live with a broken p—.”

“Pippin!” Merry groaned, wishing he had never asked the question. He should have listened to Erkenbrand.

To be continued…

GF 6/20/09
Published 7/19/09

A/N: A knave here means a man born of humble birth or a servant.

Chapter 21 – Slaves and Knaves

The Haradrim departed soon after dessert with many bows, thanks and good wishes. The Fellowship, Elladan, Elrohir and Faramir had remained a while longer, speaking aloud their earlier observations of the Haradrim’s tale of Hildifons and their insight into Isengar’s history in their land. After much discussion, Aragorn had dismissed his friends for the night. Frodo had begun to leave, then doubled back, sending Sam home with the others. There was something Frodo needed to speak about to the king and he saw no better opportunity to do so than now.

Gandalf, Elrohir and Elladan had not known anything about Sam spying on Aragorn. They had been both surprised and amused by the prospect, and just as baffled about Aragorn’s acceptance of it as was Frodo. He now intended to discover the reasoning behind it, for he could not believe that Aragorn would put Sam into harm’s way so carelessly.

Frodo reentered the King’s House and padded down the hall to the study. He nodded at the guards on duty and knocked upon the door. He could hear Aragorn, Faramir and Gandalf speaking inside. At his knock, the talking ceased and Aragorn called out. “Enter!”

Frodo entered. “Aragorn, might I have a word with you?” He had not intended to sound cross, but his words were sharp even to his own ears. He took a deep breath.

“Of course, Frodo. You are always free to speak with me whenever you wish,” Aragorn said, both intrigued and alarmed. The hobbits rarely addressed him formally in private, or even public, which could only mean that Frodo wished to discuss something of importance with him. If he was in any doubt, he need only look into Frodo’s eyes, which were glaring up at him, cold blue and heated with ire.

Frodo took another deep breath. He had not expected to be so agitated and even he was alarmed by the irritation coursing through him now. “I’m not interrupting?” he asked, doing his best to sound cordial. He almost succeeded.

“No, you’re not,” Aragorn said. “What did you wish to speak about?”

“Sam,” Frodo said. “It is treason, is it not, for any of your people to spy on you? I doubt very much the court would care that he had your permission. Why then did you give him permission to do so?”

“Shall we leave?” Faramir asked.

“You can stay,” Frodo said. He crossed his arms and waited patiently.

“Frodo, I assure that Sam is perfectly safe in his endeavors. I would have never given my permission if I thought he would come to harm. You do know that?” Aragorn said.

“I do. What I don’t know is why you allowed it in the first place,” Frodo said. “Someone else could have realized what he was doing. At the very least, Sam’s character could have been soiled, to say nothing of your own. I will not have anyone thinking ill of him.”

“How long did Sam spy on you before you realized what he was doing?” Gandalf asked Frodo.

“The Shire is not Gondor,” Frodo said, “and I am only the Master of the Hill, of little importance as such things go.”

“How long, Frodo?”

“Nearly a year,” Frodo admitted.

“How did you discover his indiscretion?” Gandalf asked next.

“Merry told me about it,” Frodo said. “At Crickhollow. But this is not the Shire. There he risked nothing but a few sharp words from his father.”

“And so he risks nothing now,” Aragorn said. “It is treason to spy on the king or any member of his court or cabinet, when one is spying with the intention of harm. Sam was merely concerned for my welfare. He wasn’t looking for ways to sabotage myself or the city. He was only looking for a reason for my distraction of late, hardly a crime worth mentioning, much less punishing. As for why I allowed it, I did so because you can prepare your entire life for something and still not know what to do once you have it. I allowed it because knowing that someone I respected so highly might be watching me at any moment helped me to keep my bearings. I didn’t want him ambushing me from behind a corner or a bush should I do or say something foolish.”

Frodo smiled at this, relaxing considerably. “Dearest Strider, Sam would never ambush you in the middle of spying on you. That would rather defeat the purpose.”

Now Aragorn and the others laughed also. “Right you are, my dear hobbit,” Gandalf said. “Aragorn has much to learn still of hobbits.”

“He does indeed,” Frodo said. “Sam told me everything he discovered. Be grateful Merry doesn’t have all the information, but even so, it won’t be much longer before he pieces it all together, if he hasn't already. You’ll want to keep on your toes, Aragorn. Merry has finished his prank on me and that gives him far too much free time. He’s focusing on you now, and he will not be merciful.”

“I shall be on the lookout,” Aragorn said.

“I’ll tell Sam he may commence his spying efforts then,” Frodo said, though he had no intention of doing so. Still, if it helped Aragorn to think that Sam might be lurking, he saw no reason to end the charade altogether. “Can I give you one piece of advice? Don’t hide your secret lists and calendars in a secret compartment in your hutch. You may as well paint a target on it.”

“There’s a secret compartment in the hutch?” Faramir asked, looking at the hutch with interest.

“Gandalf showed it to me,” Aragorn said, flabbergasted. “How did Sam find it?”

“He’s a hobbit of many skills. Good night, lads,” Frodo said, turning to leave. Only then did notice a curling piece of parchment on the desk. The parchment was held down with paperweights on each corner and looked much worn by many handlings. He stepped forward and looked upon a map of Harad, showing the five realms, five palaces and the temple of the Eye. Within the borders of each realm were written three sets of numbers.

“What is this? What are these numbers?” he asked.

Faramir stood beside him and pointed. “An estimation of the number of each House. The numbers for the Houses of the Sea and Earth are very rough estimations, as best as Queen Farzana can guess. The counts represent the number of royals, nobles and merchants, the number of slaves, and the number of Gondorians, held as captives or hidden as refugees. This last is the least reliable number.”

“Slaves? They are not to be freed then?” Frodo asked, turning to Aragorn. “Surely you do not mean to ally yourself with someone who would treat others in such a manner.”

“There is much we do not understand of their ways, Frodo,” Gandalf said. “We do know that they treat their slaves fairly.”

“The Faithful Houses do at any rate,” Aragorn said. “Queen Farzana, Queen Semira of the Sun and King Carthos of the Stars will reestablish the laws for the protection of slaves in the other Houses once they are liberated of their tyrants. And before you judge them too harshly, you must understand, Frodo, that to them, Sam is your slave.”

Frodo had been about to argue further, but at this he closed his mouth and seemed unable to think of anything to say.

“As Master Jodocus, Mistress Porcia and all the knaves and maids of this household are my slaves,” Aragorn continued. “They see no difference in the way we treat our servants and the way they treat their slaves.”

“But… But that’s preposterous!” Frodo finally exclaimed. “Sam is not my slave! He can do as he wishes whenever he wishes. He can leave my employment if he so wishes, though I am thoroughly grateful that he does not, even after all I have put him through. Can a slave do those things? They are sold and branded like cattle, children taken from mothers.”

Aragorn sat forward grimly. “We have been told many lies and misconceptions about Harad. Believe me when I say I have questioned them thoroughly on this matter. To them, all men and women of humble birth, commoners or working folk if you will, are to become slaves once they reach their majority, if they do not join the military or secure an apprenticeship to learn a trade. Every effort is made to keep families together, though Queen Farzana admits they can improve in this area. If they are split up, they are allowed to keep in contact and to see each other on holidays. Most often, it is husbands who are separated from their wives and children, rather than mothers from children, which is no happier a circumstance. Should the mother fall ill or die in childbirth, then it is often the case that the children will be returned to their fathers or kept in the house where their mother served, raised as foster children to their masters. Children are not sold. That is a crime that will not be tolerated. Of course, boys become men at the age of thirteen there, and girls become women as soon as they begin their courses.”

“So young?” Frodo asked, appalled.

“It is not so very different from us,” Faramir said. “The age of majority here is fifteen. You can imagine my shock when Pippin told me that he is still considered a child among your people, though he is now twenty-nine.”

Frodo nodded. That was something they had all noticed long ago, how quickly the children of Men grew up. “What else have they told you?” he asked.

“Their slaves are compensated. They are given food, clothing, shelter, and money for their personal expenses in exchange for their service to their masters. Their children are even educated alongside the children of the house. They are given their own time to do as they wish, special holidays and the like. They may not marry without permission though. That must be negotiated by their masters. Obviously, a master would prefer marriage between two of his own slaves than risk losing one to someone else or having to trade one for another.”

“And if they defy their masters?”

“It would be no different than if one of my men defied me,” Aragorn said. “Their punishments are perhaps harsher than I would like them to be, but life in general is harsher there. Their laws are concrete, and slaves are judged no differently than the nobles or proprietors. They are not treated as animals, this I do know. If you don’t believe me, you can ask their slaves. You’ve already met several of them.”

“I— I didn’t realize,” Frodo said, as shocked by this as everything else he had learned. He had known Razeena was a freed slave, but hadn't realized that the other attendants and servants were still slaves themselves. “What about the…” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “The eunuchs?”

“As Razeena explained, the eunuchs agree to become such,” Aragorn said. “I am sure they think me quite foolish to take into my confidence men who have families of their own, for in times of great hardship, a man will think of his family before he thinks of his master. What if Sam had already been married to his Rose?”

“I would not have allowed him to come,” Frodo said.

“I told him he was to accompany you,” Gandalf said.

“Then you would have just had to learn to live with disappointment,” Frodo said. “I love you, Gandalf, but you are not at liberty to give orders to my servants if I do not agree with them. If Sam had been married, he would have stayed, no matter how great his desire to see elves and protect me."

“And Middle-earth would be lost,” Aragorn said. He shook his head. “No, they have their reasons for doing as they do. Loyalty for them is a tricky business; they have lived too long with deception. If a man is not willing to give up his future for his master, then he is not worthy of that trust. I do not agree with them in this, as they no doubt have their disagreements with my policies. We must be able to look past such disagreements. Allies are made in such ways.”

“Then I envy you your position even less,” Frodo said. “I believe Merry is right.”

“About what?”

“You do need a distraction. If you’ll pardon me.” And with that he left.

“What does he mean by that?” Faramir asked.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Aragorn said. “Come. Let us speak of this for a time, though we must each retire to our beds soon. Tomorrow will be a busy day.” They turned to the map and studied it. “The queen insists they do not require our help, but I feel I must insist upon sending some eventually, if not immediately. The Houses of the Eye are ruled by the Black Númenóreans. They are as much our responsibility as they are the Houses of the Faithful. I need a proposal the queen cannot refuse.”

An hour later, he saw Faramir and Gandalf to the door. Faramir turned towards his house and Gandalf to the tunnel-way. Aragorn retired to the guest chamber in which he has been staying since his inauguration. He would not enter the master suite until the arrival of Arwen at Midsummer, which was just as well as the master suite currently looked like it had been hit by a wind storm.

He changed into his sleeping gown, careful not to disturb his valet’s slumber in the attached room. He then sat upon the windowsill and looked out towards the northwest and Rohan, where his beloved waited.

“Soon, my love. Soon.”  

Frodo was so deep in thought on his way home that he did not at first realize that he was being followed. The moon and stars were covered by clouds, which promised a wet tomorrow for the groundbreaking of the Pelennor, and there was little light to see by. Not that this bothered Frodo of course. Since his long ago stabbing by the Witck-King, his night vision was much improved and he could spy movement in even the darkest of shadows. The only time his vision had failed him entirely was in Shelob’s lair, and that was a darkness he did not wish to think about now.

He pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated instead on Aragorn’s words about the slaves of Harad. Despite such reassuring news, he still felt horrified that the Haradrim would think Sam his slave, rather than his dearest and most trusted of friends. Yet was it a misconception worth correcting? Was Aragorn right and they simply could not understand the distinction? He remembered then what Bodil had said about servants in Gondor. They are not given a voice of their own but are instead considered part of the household they served, with no consideration to their family origins. Did the people of Gondor believe that Sam went with him to Mordor only on his command, when there could be nothing further from the truth?

It was as these thoughts were rattling about his brain that he heard the footstep behind him and a pebble skipping upon the cobblestones. Frodo stopped and turned.

“Is someone there?” he called, squinting into the shadows. Yes, he could see someone lingering in the tunnel. “Who is it? Show yourself.”

The shape retreated further into the tunnel.

“You are of the Guard of the Tower,” Frodo guessed, “sent by your King to make sure no harm becomes me. Best to walk beside me then, where you will be of most use.”

The form hesitated then stepped forward out of the tunnel. The guard bowed in apology.

“How long have you known?” asked Adrik.

“Long enough. You are betraying nothing, have no fear of that,” Frodo said. “Come lad, walk me home and talk to me. Keep the shadows at bay.”

“What do you wish to speak about, Frodo?” Adrik asked, coming to stand beside him.

They turned and walked together, taking their time now to enjoy each other’s company. In the stables, they could hear a couple of the horses whinnying and smell fresh hay. A brief memory of Bill the Pony bolting in terror from the Gates of Moria came to Frodo’s mind, but this too he pushed away.

“Do you have any family?” Frodo asked.

“My father alone is left to me,” Adrik said. “He is a great man.”

“Tell me about him.”

“His name is Kirtis,” Adrik began. “He was a Guard of the Tower in his younger years, before he was injured in a scrimmage at Osgiliath. Now he teaches battle tactics and ambush techniques to the young recruits. They listen to him, or he will set them to run ten miles in half an hour. Of course, that too is a lesson: no matter how much of a hurry you’re in, you must pace yourself or you’ll pass out.”

Frodo laughed. “Your father is a smart man. How was he injured?”

“His arm was cut off by the enemy. He nearly died, but for Boromir. He stuck his hand right into my father’s limb and pinched the vessels closed until a healer could be brought to his side.”

Frodo felt slightly woozy at this colorful explanation, but Adrik remained nonplussed. All in a day of a soldier, apparently. “Does your father ever miss his arm?”

Adrik nodded. “Oh yes. Sometimes, he still wakes in the middle of the night, clenching at it in pain, as though it were really still there. It happens rarely now, not like before. When he was first injured, it hurt him all the time. They call it a phantom arm, or leg, or hand, whatever the case may be. It is said that the ghost of the missing limb remains with the body, so that in death you may be whole again.”

Frodo reached over with his hand and felt the nub of his missing finger. “Is that what they say?”

“It is,” Adrik said, looking down. Frodo felt his gaze and pulled his hand away. Adrik looked up again and continued. “The healers have a numbing balm. It helps my father greatly. It’s odd. I’ll hear people who knew my father before his injury say how grand and valiant he was, how strong and able, and how tragic it is that he was cut down so young. But I was only six when it happened and I barely remember him as he was before. To me, he is still all those things and more, because he wouldn’t allow his injury to hold him back. He still trains with the Guard, still goes on maneuvers with us, to teach us in the field, and he still commands the respect of all around him, just as before if not more so now. Some say he is less able now. I say they haven’t even begun to see of what he is capable.”

“You are very wise, as is your father,” Frodo said. “Is he at the barracks now?”

“Nay, we have a house in the citadel. All the senior officers do. My father has been spending his days at the Houses of Healing, helping to cheer the wounded soldiers by barking orders at them and commanding them to get better so they can get back to their posts.”

“He raised you alone?”

“Since I was ten. My mother died in childbirth, her and the baby. I had a younger brother, Dagnir. He was two years my junior. He died of an apoplexy a few years ago. He was training one day and he just fell over. At first they thought he’d passed out from heatstroke, but when the sergeants got to him, he was dead. He was only fourteen.”

“I am sorry. You must miss them both terribly,” Frodo said, taking Adrik’s hand. Adrik looked down in surprise, but squeezed gently in return before letting go.

“I do at times, but then I remember that my mother would only lecture me for feeling pity and my brother would tease me mercilessly for weeping like a girl. Then I get up, get dressed and get to work. It’s lonely sometimes, with just my father and myself, but I am to be married soon. It will be nice to have a woman in the house again.”

“Congratulations! Who is the lucky lass?”

“Her name is Feija and she’s a wench at The Serpent and The Hare,” Adrik said. “She has eyes of brightest green and her laugh can bring dawn to the darkest day. She was sent away with the other refugees, to her cousins in Poros Vale, but she will be returning next week. We are to wed this summer.”

“She sounds lovely. I am sure the two of you will be very happy together,” Frodo said.

“Thank you, my lord,” Adrik said.

They reached the Fellowship’s house and Frodo opened the gate. Frodo paused. “May I ask you a question, Adrik?”

“Of course,” Adrik said.

“Why does Aragorn have guards following us? Is it because of the Haradrim in the city? They do not wish us harm,” Frodo said.

Adrik shook his head. “I do not know, my lord. I only know those are the orders I was given. I do know that you have always been followed, even before the Haradrim arrived.”

“Are there rogues in the city?” Frodo asked.

“A shady character might come now and then, even in times of calm and order,” Adrik said. “They are not always spotted before they can do harm or damage. I do not believe you to be in danger, but it never hurts to take precautions.”

“Better safe,” Frodo said, leaving the rest unsaid. “Thank you, Adrik, and well wishes again to you and your bride.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Adrik said, bowing. He waited until Frodo was safely inside, then crossed the street to the shadows to take up his nightly post.  

Frodo went upstairs. The house was already asleep and the passages were dark. He didn’t need much light though and made it upstairs with silent steps. He entered Sam’s room and was not surprised to find his friend already deep in slumber. He stood for a time at the foot of Sam’s bed, musing again over Aragorn’s words.

No matter how the Haradrim saw things, Sam was not a slave, yet as a servant, he had given up so much to follow Frodo. He had nearly given his life and Frodo knew that he would continue to serve his master with little thought to himself if Frodo allowed him.

“So I won’t let you,” Frodo promised, a soft whisper in the dark. He moved up the side of the bed and pulled the blanket over Sam’s shoulders. He went into his own room and firmly closed the door. “I won’t let you.”

Yet what would Sam do if he were set free?

To be continued…

GF 6/22/09
Published 7/27/09

Chapter 22: The Groundbreaking

The next morning found the city quiet and nearly empty. Most of the city had filed onto the Pelennor for the groundbreaking ceremony and celebration. The day had begun with breakfast, everyone by necessity bringing their own food. They sat to their picnics with friends and family, enjoying the break from the heat. The clouds of the previous night lingered still, and while the air remained balmy, the breeze was mild and refreshing.

Near the stage, the king sat with his friends, a simple cloth of dirt beige beneath them. Aragorn had thought about bringing the picnic blanket that Mistress Porcia had pulled out of storage. The blanket was a lovely dove white satin with a stamp of the royal crest in sable at its center, and the citizens no doubt would be expecting something of the sort. Aragorn had nearly brought it until he imagined Sam’s reaction: first, the horror of putting that pure white cloth upon the soil and dirt; second, the dawning realization that he was meant to eat upon it; and finally, his instance on putting something over it and under it to prevent it from being stained, thus completely defeating the purpose of bringing it. Mistress Porcia put the blanket away for a picnic to be taken later on the Great Lawn and brought instead the most plain bit of cloth she could find in the house.

After breakfast was over, there was music supplied by the court minstrel and the many bards of the city, as well as skits and stories from anyone bold enough to take the stage. The Haradrim were also present, and a few of their performers contributed to the celebration, including the woman who had sung so enchantingly at their welcoming feast. The dancer who had held Osric so entranced also took the stage, and even in her robes she possessed such grace that she held everyone enraptured throughout her performance.

Merry smirked. The Rohirrim were sitting near them and he saw Osric all but drooling as the dancer stepped down and rejoined her companions. Though the Rohirrim had continued in their role as guides and neighbors to the Haradrim for the past two weeks, Osric had yet to say two words to the lady. He claimed it was due to the Haradrim men being so protective of their women and the fact that she was staying with the royal court in the Citadel, but everyone had been quick to notice the freedom the women of the royal court enjoyed. They could often be seen in the city by themselves or in small groups, with not even a hint of one of their men nearby. No, the real reason was that if he got within twenty feet of her, he started shaking with nerves and would forget every speech he had been practicing.

Wulf had laughed about it one night over drinks when Merry was present. “He can stare a warg in the eye and promise to slit it from nose to navel, which he will then proceed to do, all without breaking a sweat. But he can’t talk to a pretty girl.”

“In his defense, Jamila is more than just a pretty girl,” Erkenbrand had said. “Even I have trouble remembering how to talk around her.”

Merry had only one encounter with her. He had joined the Riders at their house after their previous practice session and when he left, he nearly ran into Jamila as she was leaving the house next door, apparently on some errand for the queen. He had only managed to squeak out ‘good morn’ before forgetting the rest of the greeting. Thankfully, she didn’t understand enough Westron to realize the greeting was incomplete. Jamila was, in Osric’s poetic ramblings, the reason the word beautiful was invented, and even that fell short of the mark. With skin of honey and eyes of peridot, she was stunning to look upon, but Merry preferred plain prettiness over tongue-tying beauty any day. As Pippin had said the night of the feast, what good was a lass if you couldn’t talk to her?

At noon, Aragorn, along with Gandalf, Faramir, Imrahil and the rest of his court took the stage. The stage had been placed on the foundation of the first of ten homes to be rebuilt during the first phase. After much pondering, Aragorn had decided that the fairest way to determine the order of rebuilding was to hold a lottery. In court the day before, he had selected from a bowl the names of the first ten farmsteads. The third had been Ioveta’s.

“What will happen to the land if she does not return to it?” Merry had asked over dinner that night.

“Then another will be found to tend it,” Gandalf had answered. “Mistress Ioveta has only another week to reclaim the farm. If she does not, Aragorn will give it to Sador – the translator, Ashtir,” he elaborated when met with only blank stares.

“Will she be compensated?” Pippin had asked.

“The lands belong to the king.”

“She needs help, Gandalf.”

“And so she is receiving it in the form she will accept it. She will be kept busy.”

“Any luck finding someone who knows about her husband?” Frodo had asked.

“Aragorn is searching. It is the most he can do,” Gandalf had answered. “The few men who survived that attack have already told their tales, yet there may be one among those rescued in the Battle of the Corsairs who may know his fate.”

Now Frodo attempted in vain to spot Ioveta and her daughters or Lady Bodil. With nearly the entire city on the fields, even spread out on picnic blankets, there was such a press of people that it was difficult to look farther than a few blankets away. He hoped that they were here but he somehow doubted that Ioveta had come, even if the others had.

“The ceremony won’t be long, will it?” Pippin asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“No, it should not last too long,” Gandalf assured.

“By your estimation, or ours?” Merry asked. Gandalf had said the same thing about Aragorn’s coronation, but that ceremony had gone on for three hours, which in the hobbits’ opinion was two hours and fifty-five minutes too long.

“Estel will be the only speaker,” Elladan said. “His speech will be just the right length, Master Hobbit.”

“Which is?”

Frodo smirked. “If Bilbo taught him well, it will be just long enough to have us worry he’ll drone on forever, and just short enough that we won’t get up and walk out.” For this was how Bilbo had described his Farewell speech that long ago autumn day before his Birthday Party. Before the Ring was passed.

“How long is that then?” Gimli asked. “A dwarf’s speech can last an hour, and those are the short ones.”

“Ents can take even longer, and that’s just to say ‘good morning’,” Merry said.

“I don’t see the need for a speech at all,” Legolas said, surprising everyone. “We all know why we’re here.”

“He can’t just pick up a spade and start digging,” Pippin said. “He has to set the mood.”

“Fear not my friends,” said Elrohir. “He read the speech to us this morning. It is but a few minutes long.”

“You cannot even list all your titles and relations in that length of time,” Gimli said, frowning in disapproval.

“Lor’ knows Strider’s got a lot of names,” Sam said, looking worried. “He’s not going to list them all, is he?”

At that moment Aragorn stood forth. He had dressed comfortably for the picnic and celebration, but for the ceremony he had donned his royal cape. Upon his brow he had also placed the Star of Elendil and in his right hand was the a white sceptre. He pounded the sceptre onto the stage, once, twice. The crowd fell silent.

“Friends, countrymen and honored guests, good men and women of Gondor and beyond: Long have you been separated from your family and neighbors; long have you been bereft of your land and homes; long have you waited on the edge of a growing darkness and wondered, nay, despaired, that this moment would ever come to pass. Grim have been the months and years before the war as the Shadow in the East grew stronger. Black have been the hopes and thoughts of so many during the struggle against the Enemy. When Lord Denethor ordered the evacuation of the city, many of you must have doubted if you would ever return. 

“When at long last and beyond all hope you did return, you found a city once glorious and magnificent now destroyed and despoiled; the fields of the Pelennor upon which you now stand was stained by the blood of your loved ones and the enemy alike. The enemy was thorough in their destruction of the Pelennor. They left no building standing and the crops which were to feed you this winter they uprooted and left to rot. Many of you doubted if this city and these fields could ever be returned to their previous glory and flourish again. They can and they will.

“For these many weeks, Gimli, son of Glóin, of the Nine Walkers, has been working steadily alongside master mason, Valcamir, and the soldiers of Gondor to discover anew the art of cement, a mortar many times stronger than lime. As they strived to improve the mortar, they worked tirelessly to bake enough bricks and gather enough rocks to begin the rebuilding of the Pelennor, enough so that, once the rebuilding has started, they should be able to continue to produce enough material every day so that the rebuilding will not cease until the deed is accomplished. Our new allies, the men and women of the House of the Moon of Far Harad, have been working alongside us this week to help ensure that goal. They have shown their dedication and friendship, and for that, we thank them.”

Sam leaned close to Frodo and whispered out the corner of his mouth. “I’m beginning to wonder how long this is going to last. Does that mean it will end soon?”

Frodo patted his hand. “I hope so.”

“In a month’s time, in this very spot,” continued Aragorn, “will stand again the House of Galadmir. It’s master and his family will once again be able to return to their home and live as they had done before the war, tilling their fields and tending their livestock. So too will the Houses of Adalmir, Luedred, Faraman, Dior, Alram, Guidan, Eberwin, Hagamin and Minarmin. After them the other homesteads of the Pelennor will follow, brick by brick, rock by rock, until this great land is restored.”

“What about beds and ovens and such?” Pippin whispered.

“Shh!” Merry shushed.

“Together as one we defeated the Enemy and reclaimed our freedom. Today, we reclaim our way of life!” Aragorn concluded to cheers and shouts of praise from the crowd.

Aragorn handed the sceptre to Faramir and his cape to Gandalf, then dismounted the stage. A square of dirt had been kept clear in front of the stage. Aragorn stepped into the square, picked up a spade and thrust the point deep in the ground, unearthing a healthy chuck of rock and soil. The crowd cheered again.

The groundbreaking accomplished, many citizens returned to the city but most remained on the fields to watch as the stage was cleared and the masons and soldiers began to work or else they searched out the other homesteads to be rebuilt during this first phase.

The Fellowship remained to wait for Aragorn; they would return to the city together. Pippin found Bergil and his friends, Merry wandered off to speak with some of the Riders lingering nearby, and  Sam, Gimli and Legolas sauntered off to help with the dismantling of the stage. Gandalf, Aragorn, Elladan, Elrohir and Faramir were standing together and looking out over the Pelennor, apparently speaking about the reconstruction. Frodo spotted Sultana Farzana sitting alone with a few of her maids and came to a decision. He approached the queen and bowed.

“Queen Farzana, if I might have a word with you?” Frodo asked. Merry and Pippin had told him what Razeena had said the other day in the tavern, when she explained how she knew Frodo to be the Ring-bearer. We knew it had to be one of your kind. This troubled them, but they’d had no time to investigate further.

The queen looked up at him, her violet eyes shining pale under the bright morning sun. She looked around for her translators: Ashtir was helping the masons, Soroush was with the king and prince, and Razeena was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Razeena? Is she ill again?” Frodo asked, worried.

The queen smiled and answered in flawless Westron, with only a hint of an accent. “She’s with child. She is resting.” She was not at all upset about having to forego her pretense of requiring a translator. Instead, she was rather amused and impressed that Frodo chose this moment to approach her and that he addressed her so casually. “What is it then you wished to speak about, Lord Frodo?”

“Why did you not say anything when you figured out I was the Ring-bearer?” he asked.

“We were told it was a secret,” she answered, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Now Frodo smiled. “It was, but now that everyone knows, I suppose it is no longer.”

“Oh, but there are still a few trying to figure it out,” Farzana said. “I would not want to ruin the game for them.”

“How did you figure it out?” Frodo asked and sat down to make himself comfortable.

The queen’s maids gasped at this, for no man sat before the queen as an equal. Farzana quieted them with a small gesture of her hand. “He is no man,” she told them in Haradrim. “The Rules do not apply to the Stunted Ones.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” her maids chorused. They watched Frodo with open curiosity, though they could not understand the conversation.

“It is as I stated the other night,” Farzana said to Frodo now. “We asked. People were most eager to tell us about the Nine Walkers and their quest to destroy the Ring. They told us willingly about each of them, all but for yourself and Samwise. They are very protective of you.”

“How did you know it was me and not Sam?”

The queen glanced briefly at his hand. “It was not difficult to guess, once we met you.”

“I suppose not,” Frodo said, rubbing his stump self-consciously. “Yet there are many in the city with such injuries.”

“None like yours. The Great Eye, it was said, only had nine fingers. Now I understand why this is,” Farzana said.

A chill ran up Frodo’s spine at these words, spoken so simply and casually. She was too close to speaking aloud his worst fear: that in that final moment when he claimed the Ring he had become no better than the Dark Lord. Without any great power perhaps and with a different desire for claiming it, but still no better for having done so. He had spared Boromir that humility only to fall prey to it himself. So many memories he lost after crossing the River into the Emyn Muil, so many things he could not recall, but this he could remember with perfect clarity, the overwhelming euphoria of the Ring bleeding its will into him, and the hollow void when it was suddenly gone.

“Lord Frodo?”

Frodo shook himself back to the present. He took several deep breaths in order to regain his focus and noticed only then that he was still rubbing the stump where his finger had once been. He crossed his arms and met the queen’s gaze. She was watching him with a mixture of worry and intrigue. At his nod, she relaxed and smiled.

“Do you require refreshment, Lord?”

“No, I am fine.”

Farzana raised her eyebrows at this but said nothing. She waited, allowing Frodo the time he needed to calm himself.

“There is one more thing,” he said at last. “You knew even before coming to the city that the Ring was destroyed by a hobbit. Didn’t you?”

Farzana considered Frodo closely, wondering how much to reveal. Deciding there was little point in keeping back the truth, she answered, “Our wise-woman saw the Eye’s destruction. She saw a stunted one, though old and shrunken, being sacrificed to the fire. By whom, she did not see. We assumed Men, but upon finding the four of you in the city, I began to think otherwise.”

Frodo felt the small hairs on his neck stand up and another chill washed over and through him, leaving him cold. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Sacrificed? You think he was sacrificed?” he asked, his throat clenching on the word so that he had to force it out.

“This is how she told it to me,” Farzana said.

Frodo’s hands started to shake and his scalp tingled with a crawling fear. His hands clutched his shirt, and he took another slow, deep breath. No one but the Fellowship knew of his failure at Mt. Doom, not even Faramir. “She saw this? How?”

“Our shamaness is very powerful,” Farzana said. “She has not the power to equal the Eye, or even a wizard, but she has power enough. She can see far. One night in a dream, this vision came to her. She saw a stunted one falling into the volcano, and at that moment, the Eye was defeated and Mordor destroyed. She was convinced the two events are linked and thought it a sacrifice. King Elessar confirms a part of this. He said when the Ring went into the fire, the Eye was defeated. He told us you threw the Ring into the fire and the guide died in the explosion of the volcano.”

“Elessar is protecting me because I failed,” Frodo said, the words leaving him before he could even think them. “Gollum, our guide, bore the Ring for many years, centuries even, until Bilbo found it. Then Bilbo passed it to me before we even knew what it was. Gollum tried for years to find it. He tracked us from the mines and found Sam and me after we crossed the river. He promised not to make an attempt on the Ring and to lead us into the Black Lands, but he was always just biding his time. He betrayed us on the path into Mordor, and Sam had to carry the Ring for a while. I took it back when he rescued me from the tower; I would not have it poisoning his mind, not Sam. It was he who got us to the mountain, and how did I reward him? I claimed the Ring. Gollum reappeared then and bit off my finger and took back the Ring. It was as he celebrated his victory that he slipped and fell into the fire with the Ring, destroying it.”

“Not a sacrifice then,” Farzana said. “A judgment. He made a vow and he broke it.”

“I made a vow to destroy the Ring. I broke it.”

“Then perhaps your judgment is yet to come. Perhaps you have been granted pardon,” she said. “I do not understand the workings of such things, but I come to understand other things. There are legends that some of the Black Númenórean kings of old were given Rings of Power by the Great Eye and so he ensnared them. That was when the Faithful Houses drove the Black Númenóreans from their lands and melted all their gold. I always wondered why only the gold.

“These things I can come to understand, but as for you… You say that you vowed to destroy the Ring, and it is destroyed. Does it matter how it was accomplished? Perhaps it was not accomplished as you had planned, but all men are fools who expect the world to follow their plans. Wars are not won by standing in a palace thousands of miles away and saying, ‘this is how we will win,’ and then doing exactly that. Wars are won by doing what needs to be done when the time for action comes. Plans are to get you on the road, nothing more than that. Did you have a plan for destroying the Ring?”

“If I could not throw it in, I would jump in with it,” Frodo admitted. It was the first time he had ever voiced that decision and he wondered at the calm he felt in saying it.

“What about Samwise? I do not know you so well, but it is clear even to me he could not have survived losing you in such a manner. He is most devoted to you. What of your cousins if you did not return from that land? What of your king? As the Eye poured his life force into the Ring, Elessar put his hope into you. If you had died, his victory would have meant nothing. No, Frodo. Do not fool yourself into thinking that the Ring’s final destruction was only to save yourself. I think in fact that you had very little to do with it. You meant to sacrifice yourself and so you have.”

“You are the wise-woman,” Frodo said, ignoring the shiver that ran up his spine at the queen’s words.

Farzana laughed. “I have burden enough as the queen, so I speak with authority when I say this. Do not take burdens to yourself, Lord Frodo; they will find you well enough on their own.”

Frodo was silent for a moment, and for a while the queen thought he meant to leave. But he had one more question to ask. “What really happened to Hildifons?” 

“His luck ran out on him, in the end,” Farzana said. “Luck is a fickle thing. It often leaves us when we need it the most. Or perhaps it understands when others need it more.”

Frodo nodded. Luck had seen Bilbo through most of his adventure, but it was not enough to prevent the Battle of Five Armies or Thorin’s untimely death. Instead, an unlikely bowman shot down the dragon and became king of Lake Town. Luck had seen Hildifons through his adventures, until he sought home. When his brother sought him, Isengar found more luck than he would ever realize. Luck had seen Frodo through his quest. Who now would Luck visit?  

Frodo wandered the winding paths of the city. Overhead a full moon rose, pocked and yellow, large over the White Tower of Ecthelion. The stars faded against the moon’s brightness. They twinkled out as candles by a breeze, leaving the night sky black and forlorn, the moon alone to illuminate it, a single bright spot in the void. As Frodo wandered, the void rained down, the shadows loomed until all around him was pure darkness. The moon rose, shrinking to a pinpoint, its light indiscernible. He could see nothing around him. He reached out, groping for a wall, a door, anything to orient him and fix him in time and space, but his hand met only with empty air, and beneath his feet the earth shook and the ground broke.  

The next morning, Sam found Frodo asleep on the window sill, the mountains of Mordor peeking through the window behind him.

To be continued…

GF 7/6/09
Published 8/3/09

Chapter 23 – Dreams and Schemes

Frodo should have expected this would happen.

He woke from his slumber sitting in the window ledge, his eyes slowly focusing on the grey sky and the Mountains of Ash on the horizon. He turned away and only then noticed the pillow behind his head and the thin blanket over his body. A breakfast tray sat on the table between the window and bed, the food and tea still steaming hot. Sam must have just left.

Frodo slid down from the window ledge onto the chair, then stepped onto the floor. The rug felt odd beneath his feet; every fiber jumped up to tickle or bite. The window had been opened; the wind on his face, not the smell of the food, had woken him and now it caressed the back of his arms and neck, tickling the little hairs. Frodo shivered, closed his eyes and took a deep breath to keep the panic at bay.

Sam didn’t come back until breakfast was eaten in the kitchen below and the plates were washed and put away. Frodo ate alone, a solitary peace he appreciated more than he could say. He used the time to shake away the final shadows of his dream and focus on the day ahead. There were commitments he had to fulfill; he could not afford to be a wreck. Unfortunately, he spent so much time talking himself up for the day that he ate only half the food. Sam noticed this immediately when he came to collect the tray. Frodo held his breath, waiting for the gentle chiding.

Instead, Sam only gathered the tray and smiled happily. “Good morning, Mr. Frodo! Best get dressed or we’ll be late for Lady Bodil’s.” Then he turned and left.

Frodo let out his breath and sank into his chair, part in relief for his narrow escape and part in dread as he remembered their luncheon with Lady Bodil and Mistress Ioveta. Was that really today? He forced himself to stand and went to the wardrobe to change.

Sam returned some time later, after Frodo was dressed, and Frodo discovered then that his brief respite had come with a price. Sam entered through the joined door from his room. In his right hand was the bag of healing stones Gimli had given him, and in his left the list he had written down detailing their uses. Frodo watched Sam through the mirror as he finished brushing his hair.

“Really, Sam, it was only a dream,” he said before Sam could say anything. He knew it was a flimsy excuse and from the look Sam gave him, he knew Sam agreed.

“You were quiet all afternoon yesterday, ever since your talk with Queen Farzana. She must have said something to upset you,” Sam said. “Dreams don’t get you out of bed and staring out windows.”

“Doesn’t your mind wake you up with silly thoughts sometimes?” Frodo asked, searching his battered memories for something, anything, that would prove to Sam he was all right. Out of nowhere, it came to him, that spring day long ago when he and Sam dug side by side in the dirt. “You told me once you were awake all night planning the garden for Number Three. You were sixteen and you were in charge of it for the first time. I came by to see how you were doing and you were conked out in the tater bed.”

The sweetest smile lighted Sam’s face. “You remember that?” he asked, a glimmer of hope behind the concern.

“I offered to help you so you could catch up with the time you lost,” Frodo said.

“Gaffer nearly passed out himself when he come down from Bag End and found you with your sleeves rolled up, kneeling on your weskit and covered with dirt,” Sam said, grinning now at the memory. “He couldn’t say aught though, with you rambling on about it all being your idea.”

Frodo nodded. He didn’t remember that part or anything that happened after.

“So what was your dream about?” Sam asked.

“I was walking down the streets of the city. There was a full moon,” Frodo said and did his best not to shiver.

Sam narrowed his eyes, alternately scrutinizing his master and the list of healing stones. He bit his lip in doubt. “I don’t see as any of these are meant for insomnia.”

“That’s settled then,” Frodo said. He set down his brush and nodded at the reflection in the mirror. Neat and tidy, but for the hair. No matter how well he brushed it, it always looked unruly. He kept promising to get it cut one of these days, but he had felt that ugly scar on his neck and imagined it couldn’t look much better. A haircut could wait.

He turned from the window and grinned hopefully. “It’s not too obvious I only slept a few hours last night, is it?” he asked. “I should be able to put in a good showing. I didn’t realize the luncheon at Lady Bodil’s was today.”

Sam hummed. Merry had reminded Frodo about the luncheon last night over dinner.

“Merry’s the one who got lost,” Frodo continued, frowning. “I don’t see why we all have to go.”

“It’s custom, sir.”

“Custom,” Frodo echoed. How do you argue with that? “I know that, but now Merry’s gone and invited more guests to luncheon tomorrow, some proprietor he met at the ceremony yesterday. Perhaps I was too quick to give approval to houseguests.”

“Mr. Merry can postpone the luncheon tomorrow,” Sam said, “but Lady Bodil is expecting us today. They’d already be cooking. Now, Gimli said the diamonds were good for general healing and the sodalite and obsidian are helpful against dreams. We’ll use these today. Lie down now, Master. Ten minutes should do it.”

“They might put me to sleep again,” Frodo said, checking the sun out the window. Was it that late already? That must have second breakfast then that Sam had brought him.

“Gimli said that ten minutes should only help to relax and rejuvenate you. It shouldn’t be putting you to sleep,” Sam said.

“Five minutes then, to be safe,” Frodo said but made no move towards the bed.

Sam hummed again. He dug the required stones from the sack and looked pointedly at Frodo. “Mayhap you did only have a dream, but from the looks of you, you’re not too far off from another night terror, begging your pardon. Ten minutes. Please, Master.” Then he pouted.

Frodo’s resolve melted, as Sam knew it would. “Very well,” he agreed and lay down on the bed. He sighed and wondered if the Haradrim slaves were this bold with their masters. Would that be the difference then, between Sam and them?

He kept still as Sam set the stones in place. He noticed the same sensations as before, the same warm tingling that stretched out through his body from the stones, the same humming in his veins that filled him with calm. He began to relax, but looking up at Sam he thought of something.

“What about your dreams?” he asked, his mind coming back to the present. “How have they been of late?”

They all remembered, far too well, that night some weeks back when they had been woken by Sam screaming in his sleep. It had taken a massive effort by Gandalf to wake him, and when he finally surfaced from the nightmare, he could only sob and repeat over and over, “I’m too late! He’s dead! I shouldn’t have left him. I promised not to leave him.” It had taken Frodo close to ten minutes to convince Sam that he had been dreaming, that he, Frodo, wasn’t a phantom but his master alive and well. When Sam finally dared to believe it, he only cried harder and grabbed onto Frodo and wouldn’t let go. The experience had shaken them all, but Sam had never spoken of it again.

“Rather forgettable, sir,” Sam said, placing the second diamond next to the sodalite stone just above Frodo’s eyes. “Mostly I’ve been dreaming of the Shire: Gaffer and Goldie at Number Three, Rosie and the Cotton lads splashing at Bywater Pool. I even dreamed of Nibbler the other night. That cat’s been gone for years and all of sudden out of nowhere, he’s walking through one of my dreams, taking me all over the Shire, to the Water, to the Woody End, even to Bindbole Wood and that quicksand pit we found there that one time. He finally stopped on old Mr. Boffin’s barn roof and you know what he did? After all that chasing, he just plops down and starts grooming his face with his paw, like I’ve got all day to just stand there and figure out what he wants.”

“Nibs was a good cat,” Frodo said with a wistful smile. “Any other dreams?”

“Naught worth telling about,” Sam said. He didn’t want to mention the other dreams, especially the one of the pass in Cirith Ungol. That dream started out boring enough. He would just walk and walk and the tunnel would never end. Then hot lava would start pouring in from either side, creeping towards him in its slow, menacing way, teasing him because he had no hope for escape and could only stand there, waiting. He always woke at the same moment, just as the lava was nearly upon him, and he would wake with a pounding heart and burning feet. He had not, thankfully, had anymore nightmares about Frodo in that dread tower and he hoped it remained that way.

Frodo peeked at him and caught the shiver passing through him. “I think you could use one of these treatments yourself.”

“They’re meant for you,” Sam objected. He set the crowning stones in place and stepped back.

“Gimli gave them to you,” Frodo said.

“You’re supposed to be clearing your mind, sir.”

“Tonight then,” Frodo said and closed his eyes. He relaxed then, letting the warm pulses of the stones carry him towards slumber. Before he could fall into sleep, Sam gently shook him.

“It’s time, sir,” he said. He had already removed the stones and outside the birds were chirping.

“It’s been ten minutes already?” Frodo sat up and stretched, surprised to discover how rejuvenated he felt. He took Sam’s proffered hand and hopped off the bed.

They went downstairs where Merry and Pippin were waiting. They had prepared a gift basket for their hostesses, some scones, biscuits, and teabags made with cheesecloth. Pippin wanted to buy some hair ribbons for the lasses, so they were going to the fabric shop Merry had found in his quest to uncover Aragorn’s Secret.

Merry grinned when they entered the parlor. Frodo was wearing the outfit Merry had bought him for his prank. “So you like it, do you?” he asked.

“I do. I believe I forgot to thank you earlier,” Frodo said.

“Nothing says ‘thank you’ like a short-sheeted bed,” Merry said. “Or blue food dye in someone’s shampoo. Or manure in someone’s potpourri bowl.”

“Merry! That is disgusting!”

“I didn’t do that! Everard did!”

Pippin nodded. “To Pervinca. Her room stunk for days before she figured out why.”

“And they’re getting married?” Frodo said. “I don’t understand it.”

“Neither does anyone else,” Pippin said. He picked up the basket and headed for the door.

“You know, I only made you wait a week for your prank,” Merry said, as they followed Pippin.

“I know. That was very considerate of you.” Frodo smiled innocently and hurried to catch up with Pippin, who was already at the gate to the street.

Merry lingered behind as Sam closed the door, then walked with him. “What were you two doing up there?” he asked once Frodo and Pippin were far enough away not to overhear them.

“He didn’t have a good night, sir,” Sam said. “He needed to relax.” He and Frodo had not told anyone else about the healing stones at Gimli’s request, not even when Pippin had shown them and Merry the necklace he had received. Pippin had presented it as ‘a bit of Dwarf magic’ and neither Frodo nor Sam saw any reason to correct him. If Pippin suspected Gimli of giving similar stones to Frodo, he did not press the matter.

“You take good care of him, Sam. I cannot thank you enough,” Merry said. “Now, what is he plotting for my prank? I know my cousin. He has something in mind, no doubt since right from the start.”

“You know I can’t tell you, sir,” Sam said. There was no point denying that Frodo was involving Sam with his prank, though that involvement was thankfully limited. He only knew about the proprietor Frodo had dragged him to the day of Merry’s prank, and that was more knowledge than he cared to possess.

“Then what’s taking him so long?” Merry asked. “Tell me that at least. Is it a matter of logistics? Supplies? Opportunity? I would figure opportunity wouldn’t be an issue, now that we’ve done our part in the King’s House. Apparently, Strider was only concerned with keeping us distracted so I couldn’t play my prank on Frodo. No one seems overly concerned about what he might do to me. I wasn’t either, until the days kept passing. Does it simply require that much planning, whatever he’s going to do?”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself over it, sir,” Sam advised.

“But he’s wearing the outfit I bought him! It means something,” Merry insisted. “What does it mean?”

“That he likes it, I suppose,” Sam said.

“No, it’s a signal of some sort, I know it.” Merry walked in silence, watching Frodo and Pippin strolling arm in arm ahead of them. Pippin was swinging the basket back and forth, as he used to when they were younger and would go on picnics. They would sing as they walked, picnic songs, eating songs, walking songs, and Pippin would stop every five minutes to look at some flower or bug or cloud shape. That was before the Ring, before the War. Before Denethor. Would he ever hear Pippin sing again? Was he really still just a tween?

“Mr. Merry?” Sam said.

“Hm? Oh, yes, sorry Sam,” Merry muttered. “Frodo. What could he be planning?” he pressed on, speaking mostly to himself. The Shire faded away and Minas Tirith returned, cobble-stoned streets and buildings tall. A sudden thought struck him. “Or is he planning nothing? He’s letting me think he’s going to prank me back, but he isn’t, is he? He’s just going to let me sit and worry about what he might do instead! And I’ve been doing it! Well, you can tell him it won’t work. I’ve figured it out and I’m not falling for it… any longer.”

“Speaking of pranks, can you postpone the luncheon for tomorrow, just by a day or two?” Sam said. “Mr. Frodo was that jumpy this morning, but I think another day will do the trick, so long as he doesn’t dream again tonight.”

“Any luck finding out what he and the queen were talking about yesterday?” Merry asked. Frodo had denied it, but they all suspected that his conversation with Sultana Farzana was what had caused him such distraction yesterday. Sam shook his head. “Maybe if we asked the queen, but they’re leaving the day after tomorrow. Have you had any luck with that list I gave you?”

“I went to a few more of the shops yesterday after the ceremony,” Merry said, turning pink. “One had a commission from Strider. I told her I was sent to check on its progress.” His blush darkened and reached the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere except at Sam. “I think you were right about Arwen.”

“Why wouldn’t he just tell us, then?” Sam wondered and scratched his head. “Men. Just when you think you’re starting to understand their ways.”

“They’re a mystery,” Merry agreed.

“Hey now!” Pippin called back to them. He and Frodo were stopped and waiting for them. At Pippin’s shout, many of the people nearby also stopped and turned to watch. “You ladies want to hurry it up? Stop braiding each other’s hair and pick up those feet! Hop, hop!”

“He’s spending far too much time with those soldiers, if you ask me,” Sam said.

“I’ll make him hop!” Merry said and darted after Pippin, who dropped the basket and bolted down a nearby alley.

Frodo stooped to retrieve the basket. “Wait for us at the gate! And don’t hurt yourselves!” he called after them. He waited for Sam to join him and together they continued their stroll. “So?”

“He’s fretting, sir,” Sam said. “He’s figuring you’re only pretending to prank him back.”

“Good. We’ll let him continue to think that, shall we?” He smiled and took Sam’s arm. To their right, Merry and Pippin dashed by, their faces alight with joy.  

Merry was able to find Lady Bodil’s home much more easily this time around. He kept to the main road until he came to the alley leading towards the house and was pleased when he remembered the alley correctly. They arrived at eleven-thirty on the dot. Gerwinda again answered their call and let them inside. She didn’t keep them standing in the entryway this time, but instead lead them directly to the parlor where the others were already waiting. Greetings were exchanged and they sat, Pippin wincing slightly. He had tweaked his weak knee while running around a corner, but he thought with some nursing it wouldn’t bother him more than a day or two.

“We brought this,” Merry said, presenting the basket and three small parcels. “We made scones and biscuits, and prepared some teabags for your later enjoyment. There are three different kinds: lemon with ginger; rose hips with chamomile; and mint. Let it soak in a pot of hot water, five cups worth, for fifteen minutes. You can add sugar or honey to taste, or drink it plain. These are for the lasses.”

“That is most thoughtful of you,” Bodil said. “So very generous. Thank you.”

“Thank you, masters,” Ogiva and Leudreda said. Gerwinda hummed happily and smiled. They opened their parcels. Each lass had two hair ribbons and a styling comb made from seashells.

“Those are lovely,” Ioveta said. “What a kind gift.”

“Thank you, masters,” the girls said again. “Hm-hm,” Gerwinda agreed. It was the most noise she had made in all the time Merry had known her.

“We hope that you have been well,” Merry said, smiling at her.

“Mother’s been telling us stories about Father,” Ogiva said. “Did you know he used to make up horrible poems and try to sing them to Mother?”

“Each poem was worse than the last,” Leudreda said.

Ioveta laughed, another first. “They really were dreadful.”

“Did you keep any of them?” Pippin asked. “We love dreadful songs.”

“He used to keep them in a box, but during the rush to evacuate, they were left behind, with nearly everything else,” Ioveta said. “I doubt they survived the battle.”

“We didn’t see you at the groundbreaking ceremony yesterday,” Frodo said. “We were hoping you would come.”

“I’ve been busy,” Ioveta said. “I’ve received more commissions for dresses and even one for a suit. I’ve never made a suit before. I’m rather nervous about that one, but I found an accomplished sempstress who agreed to help me for half the profit. She even has a couple of rooms she is able to rent to me, one for my work and another for us to live in once Lady Bodil removes from the city.”

“Have you received any commissions from the king?” Merry asked on a hunch.

Ioveta chuckled. “I would be surprised if King Elessar even knows I exist.”

“I wouldn’t. The king knows talent when he sees it, or hears it, or senses it in the general area,” Pippin said.

“I take it you will not be returning to the Pelennor then?” Frodo asked. “Have you checked to see if there is anything salvageable? Most people have been able to recover at least some of their lost items.”

“I will be returning this coming Monday. I have an appointment there, where the house used to stand,” Ioveta said. “I am not looking forward to it.”

“We can come with you,” Pippin offered.

“That is generous, but not necessary,” Ioveta said, lifting her chin in defiant stubbornness. “I only need to sign the forms releasing my duty of the land to whomever the king has decided to put there in my place. I would have gone yesterday but… when I learned those Southrons would be there… I simply couldn’t.” She spoke these last words with a vehemence that surprised everyone.

“I understand your anger, Mistress Ioveta,” Frodo said, “but the Haradrim in the city now have nothing to do with the men your husband met in battle.”

“Met in battle!” Ioveta said, scoffing at the idea. “That would imply a sense of honor and fairness in warfare that those savages do not possess.” She closed her mouth tight and clutched her hands in her lap, but now that she had started, she found it nearly impossible to keep silent. Four years, she had been holding back the pain and anger. Now it poured from her as flood waters over a dam. “My Leudred’s fate was sealed the moment he stepped off that boat in Pelagir. The Haradrim came at night and attacked them while they slept! Only a few managed to escape the massacre, and those who survived, if any survived, would have been captured to man their ships. Everyone knows they work their prisoners to their deaths. That the King allows those monsters in our city… I just… It is an outrage!”

A long pause followed this declaration, during which Ioveta struggled to regain her composure, Lady Bodil struggled to think of something to say, and the hobbits exchanged panicked glances. Ogiva hugged her mother’s rigid form, and Gerwinda and Leudreda hugged each other. Finally, Frodo sat forward and placed his hand over Ioveta’s, which she had clutched tightly in her lap.

“No one can deny your loss and your pain,” he said. “What you have been through is terrible. Holding onto your anger will not bring your husband back, nor help you or your daughters to find happiness again. Nor will aiming your anger at those who do not deserve it do anything but fuel more hate. And know this: King Elessar is no fool. He knows more about the Enemy than you ever will, just as he knows that not all the Haradrim mean us harm. There are those among the Southrons who fought against the true Enemy even as we did, who suffered losses just as we did, if not more so. They are here within this city now and they are kind. We have all met them, and we consider them our friends. Unless you think me a fool as well.”

Ioveta looked about to argue further until she noticed Frodo’s hand upon her own. It was the maimed hand and the missing ring finger glared up at her as though from the grave. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When at last she spoke again, the anger was replaced with anguish. “I do not think you a fool, my lord, but I cannot forgive them.”

“Then it was not only your husband who was lost to the Enemy.”

She opened her eyes at this and looked into Frodo’s, where she saw so much compassion and empathy that she wanted to weep. Only the presence of her daughters gave her the strength to reign in her emotions but she feared to speak again lest the little control she had over them break.

After another uncomfortable silence, Lady Bodil stood. “I do believe it is time to eat. Join me in the dining room. Ioveta-dear, I just remembered that we forgot to place the tapers on the table. Do go to the storage closet and see if you might be able to locate them.”

Ioveta bobbed a curtsy and excused herself.

“Come dears,” Bodil said to the girls. “Let us not keep our guests waiting.”

The dining room was as sparsely furnished as the parlor. Besides the long table and its chairs, the only other decorations in the room were the curtains over the windows, the sconces on the walls, and one single painting of the herb garden.

They turned to the West, then sat to wait for the servants to bring in the food. As they waited, Bodil explained that prior to the war she’d had a penchant for collecting things of purely aesthetic value. After witnessing so much suffering caused by the war and seeing how those with the least to spare often were the ones to give the most, she had decided upon returning to the city to disperse anything not of immediate use to those who could use it. Half of her furniture, all of her husband’s clothes, nearly all of the knickknacks accumulated over years of living, and much of the art was given out to those who had none or could refurbish it into something of better use. Her silver serving platters had been melted down into buckles for boots. Her garden statues now decorated the porticos of the inns and shops in the second circle and were the only things in that section of the city not destroyed or damaged. Some of her portraits had been saved to hang on other walls, while other canvases had been shredded for rope and cord. Her jewelry was melted for tapers, knives or anything else that was needed, while the gems were distributed amongst the poorest for later trading. She missed none of it.

“It will do me very little good on a farm at any rate,” she finished as the servers arrived with the food.

“I’m embarrassed to say that most hobbits would not share your sentiment,” Frodo said. “Hobbits do love to collect mathoms and many a hobbit hole is cluttered with them. Still, in similar spirit, a mathom is only truly so if it is given away.”

“What is a mathom?” Ogiva asked.

“Anything that you don’t have immediate use of,” Merry said with a smirk at Bodil. “They’re often given away at birthday parties, but as we have so many of those, it really only serves to shift the clutter. We also have a museum for storing mathoms, in Michel Delving. Sam’s sword, Sting, resided there for years after Bilbo returned from his adventure with the dragon, along with… What did Gandalf do with that mithril corselet of yours, Frodo?”

Now Frodo smirked. “He plans to display it in the museum here.”

“So it just traveled from one museum to another?” Pippin said.

“What museum?” Sam asked.

At that moment, Ioveta entered the room. She carried the tapers and candles and put these on either end of the table, but did not light them. She was composed again; her eyes were blotched but no longer red. When she sat, she looked at the hobbits and made an unexpected request.

“Tell us then of your friends, the Haradrim. What stories are there to tell?”

“What stories, indeed,” Bodil said. “I have only seen them in the city, but I have had no opportunity to speak with them. What are they like?”

“They’re very kind,” Pippin said. “The prince is much like my cousin Ilberic, quiet and respectful but with a taste for adventure and a heart for laughter. Actually, he had a surprising revelation for us. Did you know that two of my great-great uncles ventured into the Sunlands and the queen’s ancestors knew one of them?”

“This is surprising!” Bodil said. “I had never known any hobbits but yourselves. I heard your kind did not travel much, and now you tell us two of your kin have gone to Harad! Tell us about it.”

“Yes, please, do tell us,” Ogiva said, her face lighting up with wonder. Her sisters nodded with enthusiasm. Their mother, for her part, looked interested but weary.

“Well, it all started because of Gandalf, or so my father tells it,” Pippin said and told them first of Hildifons’s and then Isengar’s adventures in Harad. The tales took them through luncheon, and Merry and Frodo helped to tell the tales so that they all had opportunity to eat the delightful meal prepared for them.

After luncheon, they returned to the parlor, where Sam entertained them with his poem, Ode to Rivendell. This led to him reciting his troll poem, the Man in the Moon poems and the lays of Gil-Galad and Eärendil.

When the hobbits prepared to leave, Ioveta curtsied and said, “I apologize for my earlier outburst.”

“No apology is required,” Frodo said. He took her hand and squeezed. “Be well.”

“I will be. Thank you, Lord Frodo. Thank you all of you, for coming and being so kind.”

“If you are not otherwise engaged,” Bodil said, “I will be hosting a dinner party on Friday night. It will be a small gathering, just us and a few friends. You are invited to join us if you wish.”

“We’ll send word no later than Thursday,” Merry said. “We never know when King Elessar is going to require us at one of his dinners.”

They said farewell and headed back to the street, each lost in their own thoughts.

To be continued…

GF 7/11/09
Published 8/17/09

A/N: I wrote the song at the start of this chapter shortly after writing “A Humble Gift” four years ago. It was my intention to write a sequel to that story, chronicling how Pippin got his singing voice back, but that idea quickly went nowhere and fizzled out after a few paragraphs. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to blow the cyber dust off this song and share it with you all. The second song was originally posted in “A Mid-Year’s Walking Trip”.

Chapter 24: A Night of Song and Dance

The sun rose hot o’er plains forgot
A shield maiden sang a sad song
The wind blew cold that day of old
Her soldier had been gone too long

Then late one day the dogs did bay
The shield maiden looked to the West
And there he came, banner and flame
To the woman that he loved best

Wounded and worn, at side rest his horn
His horse limped with a broken shoe
He rode home fast, to maiden at last
To his land under skies of blue

There he laid down on fur soft brown
His lovely maiden beside him
His woes and fears, he spoke to her ears
And she wrapped them in garland trim

They danced and sang with joyous pain
Until day faded into dark
‘Neath stars of white they knew love’s might
And woke to a lone meadowlark

There they stayed the rest of their days
They never again knew sorrow
For ev’ry night underneath moonlight
They danced and sang until morrow.

Wulf and Penda ended their song to cheers and applause. They took their bows and jumped down from the singing bench. They would sing more later, but now they needed to wet their palates with the fine, golden ale of the popular Eagle’s Peak Inn, or the Peeking Eagle as the locals called it. A trio from Lossarnach replaced them on the bench, and they launched into an invigorating battle song, a favorite by the enthusiastic reaction of the patrons.

Wulf and Penda brought another pitcher of ale to their table and poured the drinks before plopping down with satisfied grins. “A man could get used to this,” Wulf said, waving at the bustling tavern.

Merry leaned forward over the table. “You could get used to sleeping on a bed of nails,” he quipped, voice raised to be heard over the din.

“It’s no different than sleeping in a ditch or quarry,” Wulf shot back.

“Why would anyone sleep in a quarry?” Penda asked. “Even if it were dried up, one storm would be all that’s needed to fill it up again.”

“That is a quandary,” Wulf said and winked at Merry. “A quarry quandary.”

“Will you be singing tonight, Master Bag?” Offa asked, hoping to stop Wulf before he could start his pun routine.

“What say you, Pip?” Merry asked, sitting back to address his cousin. He looked at Pippin hopefully.

Pippin smiled weakly in return, fingering the beads in his pocket. He could have sung, he really could have, but this was not the audience that was awaiting him so eagerly. If he was going to break his silence, he was going to make it count. “I’m not much in the mood for joviality tonight, Mer,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed home with Frodo and Sam, if that is where they’re staying, that is.”

“What do you mean?” Merry asked, dropping his voice. “What do you know?”

“Nothing specific,” Pippin said. “Only, Frodo is plotting something, we know that much. What better time to finalize any schemes he might have than when we’re both gone?”

“If that’s the case, there’s not much we can do about it now. Besides, he agreed to this little assignment, and I for one want to see this one through,” Merry said.

“Maybe this assignment is the prank,” Pippin mused.

“Of course it’s a prank, but it’s for Strider, not for me,” Merry said, looking worried.

“He could turn it around on you,” Pippin said. “That’s just his style, you know.”

“It was my idea!” Merry said. He scrutinized his cousin. “Besides, you’re forgiven of your lack of involvement in my prank, so he wouldn’t include you in a prank on me.”

“He probably has that figured out already,” Pippin mused. He sloshed the beer in his mug and watched the foam swell against the edges. “They’re up there right now, plotting against you. I just know it.”  

Gimli handed the diamond to Frodo and instructed him on how to dangle it over Sam’s supine form. “Keep your hand still, move it up his body with your arm from your shoulder. Wherever the diamond swings, that is where there are imbalances.”

“Can’t he just put the stones in the same places as on himself?” Sam asked, watching the diamond with skeptical curiosity. Now that he was on the receiving end of this unusual treatment, he had a better understanding for his master’s hesitance with the procedure. It was a more intimate process than he had imagined.

“Everyone is different, Samwise,” Gimli said. “Using the wrong stones, or even the right ones in the wrong places, will do more harm than good, young master. Now, to know which stones are best to use, I’ll need to know what’s been bothering you other than the dreams.”

“Not much to tell really,” Sam lied.

“Humph,” Gimli grunted. “Dreaming, then, and a certain stubbornness when it comes to your own needs. And the day that you don’t worry about your master is the day it rains mithril and waterfalls turn to crystal flows.”

“Here’s a spot,” Frodo said. The diamond was swinging in a circle over Sam’s lower belly.

Gimli nodded and eyed Sam narrowly. “That would be the worrying. The stones never lie.”

“Everyone worrits,” Sam mumbled.

Frodo continued moving the diamond, and Gimli noted each spot where it would begin to swing or bounce. When they were finished, Gimli took the stones that he had given Sam already and searched his own pouch for more. “The same stones can be used for different things, but some stones are stronger than others. The nature of the imbalance, be it too strong or too weak, determines which stones to use.”

He looked at the stones he had and scratched his beard. If only his father had had more time before the Quest to teach him about the stones. If only Gimli had thought to write it all down, so that he could be certain now of which stones to use. There had been no time though, and now he must rely on his memory as best he could to guide him. “If any of the stones feel wrong to you, let me know right away.”

“How will I know?” Sam asked.

“The area where the stone is sitting will grow too hot or too cold, or you will start feeling more worked up than relaxed,” Gimli said and picked up the bloodstone. He placed this on Sam’s lower abdomen where the diamond had circled, then picked up a citrine stone and placed this below the ribcage, over the liver. “How are you feeling so far?”

“Fine enough,” Sam guessed. Truth was, so far, he wasn’t feeling much of anything. The stones were cold, but as they were stones he didn’t think much of it. He glanced up at Frodo. His master was watching Gimli’s every move with intense attention. “Breathe, Master.”

Frodo let out his breath but didn’t break his observations. Gimli picked up a ruby next and placed this over Sam’s heart. Sam’s own breath hitched almost instantly when the ruby touched his chest, but Gimli waited. Sometimes, the stones only appeared to be too strong if the imbalance was great enough, and the diamond had jumped quite erratically over this area. After a minute, Sam shook his head.

“I ain’t much liking that one,” he said. He felt his heart would burst out of his chest if it wasn’t removed quickly. Frodo picked it up and handed it to Gimli. “Thank you, sir.”

“Should we maybe stop?” Frodo asked.

“Nay, the lad will be all right,” Gimli said and chose the green tourmaline next. “Just needs a different energy than the ruby.” He put the tourmaline in the exact same spot and Sam relaxed. Gimli grunted and went back to the pile of stones. Aquamarine went at the base of Sam’s throat, sodalite on his brow, and around his crown an amethyst and a diamond.

“It’s like a rainbow,” Frodo said, looking at the stones. “How do you feel?”

“All right, so far,” Sam said.

“Don’t resist it,” Frodo said with a smirk. “You’re supposed to be clearing your mind, remember.”

Sam managed a frown without upsetting the sodalite on his forehead. “Aye, I remember,” he said, though he had been holding himself rigid up to that point. No doubt, Frodo had noticed. He made an effort to relax and closed his eyes against the distractions in the room.

“How long should they stay on?” Frodo asked.

“Ten minutes should do it to start,” Gimli said. “His imbalances are not as drastic as yours were. We don’t want to overdo the treatment and send him off in the opposite direction.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” Frodo said.

“You may keep the extra stones as well. I’ll write out a list of their general uses and a chart of their placements on Samwise,” Gimli said and left the room.

Frodo sat next to Sam and pulled out his pocket watch. As he waited, he wondered how Merry and Pippin were doing at the inn, and if they had fulfilled their assignment yet or not.  

Merry shoved aside all the doubts that Pippin had so helpfully put into his brain. He was here to have fun, among other things, and he wasn’t going to let Frodo’s pending prank ruin that for him. He turned towards his guard-brother, Cuthred, who was sitting across the table. “Will you join me in a song then?”

Cuthred grinned. “I don’t have much of a voice.”

“No one will notice, or remember in the morning if they do,” Merry pointed out. “Do you remember the one I taught you?”

Cuthred nodded. “I should be able to get through it without embarrassing myself.”

“Oh, go on! Embarrass yourself!” Osric said. “It’s so much fun!”

“Speak for yourself,” Ludeca said, grinning in the direction of the doorway.

A lone patron had just entered, a shapely Haradrim woman from the way her robes hugged her body. She stood uncertainly and slowly looked about the tavern until she at last faced the direction of the Rohirrim’s table. It was Jamila, the beautiful dancer who Osric had been fawning over for the last two weeks.

“Go on, then,” Ludeca said, giving his friend a nudge. “Talk to the girl. This may well be your last chance, and since you don’t mind making a fool of yourself…”

“You think I won’t?” Osric said and gulped down the last of his beer. He stood, then sat, then stood again. He took a step forward and abruptly turned heel. “I need to use the privy.”

“Coward!” Penda shouted after him.

“Let’s hear this song then,” Wiglaf said.

Merry and Cuthred stood and approached the bench to await their turn. As they waited, Merry talked Cuthred through the lyrics a couple of times to be sure the man remembered them correctly, but there was no need. It was clear that Cuthred had been playing modest earlier, for he remembered not only the words but the tune as well.

After deciding to better acquaint himself with his guard-brother, Merry had wasted no time in approaching the gentle-mannered Rider. He quickly discovered that while Cuthred spoke little of himself, he enjoyed speaking about events, tales and topics of philosophy. In this manner Merry learned much about the man in a few short hours after their practice session the other week. They had spoken after every practice session since then and Merry was growing quite fond of the man, who reminded him of his uncle Merimac in many ways.

Of the man's personal life, Merry knew as much as the others had told him. Cuthred had been raised in the Eastemnet, the only son of the accomplished horse-breeder Goreham. Cuthred had joined the éored of Lord Denholm of Bradlangden after his youngest sister disappeared five years ago. He soon became one of their fiercest warriors, though he had no prior practice with a sword or spear. He enjoyed listening to the songs and stories of the other soldiers, but never volunteered any of his own except on the rare occasion when the need to speak struck him. As it turned out, that was primarily the reason that Erkenbrand paired him with Merry for the guarding of the tombs.

“I was hoping you might be able to loosen his tongue,” he told Merry yesterday after a late practice. “He’s been more willing to speak at least, if not speaking much when he does.”

So Merry had sat him down yesterday and taught him the Shire song they were about to sing. Afterwards, Cuthred had sat in silence for many long minutes, looking out to the West, until finally he spoke. “She was as a mother to me, my sister. She raised me after our mother died. A very level-headed girl, Cwenhild was, strong of mind and brave of heart. She disappeared on her way to a neighboring ranch to dine there with her betrothed. It was daylight so she went alone. We thought she would be safe, but we didn’t know about the Uruk-hai then. It wasn’t until that evening that we discovered she never arrived. We found the place where she was taken and followed the tracks all the way to the Anduin. We could only assume they took her to Mordor, for whatever purpose they have there of maids. She did not deserve such a fate, nor did any of the other women who were taken so. We could only hope that she need not suffer long.

“I can never fully vindicate her, but I know she understands that. I saw her once, about a year ago, saw her as clearly as I see you now. She was standing on the edge of a field we were marching through, and she was wearing the same dress she wore the day she disappeared. The sun shined golden in her hair, and she locked eyes with me and she smiled. I watched her as long as I could, until I bumped into the person in front of me. I looked away for only a moment but it was long enough. She was gone.”

“Is that why you volunteered to be part of Théoden’s vigil?” Merry had asked, suppressing a shudder at the mention of Cwenhild’s ghost.

Hobbits enjoyed a good ghost story and there were local legends in every town of spooks and haunts, but no one truly believed them. “After all,” Fatty Bolger had once said on some long ago night in their youth, “what’s the point of hanging about the living if you can’t eat anything?” After the things Merry and his friends had seen and learned during the Quest, they were no longer so quick to dismiss such stories.

Cuthred had nodded. “We could not bury my sister, but I will see our King put to rest. He ensured that no other maid would have to suffer as she did.”

The Lossarnach trio finished their set and stepped down from the bench. The whooping and hollering grew louder when Merry and Cuthred took their place. Merry held up his hands until there was silence, then looked up at his friend, questioning. Cuthred nodded.

The song was a plaintive old tune from out of history. It was sung, with mild variations, throughout the Shire. It was considered conservatively to be a burial song, but Merry knew of many occasions when it was sung simply for the loveliness of it.

With grass ‘neath my feet,
And sky wide above,
With birds in the trees,
The jay, lark and dove;

Hum a pretty tune,
Down the lonely lane,
’Til the moon shall rise,
O’er the hill and plain;

Then to bed I go,
Under star-filled night,
Sleep in calming peace,
’Til the dawn’s first light;
 
Homeward bound I am,
To yellow round door,
Where my love awaits,
To greet me once more.

When next shall I walk?
Not ‘til I am old,
I’ll slip ‘way in sleep
Down that final road.
 
Round my grave they’ll come,
But I’ll still be there
To watch over them
With all heart and care.

By that road I’ll wait,
’Til she comes to me,
My sweet bonny lass,
Forever lovely;

One by one they will
Come to us my love,
And down eternal road,
We’ll walk in stars above.

Merry saw many tears, including Pippin's, watching him from his perch at the table. Well, he couldn't have that.

“This next song is what we call a bath song,” Merry announced with a wink in Pippin’s direction after the subdued applause. “It’s good for splashing about and getting the floor wet.”

Cuthred stepped down and returned to the table, leaving the bench for Merry to entertain the tavern. The man sat next to Pippin. “You don’t sing, Master Pheriannath?”

“I do but not of late,” Pippin said. “I am waiting.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Cuthred said, “or you’ll wake an old man and wonder where the time went.”

“I’ll be more likely to wonder when I became a man and bemoan the fact that I won’t be able to sneak into the kitchens for a midnight snack without smacking my head on the ceiling and waking all the Smials,” Pippin said, grinning. He laughed both at his joke and Merry’s ridiculous rendition of the bath song.

Cuthred laughed with him. “Forgive me, Master Peregrin, I forget at times that you are hoblytan.”

“You are forgiven,” Pippin assured him.

He noticed then that Osric was trying to sneak past the table. He watched the man’s progress around the room; Osric was heading in the direction of Jamila, who had settled at the bar to watch the bustle and listen to the singing. Her pretty face was the picture of both bewilderment and fascination, and she did not at first notice Osric standing next to her.

“Someone should remind him not to touch her,” Pippin said with a point of his chin.

The Riders looked towards the bar and Ludeca stood up. “Osie!” he shouted over the din of the room. When Osric turned around, he continued in Rohirric. “Keep your hands to yourself, man, if you want to keep them both.”

Osric’s eyes widened in shock and he nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Good call, Sir Knight,” Ecgberht said, patting Pippin on the back. “Our lad seems to have forgotten that rule.”

“I’ll bet you a set of horseshoes he doesn’t last five minutes,” Wulf said.

“I’ll take that bet,” Wiglaf said. “A bridle and halter says he’ll woo the lass, hands free of course.”

“You’re feeling reckless,” said Bealdred. “I’m with Wulf on this one.”

“Anyone brave enough to back me?” Wiglaf asked.

“I’ll bite,” said Ecgberht. “Count me in.”

“I’ll go and see what I can find out, shall I?” Pippin volunteered. He slid down from his seat and inched towards the awkward couple.  

Frodo removed the stones from Sam’s relaxed form and gently shook his shoulder. “Are you still in there?”

“Aye, I am,” Sam said in a dreamy tone. He hummed, sighed and stretched his toes.

“How do you feel?” Frodo asked. “Did it help at all?”

Sam opened his eyes and stared benignly at the ceiling. “I ain’t so sure about helping, but I feel normal enough. I feel, well, I ain’t knowing how to say it exactly, but I feel, if you follow.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Frodo said, feeling worried himself. The stones never affected him this way. They left him rejuvenated and refreshed. Sam looked like he had been sneaking bites of rum cake.

“I feel happy that the war’s over and we’re here in this city, meeting such grand folk. I’m happy Strider is king and he’ll soon have his queen, though I’m hurt he didn’t tell us about that. I'm sad that the Haradrim will be leaving soon. They’re a grand folk, noble and kind, like I thought they might be that day in Ithilien when we saw the oliphaunts. I feel tired, since I ain’t slept proper in so long, but rested, like I could close my eyes right now and just drift off to sleep. I’m worrit, and that’s a fact. about you, and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry, and even myself. When we get home, what will they think of us, and will Rosie still be wanting to marry me, if she hasn’t figured me for dead and gone off to marry someone else already? I feel lonely for home and my family, but I won’t get to see them as we’ll be going to Crickhollow, and that makes me sad too. Oh, but to get my hands in some dirt and start building you a garden, Mr. Frodo! That will be grand. And I could really use a bath.”

“Goodness, Sam!” Frodo exclaimed. “That is quite a lot to feel, but we all feel like that, I imagine. You’re in good company in that respect. Now, close your eyes and relax. I’ll ready a bath for you.”

“You ain’t got to be doing that sir,” Sam said. “I think I’ll just rest now and take a bath in the morrow if there’s time.”

“There won’t be. Best to take a bath now,” Frodo advised. “I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.”

Sam closed his eyes and hummed again, a little smile on his lips. “Can it have bubbles?”

Frodo laughed, bewildered but amused at this sudden change in Sam. He had never known his friend to be this open. Usually it was like pulling dragon’s teeth to get Sam to admit to anything other than being hungry. “It can have as many bubbles as you like,” he promised and retreated downstairs to the bathing room. If this was the result of using the healing stones on Sam, Frodo might just have to do this every night!   

Pippin reached the bar and stepped back into the shadows where he could not be spied or stepped upon. He perked his ears, singling out the Rider’s babble over the din.

Osric was speaking rapidly, or was trying to. His face was turning red and his hairline was growing moist with sweat. Jamila was watching him with that same expression of bewildered fascination. She didn’t seem to know what to make of him, and no wonder, Pippin thought. Osric barely made sense even to him, and he could speak the language. Then again, it was equally possible that Jamila could too.

“And I was thinking that it’s silly really to not do anything so…” Osric prattled. He wiped his hands on his pants, stuffed them back in his pockets, and started over. “So I thought I’d come over and see how you were and… Perhaps maybe you need an escort back to your lodgings not that I’m suggesting that, well… The beer is a good brew, but you don’t drink. The water’s good. It’s very good. Very wet and clear.” Osric took a deep breath, let it out and blurted, “Will you be dancing?”

“Dance?” Jamila said. At last, a word she could understand. Her smooth brown forehead puckered at this and she glanced at the bench where Merry was now singing the ever-popular The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon. She looked down at herself. She was wearing the traditional robes of her people, which allowed for dancing if not much form. She started to move when Osric smacked himself in the face.

“No! I don’t mean dance right now! I meant tomorrow night at the farewell feast, but you don’t have to dance now,” he said, horrified at his unintended implication. “I mean, you’re obviously relaxing and didn’t come here to perform. Maybe we could find a booth and talk, not a covered one I think because, well… Don’t want anyone thinking… We could or, maybe you’re expecting some of your friends. Are they your friends? Would you like something to drink?”

Jamila looked back and forth between him and the bar, where he was pointing. The barkeep noticed them and came over with a pre-filled glass of water. He plopped it down in front of her with a resigned sigh and moved on to the next customer. Jamila lifted the glass and drank gratefully. 

“Tank yoo,” she said and smiled prettily.

“You’re welcome,” Osric said and let out a deep breath. He smiled back and the conversation, such as it was, lulled awkwardly.

Pippin checked his pocket watch. Three minutes.

Osric began to falter, stepping backward, when the seat next to Jamila suddenly was emptied. Seeing an opportunity, he sat next to her and ordered an ale. She noticed then the tattoo on his arm. She reached out but didn’t touch.

Osric noticed the movement and looked at his arm. “It’s a symbol of my people,” he said of the mark, a staff thrown through a horseshoe. “It means valor in battle.”

Jamila lifted the right sleeve of her robe. Around her upper arm was a tattooed band of the phases of the moon. She lowered the sleeve and sipped her water. “In Khaladmonbed, I… was marked. I am… Moon.”

“Does everyone in the House of the Moon have that mark?” Osric asked.

Jamila shook her head. “Only Khaladmonbed. Only… honored?”

“Is that the name of the palace?” Osric asked.

Jamila nodded.

“You’re a slave? Do they treat you well?”

Jamila shrugged. “I good. I… listen? No bad talk.”

“And the ones who don’t listen?”

She shrugged again. “They not good.”

“That’s five minutes,” announced Penda in amazement.

“She isn’t wooed yet though,” Wulf argued.

“I have to disagree,” Wiglaf said. “She’s still talking to him, isn’t she?”

“She’s being polite,” Wulf said.

“She is,” Pippin said, returning to the table. “But I think she likes him also.”

“If she laughs, then we can consider her wooed. Agreed?” Ecgberht said.

“Agreed, but it has to be a genuine laugh, not a fake one,” Bealdred said.

“What does a fake laugh sound like in Haradrim?” Pippin asked.

“Much like it sounds in any language, I would imagine,” said Merry, returning from his performance. A traveling bard had replaced him on the bench and people were now getting up to dance. “Osric is actually talking to her?”

“And managing to keep his dignity, more or less,” Ecgberht said with a laugh. “We are now watching to see who will win the bet: will he woo her or no.”

Just then, Jamila’s chiming laugh floated towards them from the bar. Wulf and Bealdred sighed in defeat while Ecgberht and Wiglaf took a celebratory swig of their mugs.

“Of all the wonders,” Merry said and drank the last of his beer. He held up his mug to call for a wench. “There might be hope for us yet, Pip. All we have to do is go home and get a lass to laugh at us.”

“That’s easy. Getting them to stop laughing at us, that’s the hard part,” Pippin quipped. “Well, since we won’t be able to do either tonight, what do you say to a game of pennies?”

“Pennies?” Offa asked.

“You’ve never played? It’s quite simple,” Merry said and was about to explain the rules when he was distracted by the arrival of the bar wench. He watched her pour out more ale then smiled up toothily at her. “So, what are you and your friends doing tomorrow night? Would you like to go to a ball?”

“Looks like Master Bag disagrees with you, Sir Peregrin,” Wiglaf said with a laugh. “So, pennies?”

“Oh, yes,” Pippin said, taking over the instructions. “It’s quite simple. You take pennies, toss them into the air and catch them. You want to catch as many of them as you can before any of them hit the ground. You start with one, then go up to two, three, four and so on until someone fails to catch them all. The other person wins.”

“Wins what?”

“The pennies,” Pippin said. “I put in the first penny, then you put in the second, then me the third and so on. Merry and I will demonstrate, then whoever is brave enough can challenge the winner. That is, if Merry is quite through ordering more drinks.”

“That’s a taller drink of water than he’s used to, I wager,” Wulf said, causing everyone to laugh. He patted Merry on the back and waved the wench off to her next customers.

Merry frowned to see her go but happily returned to the conversation all the same. He and Pippin demonstrated a round of pennies, with Pippin winning at the count of seven pennies. One by one, the Riders challenged him only to lose. It didn’t help that they each inevitably ended up throwing their pennies in every conceivable direction but up.

“The trick is to throw them as straight into the air as possible,” Merry instructed Cuthred for the fourth time. “You’re flicking your wrist too much. You’re tossing pennies, not dwarves.”

They gathered quite the crowd over the course of the evening. People began betting on who would finally beat Pippin, and when Merry played him again, who would beat Merry. They became so involved in their game, that none of them noticed Osric and Jamila leave the bar and step out into the moonless night.

To be continued…
 
 
 

GF 7/18/09
Published 8/30/09

Chapter 25 – Grooms and Tombs

The Rohirrim visited the stables every day of their stay in Gondor, to visit their steeds and help the grooms to care for them. Horses were little employed in the White City, used only by the errand-riders from the Citadel. As such, the stables were small and humble compared to those in Rohan, and more than a few of the horses now housed there were required to share their stalls to accommodate the visiting steeds. The horses, accommodating by nature, were more than happy with the arrangement, and the grooms soon found they had extra hands as well, for the Rohirrim cared for their beasts as well as they did each other.

Four Riders set out for the stables the morning after their night of frivolity at the Peeking Eagle. Wulf, Penda and Ecgberht had left the inn well after midnight, along with nearly all the others and the hobbits. They had slept little but enough to keep them alert and on their feet throughout the day. Osric had not returned until the grey, pre-dawn hours. From his puffy, half-mast eyes, his incessant yawning and near inability to navigate the cobbled streets without stumbling, his companions deduced that whatever he had been doing with Jamila once they disappeared from the inn, sleeping had clearly had little to do with it.

“Are we going to have to ask?” Wulf asked when they passed through the gate to the fifth circle.

“Wherever you were, you didn’t get much sleep,” Ecgberht said. They were all tired, and he, Wulf and Penda would likely fall asleep in their broth at tonight’s farewell feast to the Haradrim, but they were at least rested. Osric didn’t look fit to handle a curry comb, much less a lead rope. They would have left him behind, only…

“Will Jamila be equally as tired?” Penda asked with an impish grin. “You certainly overcame your shyness quickly.”

“You’re a sod,” Osric mumbled.

“You’re a stallion,” Wulf said, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Was she a frisky filly?”

Osric crammed his fists in his pockets. Given his current state, he would not last long in a fight. “You’re all sods,” he settled on rebuking. “Nothing happened. I walked her home; I didn’t touch her. That’s all.”

His companions looked at him with identical skepticism and waited.

Osric sighed. “If they are willing to remove my hand for touching her, what do you think they’d remove if we had done that?”

“A valid point,” Wulf agreed, resisting the urge to cover himself. He shuddered instead and pushed out any thoughts of eunuchs. “Still, it doesn’t take five hours to walk to the Citadel and back.”

“She kept wanting me to tell her the names of everything,” Osric said. “And because you had called to me in Rohirric, she wanted to know the words in that language as well.”

“That took five hours?” Penda asked.

“Leave him alone,” Ecgberht said. “The lad’s clearly still numb from the long night. Courting a savage woman must be exhausting work.”

“Couldn’t you have brought Ceorl instead?” Osric asked, sounding much put upon.

“You are exhausted,” Ecgberht said. “He’s standing guard with Erkenbrand today. You know this.” He watched Osric for a few moments and came to a decision. “You can sleep in one of the stalls once we’ve taken the horses for their exercise. Just try to stay awake until then.”

They met the hobbits at the gate to the sixth circle. Pippin of course was in his livery but the others were dressed casually. They would be working in the King’s House again today.

“How goes the remodeling?” Penda asked.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Sam said. “The twins say they’ve been working near round the clock. Don’t know what the hurry is, but they say there’s just a few more finishing touches to do today and then we’ll be free. I mean, finished.”

“Not enjoying your assignment, are we?” Osric asked.

“It’s fine enough,” Merry said, eyeing the Rider closely in the morning light. “Stayed up late, did we?”

“Osie was about to tell us about his night with Jamila,” Wulf said.

“That’s not very polite,” Pippin said with a frown.

“Nor proper,” Sam said.

“Not proper at all,” Frodo agreed. “One shouldn’t admit to doing such things before they’re married.”

Everyone stopped at this and Sam’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed, scandalized.

Ecgberht laughed. “And here we thought you hobbits were innocent, in this respect at least!”

“Who says we aren’t?” Frodo asked. “You weren’t listening.”

“You’re fifty,” Merry said, now eyeing his older cousin. It was the closest any of them had come to asking the question.

“And you’re thirty-seven,” Frodo replied. It was the closest he would ever come to answering it.

“Nothing happened,” Osric insisted, then his brow knitted in concentration. “Actually, something did happen. It was odd.”

“You touched her?” Ecgberht asked.

“No. When we reached the Citadel, that vizier was waiting for her outside their house. She didn’t seem to want to go in, though she did after he ordered her to. I stayed to try to see if she was in some sort of trouble for being out so late or alone or what have you, only no one would talk to me. I finally decided to just wait nearby, in case I heard her cry out and I could go in and hopefully stop whatever was happening to her.”

“As you’re still alive, not covered with contusions and are in possession of all your limbs, I’m assuming that nothing happened,” Ecgberht said.

“No, not to her I don’t think, but while I was waiting, four other women came home, all escorted by a man of Gondor. I couldn’t see all their faces, but at least two were young lords. There might have been more. I nodded off a few times.”

“That is odd,” Ecgberht said. “The vizier was waiting for all of them?”

“I couldn’t see the front door from where I was hiding.”

“Someone should mention this to the king,” Wulf said with a glance at Pippin.

Pippin nodded. “I’ll tell him. Are you lads on groom duty today?” he asked the Riders as they neared the stables.

“We are,” Penda said. “Enjoy your remodeling.”

“We’ll see you at the feast tonight,” Frodo said and grinned at Osric. “We’re allowed to bring a guest.”

Osric mumbled something under his breath. The others grinned. “We’ll be there,” Wulf said. He and his companions said their farewells to the hobbits and turned towards the stables.

The earthy scent of hay, oat and horse filled their noses before they even reached the door. They breathed the scent in deeply, luxuriating in it. The White City might be grand and impressive, but it simply didn’t smell the way a city should, to their minds. They would be glad to return to Meduseld.

“Morning, beauties,” Penda greeted the horses as they entered. The beasts whinnied back in greeting, and his mare came to the stall door and threw back her head in excitement. “I’ve missed you too.”

They each spent a few minutes with their horses, scratching their noses and ears and speaking quietly to them in Rohirric, before returning to the paddock where the grooms were walking the Haradrim’s horses, a most gentle and proud race of beast. The Haradrim insisted they be stalled only with their own kind, and the grooms soon found that the horses grew restless if not walked first thing in the morning and employed in some manner of work throughout the day. They were most eager to please and prove themselves useful, and when they were taken to the Pelennor for a run to stretch out their legs, they proved themselves faster and heartier than even the Rohirrim’s noble steeds.

A couple of the Haradrim men were also there, talking to their horses in the odd clicking and clucking manner that the others had by now become accustomed to. “They speak to their horses only in the tongues of beasts,” Ashtir had explained to them shortly after the Haradrim first arrived. “Horses cannot understand human speech, yes?”

The Rohirrim had doubted the method at first, but it was clear to them now that the horses understood the sounds exceedingly well. Even the Riders were beginning to understand what certain combinations meant, and they had been surprised when, a few days earlier, their own horses had shown the ability to understand them too.

“We will see to mucking out the stables,” Ecgberht called to them.

“Fresh hay was delivered yesterday,” the master ostler told them.

They went back inside and each grabbed a pitch fork. A couple of grooms and Haradrim were already there, working on cleaning the stalls. The Riders joined them and soon were caught in the rhythm of their work.  

Sultana Farzana waited until after her morning bath to gather her attendants into her chamber. She had sent seven of her most honored maids into the city the previous night and she was interested to learn of their finding. Her maids came into her room at her bidding and they all lay prostrated on the ground by her feet, waiting.

“I take it our little experiment was fruitful?” Farzana asked.

Her attendants nodded to the floor. “Yes, my sultana,” they chimed.

“What did we discover?”

“They are men of honor, my sultana.”

“The lords of Gondor were most respectful,” said one maid. “They did not attempt to abuse us. They showed concern for our safety and they each offered to escort us home, much as you supposed, My Sultana.”

“What of you, Jamila? You were to chose one of the Horse-men,” Farzana said.

“He chose me, my sultana,” Jamila said. “He was the one called Osric.”

“He is enamored with you,” Farzana said with interest, “and still he did not attempt dishonor.”

“No, my sultana. At first I thought him lame in some manner, for his speech was most odd. Then I determined he was merely nervous, but he overcame his doubt and proved most intelligent. He was most kind, gentle and sweet.”

“Was he? Look at me.” Jamila lifted her head and looked at her queen. Farzana gazed into her eyes and studied the maid long before continuing. “You speak most highly of him. You were not so foolish as to give your heart to him, yes? Your heart is not yours to give.”

“No it is not, my sultana. My heart belongs to you, and no other,” Jamila said, but Farzana could see the anguish there, mingled with overwhelming hope and desire.

“That is enough. You performed well. Go now to your beds and rest. I will address the King Elessar and the Lord Erkenbrand of Rohan,” Farzana said. “You will be sent for when all is ready.”

She dismissed her maids and watched them as they departed, her eyes following Jamila.  

Aragorn drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne and tried his best to listen to the droning of Lord Dormir. Knowing the status of the final refugee camps and the preparations for their return to the city was crucial, but Dormir could turn a telling of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom into a report duller than a daily update on crop growth. All around the hall, heads were bobbing and shoulders were sagging. Even the scribes’ quills, which moved nonstop during court hours, were taking uncustomary pauses followed by quick, frantic scribbles. By the time Dormir was finished, even Aragorn was having trouble keeping his eyes open, and he didn’t even realize that the lord had stopped talking until Pippin cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Lord Dormir,” Aragorn said, his booming voice causing several people to jerk awake. “Your diligence in handling this assignment is most appreciated. Lord Bermond and Lord Amlich will assist you in making everything ready for the last of the refugees. You may step down.”

Lord Dormir bowed and returned to his seat. The page stepped forward to announce the next speaker, but before he could open his mouth, the great double doors of the Hall swung open. Sultana Farzana, Sultan Ashraf, Vizier Faheem, and Soroush marched into the hall. They were all dressed in their finest garb, ready for tonight’s farewell feast. They carried such an expectant air about them, that everyone in the hall sat forward with much interest.

“Your Majesties,” Aragorn said with a bow of his head.

“Your Kingship,” Farzana said and continued in clear Westron. “I thank you for your audience and for your gracious hosting of my people in your city. I have a matter which requires me to speak with you and with Lord Erkenbrand as well. I ask that you send for him at once.”

Aragorn held up his hand against the murmurings and shocked exclamations that followed the queen’s request. Few had known, or even suspected, that the queen understood their speech. Aragorn himself was surprised that the queen should reveal her secret, now on the final day of her sojourn in the city, and in open court no less. Did this possibly have something to do with what Osric reported seeing last night?

“Lord Erkenbrand is standing guard in the Hallows, at the House of Kings. He cannot be sent for. His shift will end at midnight. You can call upon him in the morning before you depart,” Aragorn said.

“It cannot wait until then. It is to be part of tonight’s ceremony, with both yours and his approval. As it concerns one of his men, I require his approval directly. We will go to the Hallows if we must,” Farzana announced.

“I cannot permit that. I can give approval for him,” Aragorn said.

Farzana lifted an eyebrow, and her violet eyes shined bright with doubt. “It requires certain sacrifices on the part of the men. I must insist on having the approval of the man's lord. I do not wish to say more than that here.”

Aragorn held her gaze and came to a swift decision. “Peregrin?”

“Yes, My Lord?” Pippin said, stepping forth to speak quietly with his king and friend.

“Go to my house and fetch Merry. Ask if he would be willing to stand guard in Erkenbrand’s place until this matter can be settled. Then go to the Hallows and relieve Erkenbrand of his duty until Merry can come there,” Aragorn ordered.

“Go to the Hallows?” Pippin asked, his breath hitching on the last word. His skin crawled at the very thought of going near those tombs. It was bad enough when the wind shifted and brought the lingering stench of ash and burnt flesh to their house on the fifth circle.

“Ceorl will be with you,” Aragorn said, sympathetically. He knew what the tombs meant to Pippin.

Pippin bowed. “Yes, My Lord.” He trotted down the stairs, past the Haradrim and out the doors.

“We will resume court in the morning,” Aragorn said. He stood and everyone rose to their feet. They waited until the king, the pages and his guests departed the hall before breaking into excited conversation.

Pippin dashed up the stairs of the King’s House to the master suite on the top floor. For the house to be nearly completed, there was still much chaos to be seen as he passed through it, and it nearly matched the thoughts running through his mind. Aragorn was clearly intrigued, if not overly concerned, about whatever the queen wanted. Yet the matter did not seem urgent enough to warrant interrupting Erkenbrand’s vigil at the tombs; Ashraf had worn his customary grin throughout the brief interview with Aragorn, and Soroush had actually looked bored while translating for the men.

Pippin was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t even notice when Adrik and Amarlicus spotted him and said hello. He walked right past the twins and slammed into the master chamber, surprising his cousins and Sam. Frodo jumped and dropped the hammer he was swinging, catching Sam’s toe with the handle.

“Ow!” Sam cried and hopped up and down.

“Oh, Sam! I’m so sorry!” Frodo exclaimed. “Sit down over here. The head didn’t get you did it?”

“Pippin,” Merry chided. “What are you thinking slamming into rooms like that?”

“I’m sorry,” Pippin said, with an apologetic glance at Sam. “But you need to come, Merry. Now.”

“What? Why? What are you talking about?” Merry asked.

“What is the matter?” Frodo asked, looking up from his examination of Sam’s big toe, which was throbbing angrily.

“Aye, and was it so urgent you couldn’t have knocked first?” Sam asked.

“I am sorry, Sam,” Pippin apologized again. “I don’t know what is going on, though it must have something to do with what Osric saw last night. The queen is in the Hall of Kings asking for an audience with Aragorn and Erkenbrand. Strider wanted to know if you’d be willing to stand in for Erkenbrand until whatever the matter is gets resolved. I’m to relieve Erkenbrand until you can come.”

“What did Osric see last night?” Elrohir asked. He, his brother and the two men were by this time crowded in the doorway, listening intently.

“Frodo and Sam can fill you in,” Merry said. “Let’s go, Pip. Don’t want to keep the Majesties waiting.”

“Be careful, lads,” Frodo said and they all watched as the two knights ran from the chamber. Frodo returned to his massaging of Sam’s bruised foot. “That’s odd.”

“Aye, it is at that,” Sam agreed. “Don’t reckon as it could be a bad thing though, as naught happened. I suppose we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

“No. Your little toe looks like the nail fell off,” Frodo said, peering closer at the newly formed cuticle peeking out from the nail bed. “So does your middle toe!”

“Mordor was hard on both of us, sir,” Sam said. “You do think they’ll grow back normal, don’t you? They’re certainly taking their sweet time. What if they still look like that when we get home and Rosie decides she won’t have me?”

“You really must stop worrying about what Rosie may or may not do,” Frodo said. “Besides, she adores you, mangled toes and all.”

“You really think so?” Sam asked hopefully. "I like to think so too, but she can be a tease, and that's a fact."

“I really think so,” Frodo said, picking up the other foot to examine that one as well.

“So what did Osric see last night?” Adrik asked.

“Oh. That,” Frodo said, standing up. “Well, that’s odd too.” He and Sam told their friends what Osric had reported.

“Estel was forewarned by Peregrin, you say,” Elrohir said. “At least he will not be entirely surprised, whatever happens.”  

Merry and Pippin parted at the gate to the fifth circle. “I’ll come swiftly, Pip,” he promised. “Do you have Gimli’s beads?”

Pippin nodded and pulled them from his pocket where he kept them always. He put them over his head and tucked them under his tunic. He grinned bravely. “I’ll be all right with these, and Ceorl will be with me.”

Merry watched Pippin trot off, then went through the gate and turned towards home. He could be changed within twenty minutes, but he needed to bathe first. A standing bath at the ewer then. It wasn’t entirely proper or respectful, but he felt Théoden would forgive him his haste, considering the circumstances. It was hard enough for Merry to be there in the tombs and stand guard all day and night. He shuddered to think what it would be like for Pippin, even if only for a half-hour.  

Pippin hurried up the road towards the Closed Door. He spoke the password to the new porter and was permitted through. He trotted down Fen Hollin as quickly as he could, but the closer he came to the tombs, the slower his feet seemed to move. He tried to tell himself that his racing heart and shortness of breath were due only to the running, but he knew it was more than that when at last he reached the end of the passage and stepped onto Rath Dínen. It took every effort to continue moving forward, rather than turning around and bolting back in the opposite direction. Straight ahead he could see the House of Kings, and to its left the House of Stewards. It was newly rebuilt, but he could see still the tumbled remnants as they had stood that long ago night, with tongues of fire flickering into the air. He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, then hurried up the street.

The mausoleums loomed high overhead, their white marble gleaming in the midday sun. Then the wind shifted and Pippin once again smelled ashes and burnt flesh, stronger than he remembered that night. He slowed to a trot but did not stop; the nausea would pass. He had to get to Erkenbrand. The House of the Kings would have to be at the end of the road, wouldn’t it?

Ceorl and Erkenbrand saw him approach. They knew something was wrong, but neither broke attention until Pippin reached them. Then Erkenbrand knelt and placed a supporting hand on Pippin’s shoulder.

“Erkenbrand,” Pippin panted heavily, leaning forward and favoring his weak knee. “Aragorn… requires… your presence… private chambers… White Tower… I am… to relieve you… until Merry can… come.”

“Why is my presence required?” Erkenbrand asked.

“The queen requests… an interview with you…” Pippin got out, the words coming easier with each breath. “I think… because of Osric…”

“What happened with Osric?” Erkenbrand asked, baffled.

Pippin took a great breath and held it a moment before letting it go. He straightened up and shrugged. “Nothing, that I know, but he saw something.” He told Erkenbrand as briefly as he could everything that had happened last night. “Now the queen is at court wanting to see you both. I know only that it has something to do with the farewell feast tonight and that it will involve one of your men, with your direct permission. There was mention of a sacrifice.”

Erkenbrand rose to his feet. “I will go then. Tell Merry I will return as soon as I may.” He marched off down the road.

Pippin and Ceorl caught each other’s eyes. The man gave the tiniest of shrugs but remained at attention. Pippin fell into Erkenbrand’s place. Despite the heat of the day, he could feel the cold marble of the tomb behind him, but worse was the House of Stewards glaring at him from the side. He wanted desperately for Ceorl to say something, anything, preferably a joke that would allow him to believe that everything was all right, but Ceorl would not break his guard for so empty a reassurance. Pippin closed his eyes again and tried to ignore the pain of his knee, the squirming of his stomach and the whirling of his thoughts. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend he was guarding that dead tree outside the White Tower rather than the tombs of the kings.

‘Please Merry. Hurry.’  

The King’s private chamber was silent. The page stood at the door, awaiting the knock that would announce the arrival of Erkenbrand. Aragorn sat behind his desk, his hands in a steeple before him, and watched the Haradrim and the door alternately. The vizier stood at the long windows, looking out over the porch of the White Tower and the White Tree. The queen and king sat in two stuffed chairs before the King’s desk, and Soroush stood between them, hands clasped behind his back.

It seemed to take ages, but at long last the knock sounded and the page moved to open the door. “Lord Erkenbrand of the Mark for Your Majesty,” he announced and permitted the Rider to enter at the King’s gesture.

Erkenbrand entered, looking purposefully expressionless. He was dressed in his livery and looked nearly as fine as the Haradrim, if somewhat wilted from his long hours standing in the summer sun. He bowed before the King. “Your Majesty,” he said.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, My Lord Erkenbrand,” Aragorn said. “You may be seated.”

Erkenbrand took the seat next to the queen.

“Sultana Farzana,” Aragorn said. “If you can now tell us why we are here.”

“Of course,” Farzana said, continuing in Westron. “It pertains to the feast. Our alliance is settled, both with Gondor and Rohan. To honor our new commitment to each other, we make to you a gift. We require the seven men who escorted my maids home this morning to be present. This will be six of the lords of Gondor and one of the Horse-men of Rohan.”

“Why do you require them?” Aragorn asked.

“They must bless the alliance with a dance,” Farzana said. “It is an ancient custom. Seven soldiers and seven maids are to dance the Gift of Life, a most sacred rite, and it must be performed lest our newfound alliance grow stale and wither.”

“Gift of Life?” Erkenbrand repeated. “This is a dance they can learn in seven hours?”

“I am quite certain they can learn it in seven minutes,” Farzana said with a smirk. “In respect to your customs, we chose soldiers who were unmarried and not yet betrothed. They could not be told beforehand you see. Their respect for my maids must be unquestioned, their honor of pure intent. Only then could they participate in the dance. My maids, they are untouched after all.”

Aragorn and Erkenbrand paused at this, trying to decipher what the queen was saying. She couldn’t possibly mean…?

Aragorn cleared his throat. “I am pleased, though not surprised, that my men have passed your test. They are all honorable, as you have discovered, and they would be pleased I’m certain to learn of your approval of them. I do not wish to prevent you from expressing your appreciation, and while I am in favor of a ceremony that would publicly announce our alliance, I am afraid that our customs prevent certain rites from being performed in public.”

“Especially at a feast,” Erkenbrand added, thinking of the practicalities. “Everyone would forget to eat.”

Farzana frowned. “As you allowed our rites to be performed at our welcoming feast, I wouldn’t have thought there would be a problem with it now, except that it does require a certain sacrifice on the part of your men. From what I have been able to gather, none of them have ever done this before. And there is of course the markings that it will leave, though those will fade with time.”

“I’m fairly certain Osric has done this before,” Erkenbrand said, bewildered as to how to proceed diplomatically. “Be that as it may, I can’t order him to do such a thing, though I am certain he would have no problem doing it, except perhaps the aforementioned public viewing.”

The Haradrim exchanged perplexed looks, then Soroush leaned forward and whispered something in Farzana’s ear.

The queen’s smirk returned and she chuckled. “I apologize, my lords. I must clarify that I am speaking of a dance, nothing more than that. There are certain preparations for the dance, in the way of… costuming, I believe is the word, that you would be unfamiliar with and perhaps find to be barbaric in their nature. There also are certain requirements they will be expected to follow for a moon after the feast to ensure that the bond is fully set. We are speaking of the same thing now, yes?”

Erkenbrand and Aragorn shared another glance. Sometimes, boredom was preferable.

To be continued…

GF 7/27/09
Published 9/7/09

Chapter 26 – A Tangled Web

Aragorn and Erkenbrand bowed in farewell to the Haradrim. Soroush flashed them a sympathetic grin before following the vizier out of the King’s chamber. Aragorn waited until the door closed behind them before sinking back into his chair. He groaned and laughed ruefully.

“That was embarrassing.”

“I made the same assumption as you, my Lord,” Erkenbrand said. “Our new friends have quite the sense of humor.”

“Indeed. A clever ruse they played on us,” Aragorn admitted. “I wonder how the hobbits would repay them for their jest.”

“Streak across the stage in the middle of the dance, most likely,” Erkenbrand quipped, doubling them over with laughter at the thought.

Aragorn sat back, still chuckling. “I shall have to ask them, after the Haradrim leave. Tonight’s festivities should be entertaining enough without their assistance.”

“I will be sorry to miss it.”

“I will remember as much of it as I can and give you a full report tomorrow afternoon,” Aragorn promised. “Our men have brought us much honor. The queen wishes to return the favor. I wonder though if they will appreciate the manner in which it is given.”

“It will be a small price to pay, if the queen is correct about the luck it will bring to our lands and our people,” Erkenbrand said. “The sacrifice is more than reasonable, even if Osric won’t be able to see that at first.”

“Nor will my lords,” said Aragorn, running a hand through his hair. “Yet we cannot deny the queen’s request. I must send for my lords at once if they are to have time to learn the ritual and prepare for it properly.”

“I will stop by the stables on my way to the Hallows and summon Osric, or send Merry to find him if he is no longer there,” Erkenbrand said and bowed to the King. “I must return to my post. Until tomorrow.”

“Until then,” Aragorn said.

Erkenbrand departed. As he left, Pippin entered. The small knight bowed and resumed his post behind his king without a word. Aragorn would have expected a barrage of questions from his inquisitive friend. He turned his chair and noted the thoughtfulness in Pippin's eyes.

“How did you find the Hallows?” he asked, gesturing for Pippin to be at his ease.

“Through the Closed Door, down Fen Hollin and at the end of Rath Dínen. The same as last time,” Pippin quipped.

“Not entirely the same, surely,” Aragorn pressed, adopting what the hobbits called his Healer’s Glare.

Pippin sighed. “Well, no,” he admitted. “It was dreadful as ever at first. I had to pretend I was guarding that dead tree for a time. But then… I don’t know. It’s so quiet and still. It was almost peaceful. I can see now how Merry can find it soothing at times, while the sun is up at any rate. I wouldn’t wish to be there at night.”

“Was Merry long in relieving you?” Aragorn asked.

“No. He came much quicker than I would have thought possible. I was never so glad to see him, exempting when I found him after the Battle of the Pelennor, of course,” Pippin said. 

“Of course. Were you able to find guests to bring to tonight’s ball?” Aragorn asked, satisfied enough to allow the change in subject.

Pippin nodded. “We were. Is Osric in trouble then? What did the queen want? Did it have anything to do with what Osric saw last night?”

“It did, to an extant,” Aragorn said, smiling. He had known the questions were there somewhere, not that he intended to answer any of them. “There’s no trouble. Quite the opposite, actually. You will get all your answers at the ball. Speaking of which, I must ask you to send missives to these lords immediately. They are to abandon whatever they are doing and report to Merethrond at once. They will be given further instructions once they arrive there. You may be dismissed of your duties after you see the missives dispatched. Find your friends and prepare for the feast.”

He handed Pippin a list with the names of the six young lords. Pippin took this and despite the questions Aragorn could see piling up behind his eyes, he only bowed and left to carry out his orders. Aragorn watched him go, reminded anew of just how much Pippin had grown over the course of the Quest.  

Erkenbrand hurried to the stables, shocked at how high the sun had climbed while he was discussing politics with the queen. He had been gone too long, and Merry was no doubt anxious to know what was going on. The Holdwine would have to wait for answers.

He reached the stables in quick order and spotted Penda, Wulf and Ecgberht in the paddock, exercising their horses two at a time. Osric was nowhere to be seen, yet he must be there somewhere. His men stopped their training when they noticed him approach.

“Erkenbrand, what is the matter?” Ecgberht asked with open curiosity.

“Is Osric inside?” Erkenbrand asked.

“He is asleep in the stalls,” Ecgberht said.

They watched in bewilderment as their leader stalked past them. Wulf shook his head as Penda leaned over and whispered, “I told you I saw him walk by earlier.”

“Why would he leave his post?” Wulf wondered, but none of them could think of a reason beyond the one already given: Osric.

Erkenbrand entered the stables. He nodded tersely to the other grooms and went to the stalls that held the Rohirrim’s steeds. In the second stall, he found Osric fast asleep, his head pillowed on his horse’s back.

“Horse and Rider rest together,” Erkenbrand murmured with a laugh. He lifted a booted foot and nudged Osric in the side until he woke. Osric stared up at him bleary eyed for several moments before he remembered where he was and realized who was standing before him. Erkenbrand reached down and helped him to his feet.

“My Lord! Is there some trouble afoot?” Osric asked.

“Fortunately for you, there is not,” Erkenbrand said. “Queen Farzana is impressed with you and the courtesy you showed her maid last night. She has a great honor in store for you. Go home, bathe and change into your livery, then report to Merethrond. You are to do everything you are told to do. Everything, without complaint or comment. Do not disgrace your King.” He turned heel and left without further explanation. Let Osric piece the puzzle together in his own time.

Erkendbrand now hurried back to the Hallows; nearly two hours had passed since Pippin first beckoned him away. He reached the Hallows in short order, slowing to a quick walk as he reached the Silent Street. He noted the guards, one tall, one short. As he drew nearer, the short one stepped forward.

“Is there anything amiss, my lord?” Merry asked.

“Everything is well, Sir Meriadoc,” Erkenbrand assured. “You will discover the answer to the mystery at tonight’s feast. It should be quite the spectacle. Go now and rejoin your friends.” He took his place and fell into attention, ending the discussion.

Merry bowed and walked away, more confused than before. He knew only that Frodo and Sam would be worried also. He needed to assure them that all was well, then he needed to find Pippin. His cousin had looked well enough when Merry came to relieve him, but Pippin could be just as close as Frodo when he wanted to be.

When he arrived at the King’s House, he was surprised and relieved to find Pippin already there, putting the last coat of varnish on the mantle. Frodo and Sam were on the balcony tending the plants. Sam showed no sign of injury from the hammer falling on him, of more relief to Frodo than to Sam no doubt. Adrik was clearing away the supplies, while Amarlicus, Elrohir and Elladan went through the rooms cleaning the surfaces. Merry joined Pippin.

“What do you know?” he asked.

Pippin finished his last brush stroke and tossed the brush rather jubilantly into a nearby bucket of water. He crouched to put the lid on the can of varnish. “Not much,” he answered. “Only that we’ll find out more at the feast and no one’s in trouble.”

“That covers what I know also. Are we finished here then?” Merry asked. “We should go home and get ready.”

“That’s our next stop,” Frodo said, coming in from the balcony. “Are you sure about these guests you invited?”

“Of course I am. We met them at the very fine establishment of The Peeking Eagle,” Merry said. “They’re upstanding citizens.”

“I don’t know about this,” Sam said, uncertainly. “I’m sure Strider had his reasons for not telling—Shh!”

“We are finished, my friends,” Elladan said, coming in from the kitchen. His brother walked beside him and they glanced around the master suite with identical expressions of satisfaction. They both noticed the hobbits’ too-wide grins at the same time. Identical eyebrows lifted.

“All right then. We’ll see you at the ball, shall we?” Pippin said. The hobbits promptly left.

“What was that about?” Adrik asked.

“I do not know, but I suspect this feast is going to have one more surprise,” Elrohir said. “I know those grins far too well.”

“To be young and carefree again,” Amarlicus said wistfully. “I will inform Mistress Porcia that she can send her maids to give the House a more thorough cleaning.”

“And we will go warn our brother to be on his toes,” Elrohir said.

“Why? Whatever the hobbits are planning for him, I’m sure he deserves it,” Elladan said.

“Brother!” Elrohir scolded. “Letting Estel be blindsided at a dinner party is well and good, but this is a diplomatic feast.”

Elladan sighed. “You always ruin my fun.”  

The hobbits returned to their house and readied for the feast. As they would be bringing guests, they had decided to wear the outfits prepared for them for Aragorn’s coronation ceremony. They didn’t have time to take turns bathing, and from the sounds emanating from the bathing room, Gimli had already beaten them to the tub at any rate. They settled themselves with bathing at their ewers in their rooms instead.

Merry gratefully shed his knight’s armor. Standing guard at the Hallows was hard enough when he had a day to prepare for the somber vigil. His whirlwind dash home to change from his painting clothes to his armor, the quick wash to remove the paint and dirt, and his run to the Hallows to relieve Pippin had hardly given him time to think about what he was doing. His primary concern was getting to Pippin and once there, determining if he was all right. Only when Pippin returned to the Citadel did Merry begin to wonder just how long he was going to have to stay there, what exactly was happening in the Hall of Kings, and what Erkenbrand had to do with it.

Those endless riddles had kept him occupied for the first half-hour. Then the silent magic of the Hallows slowly pushed out all other thoughts. The stillness of that place overtook him and he felt most peculiar, as though he were seeing the mausoleums through Pippin’s eyes. The stark, white buildings loomed tall and ominous on all sides. The sun glinted off the marble with a blinding brilliance, and the heat of the summer sun became as that of a raging fire. From the House of Stewards a dark presence watched from the shadows within, biding its time.

Gandalf and Beregond had described that night to them, when Denethor’s madness reached its horrifying conclusion. Pippin had described it also, in an almost monotone voice, his usually vivid face devoid of any emotion. He had told Aragorn the facts of the matter but nothing more. To Merry he had only spoken of it once, the first time he had smelt the phantom vapors.

“Out of everything I’ve seen, that was among the worst,” Pippin had said. “I should have done something more, stalled him going somehow. Watching that… Hearing him… At least Gandalf got Faramir out before it was too late. I did that much at least. But Denethor… He told me to go and die in whatever way I saw fit. I thought I was doing that when I killed the troll, and now he’s just waiting.”

It was more than he had said about the Palantír but not by much. Pippin never mentioned it again, but whenever he grew suddenly still and silent, Merry knew he was smelling the ash and fire again.

As Merry stood in the Hallows, he imagined he too could smell the ghostly scents, that visceral stink of burning flesh. Combined with the heat and the light, he suddenly understood what Pippin must have felt during those moments when the phantoms overtook him. It took all of Merry’s strength not to double over and be sick in the bushes. Instead, he stood there trembling, his breaths coming quick and shallow, until the spell passed and he could tell day from night once more. The spell had lasted but moments, yet it left him exhausted in both body and mind. He would gladly fall into bed rather than trudge back to the Citadel for the feast, but that would only cause alarm and he never wanted Pippin to know what had happened.

He splashed cold water on his face and picked up the wash towel. He dabbed away the sweat and soot with intense pleasure and dressed in his coronation suit and hauberk. The cool silk was like water against his skin and the airy weight of the green-red-and-gold fabric washed away the last of the tombs.

Feeling more rejuvenated, he closed the wardrobe door and froze. His eyes were pulled to the corner of the room quite against his will, as he had seen something there that left him in utter disbelief. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Yes, they were still there, small and insignificant, but for the meaning behind them. He stepped back, thinking furiously. They could have been there for days without his noticing, and yet he had just given the room a thorough sweeping yesterday after the groundbreaking. Before going to the tavern. Gathering his will, he leaned down again for a closer look, but there was no mistaking them. They could only be one thing: rat droppings.

Forgetting entirely about Denethor, Pippin and the Hallows, Merry turned about-face and marched out of his room and into Frodo’s. Ignoring the fact that Frodo was only half-dressed, Merry pointed at his cousin in barely contained panic.

“You!” he declared.

“Me?” Frodo asked, slipping on his shirt.

“You put them there!”

“It’s possible. I put many things in various places,” Frodo allowed.

“Don’t play at games, Frodo. Admit it!” Merry hissed.

“All right,” Frodo said with a frown. “I put your gloves in the left drawer of your wardrobe instead of the right. I couldn’t remember which side they went on. I’m sorry.”

“Not that! The rat droppings!”

“There are rat droppings in your room?” Frodo asked, looking alarmed. He instantly forgot about buttoning his shirt in favor of searching his floor for similar signs of vermin.

“We’ve got an infestation, do we?” Sam asked, coming in through the adjoining door. He frowned at Merry. “You can hardly be blaming Mr. Frodo. Gimli’s the one as eats in his bed all the time.”

“No,” Merry said. “I know what you’re doing, Frodo, and it won’t work. Your prank has failed, so you can stop it now.”

“You think that’s my prank?” Frodo asked, looking insulted. “Merry, really, give me some credit. I may not have been myself of late, but I do remember how to pull a proper prank, and I am not going to allow my reputation as the worst rascal in Buckland to be sullied at this point of my life. So think about it. What I am more likely to do: leave rat droppings in the corner of your room, or unleash a cage full of rats upon you when you least expect it?”

Merry’s jaw dropped in aghast horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I might. Actually, that does sound rather appealing, now that I think about it,” Frodo said, pondering the matter with graveness.

Sam sighed and shook his head. Bucklanders. “Whatever you decide to do, Master, we best send word to the rat-catcher about the pests afore they grow bold and start making away with our cheese,” he advised before returning to his room to finish dressing.

Frodo likewise resumed buttoning his shirt while Merry remained rooted in his spot. “You see, Merry, unlike you I can think of pranks that will work just as well whether you know about them or not.” He smiled sweetly. “Your brooch is on backward.”

Merry backed out of the room and closed the door. Only then did he glance down and saw that Frodo was right. In his distraction, Merry had put the Lorien brooch on facing the wrong way. He corrected it now as he headed down the hall.

‘Frodo couldn’t possibly be serious about the rats,’ he told himself furiously. ‘No, he’s just playing his usual mind games. He knows I’m afraid of the pests, so he’s using that to his advantage, hoping I’ll worry myself senseless over it and do all his work for him. Well, it won’t work this time. I’m not falling for it. I’m n— What was that?!’

A sudden movement skittering along the floor caught his eye and he froze, barely containing himself from squealing like a lass. Heart pounding in throat, he risked a glimpse down and saw a dust ball being blown down the hall by the wind. Feeling more than foolish, he bent down and swept the dust ball into his hand, then returned to his room to finish getting dressed. Their guests would be arriving soon.

An hour later, all were assembled and ready to depart. Legolas and Gimli had invited the master masons as their guests, and Gandalf had asked Amarlicus to accompany them tonight. The retired royal tutor was the closest thing Faramir had to family now, and the old man was fond of the prince and his late brother. The hobbits’ guests were the last to arrive, and everyone stopped in surprise when they entered the house.

Merry bowed to them and introduced them. “This is Miss Isolda, Miss Laine, Miss Marja and Miss Esti, the finest and loveliest serving lasses at The Eagle’s Peak Inn.”

The young ladies curtsied with practiced ease, each of them beaming with pride to be going to such a high function and with the famous pheriannath no less! They had taken great care of their hair and nails, and borrowed dresses from the wife of one of the tavern’s more influential patrons. One would never guess them to be anything other than respectable ladies.

“Pleased to meet you,” Gandalf said, his bushy eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You lads have chosen a most fetching quartet to accompany you. I admit I’m surprised, and thoroughly delighted, by your choices.”

“We only hope that Strider will be also,” Frodo said with an innocent air. “Shall we go? We don’t want to keep the King waiting to receive his guests.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said.

Legolas leaned down to Gimli’s ear. “I shall treasure this night,” he whispered.

Gimli grunted. “You and me both, my friend,” he agreed and led the way out of the house, the others trailing after. This would be a night none of them would soon forget.

To be continued…
 

GF 8/16/09
Published 9/14/09

Chapter 27 – Dancing and Romancing

Aragorn had a bad feeling when he noticed the hobbits enter the hall in company of four lovely ladies, none of whom he had ever seen at court before. That bad feeling became an omen when the hobbits spotted him and began guiding the ladies towards him. They reached him and his companions within a few moments. The hobbits nodded to Faramir and Imrahil but their attention was on Aragorn. For their part, the ladies couldn’t seem to settle on any one thing and were glancing around the hall and the people there with looks of wonder, joy and amazed disbelief. Only when the hobbits began the introductions did they pull their attention forward to look upon the king.

“Good evening, Strider,” Frodo said with a toothy hobbit grin and an expression of pure innocence. “We wanted to introduce our companions to you. This is the first time they’ve ever been to a ball and they were most excited to meet you.”

“Scared is more like it, but we promised them you don’t bite,” Pippin quipped. The ladies giggled nervously. “Strider, Faramir, Imrahil, this is the lovely Miss Laine, daughter of Mardin.”

Laine curtsied, a blush on her fair face. The men bowed courteously. “Your servant, Miss,” they said.

Merry went next. “Good sirs, this is Miss Isolda, daughter of Mardin.”

Isolda was a few inches shorter than her sister and her face was more rounded, but that was where the differences ended. Both ladies had long raven hair that fell loosely down their backs and smoky grey eyes that shined with excitement. Isolda curtsied in her turn, blushing even more than her sister had. Aragorn guessed that she was perhaps the younger of the two.

Sam took his companion’s hand and held it through the introductions. “Miss Esti, daughter of Tovar, this is Prince Imrahil, Prince Faramir and Strider, the King Elessar.”

Esti appeared to be the youngest of the four and certainly the most nervous. She clutched onto Sam’s hand as she curtsied and held her breath until the men returned the favor. Her dark brown hair was pulled back at the temples with combs shaped like doves. Her blue eyes lingered over Aragorn in adoration.

Frodo went last. “May I introduce Miss Marja, daughter of Orphendel.”

Marja faired better with the introductions that the other ladies. She executed her curtsy with aplomb. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highnesses,” she said in a soft, lilting voice. She wore a butterfly comb with trailing beads that sat against her dark hair, and her silver eyes sparkled as she held out her hand for the king to take.

Aragorn, having no other choice, took it and kissed it lightly.

“The pheriannath have told us so much about you,” Marja continued. “We look forward to getting to know you better.”

Pippin cleared his throat and looked at Faramir pointedly. Faramir gave the slightest of nods. “Oh look,” he said suddenly to Imrahil, “there is Lord Amlich. We should approach him and find out how go the preparations for the last refugees.” He pulled Imrahil after him, departing before Aragorn could think of some reason for them to stay.

Aragorn’s suspicions grew. His foster brothers had warned him the hobbits were up to something, but neither had known what that may be. Looking at these four ladies, all with a striking resemblance to his betrothed, Aragorn thought he could guess. Perhaps Gandalf was right and he should have told the hobbits about Arwen.

“These lovely ladies work as bar wenches at The Peeking Eagle,” Merry announced. “They were worried you would look down on them for that, but we assured them you would not.”

“I have heard many fine things of the establishment,” Aragorn said. “I had some of the ale delivered for tonight’s festivities. It is a marvelous brew.”

“We only serve it, Your Highness,” said Esti, clearly not interested in discussion of hops. She smiled sweetly. “Though we are pleased that you enjoy it.”

“Your pleasure is of the utmost importance to us,” purred Marja.

“The ladies have all sorts of questions they wanted to ask you, Strider,” Merry continued, still smiling innocently. “I assured them you are a kind and patient king, and you’d be more than willing to give them a good chat and perhaps a dance or two. We leave them in your capable hands.” Then the hobbits too departed swiftly.

Before he knew it, Aragorn found himself alone with the four ladies. They were watching him expectantly, and despite their bold words while the hobbits had been present, there was an anxious look in each of their eyes. Aragorn knew how they felt, and his own discomfort wasn’t helped when he noticed that they all wore dresses that generously displayed their womanly attributes. He cleared his throat and promised to strangle the hobbits – and Faramir – at the first available opportunity.

“Tell us, Your Majesty, if you will,” said Marja. “Do you enjoy living in the city? Is it what you imagined?”

“I have been here before, years ago,” Aragorn said, “but it is not entirely as I remember it.”

“For truth, the city is quite banged up,” said Esti, frowning. She seemed ready to say something else but thankfully couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Isolda patted her arm. “She was one of the first to return after the war. At least when we came back, some of the rubble had been cleared away. But the Gates. That was a shock, seeing them like that.”

“Did you ladies grow up here in the city?” Aragorn asked.

“Only Isolda and I,” said Laine. She smiled sweetly. “We know all the ways of the city, all the paths and all its secrets.”

“We could give you a tour sometime,” said Isolda in a sultry voice. “We can show you places no one else knows.”

“That I do not doubt, but I enjoy discovering the ways of the city on my own,” Aragorn said. “It is much like scouting through the wilds and unfamiliar terrain.”

“A very apt description, Your Majesty,” said Marja, batting her eyes. “We’ve heard that you’re a master scout. If there is any man capable of taming our wilds, it would be you.”

Aragorn forced a grin. Frodo had warned him Merry was close to solving the riddle Sam had uncovered. Frodo had said to beware Merry’s retribution, but it was apparent that all the hobbits had decided to participate. Why couldn’t they have just streaked through the ball to seek their revenge? But Aragorn already knew that answer. For that to be proper revenge, they would have had to somehow trick Aragorn into streaking. As they clearly couldn’t do that, they had chosen the next best thing.

He really should have listened to Gandalf.

“Ladies, I appreciate your interest, but tell me truthfully. Did the hobbits put you up to this?” he asked.

They nodded. “They did. Are you upset?” Esti asked, looking worried.

“Only at myself,” Aragorn answered. “I suspect they are paying me back for keeping a secret from them. I will be more than glad to share a dance with each of you after the ceremony. For now, there is food and drink aplenty. Eat and enjoy yourselves.”

“Sir Peregrin said you might try to get rid of us,” said Isolda. The ladies were no longer behaving seductively, thank the stars, but they didn’t look ready to leave his side either. “He said we were to stick by you no matter what you said. They all say you’re lonely. We’ll keep you company.”

“That is kind, but not necessary,” said Aragorn.

“This is a ball, Your Majesty,” said Marja. “You can spend the night with the four of us, or with every other lady in the hall, and all their single daughters.”

“You make a worthy point,” said Aragorn. “In that case, go and find yourselves something to eat and join me at the High Table. You can meet my foster brothers and get a better view of the festivities.”

“You are most generous, Your Majesty,” said Esti. They curtsied just as a bell rang. 

The hall fell into silence for a moment of reverence as everyone looked out the western windows to the setting sun. Then servants entered the hall, carrying trays of food that were placed upon the many tables. 

Esti and her friends excused themselves and went to the nearest table. They were ravenous and more than curious about the Haradrim food of which they had heard so much over the last two weeks. And now they would meet the king’s elf brothers and dine at the High Table!

“Wait a moment,” said Isolda, looking around the hall at all the lords, ladies and other guests. The hall was so full that at first she had not noticed, but now… “Where are the Haradrim?”  

Word had traveled quickly through the city of the young lords called upon to participate in the night’s festivities. By the time the Fellowship and their guests reached Merethrond, speculation had reached its pinnacle. The hall was abuzz with rumor and intrigue as everyone attempted to solve this most compelling of mysteries. After the hobbits left their guests with Aragorn, they joined Gimli, Legolas and Gandalf in their efforts to stanch what worries they could.

“Called out of a meeting with Lord Devorin, he was,” said Sir Anron of his nephew, Lord Alcaron. “They wouldn’t even tell his father what it was about.”

“There are times when such secrecy is required,” said Legolas. “I would not be alarmed, as you will soon be seeing for yourself the result of this intrigue.”

“He was still slumbering,” Lady Elainel said of her son, Lord Dairmir. “He was out late and did not return home until after midnight. He’s not an early riser on his best days, and they wouldn’t even allow him time to get dressed! It was most alarming.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Pippin reassured her. “I understand it to be a great honor to be asked to participate in this particular ritual.” That he didn’t know what the ritual entailed seemed hardly worth mentioning.

“They drink blood in some of their ceremonies, I’ve heard,” said Sir Indor from Ringló Vale.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Gandalf advised, with a glance around the hall. “Too often do people speak when they know nothing at all.”

“It’s a ceremony of some sort, that’s all I know,” Gimli told Lord Duinhir, whose young nephew, Lord Dagnir, was one of the participants. Duinhir had lost both his sons in the Battle of the Pelennor and so was feeling especially concerned about his nephew's participation in this supposed ceremony.

“Ceremony. What sort I wonder. I do hope he won’t be expected to sing,” said Lord Duinhir, trying to make light of the situation, for all the worry in his eyes. “That boy couldn’t carry a tune to save his life.”

Frodo and Sam found the bards, but none of them knew anything either. “We were told to warm up in our homes,” said Radigis. “I do know the young lords were in the dressing room for hours, longer than they spent learning their part in the festivities for tonight.”

“How do you know this?” Frodo asked.

“My wife was helping to prepare the stage while they were rehearsing. It is some sort of dance. That is all she dared tell me.”

The women were concerned with other matters entirely. “Do you think the young lords will be wearing the same outfits that the savage men wore for the welcoming feast?” Mistress Isilmë asked, fanning herself in anticipation.

“How scandalous!” her maid declared, looking equally hopeful. “They were hardly wearing anything at all!”

“Lord Alcaron would look quite fetching in that little kilt,” said young Lady Inzilbêth. “Perhaps if I like what I see, I will consent to marry him.”

Legolas overheard this on his way back to Gimli. He leaned down to whisper in his friend’s ear. “Can you believe this? And with their husbands and fathers just a few feet away.”

“That is nothing,” Gimli said. “Dwarf women have tongues that would shock a harlot. Speaking of harlots…”

Legolas followed Gimli’s gaze to where the four bar wenches had rejoined Aragorn. The wenches had passed over the little doilies the other ladies were using for their dainties in favor of small plates piled high with a sample of each of the dishes provided.

“So this city does have women who know how to eat!” exclaimed Gimli with admiration.

“Perhaps we should go rescue him,” Legolas said.

“Don’t you dare!” Frodo said, coming to join them.

“You planned this together, did you?” Gimli asked.

“We did,” Pippin admitted, joining them also. “Someone needed to call his bluff, but as he wanted to be all secretive about it, we couldn’t simply tell him that we knew.”

“Why not?” asked Legolas.

“That wouldn’t be as much fun,” Pippin said.

“Thanks to Sam, we were able to find a roundabout way of telling him that his ruse was spoilt,” Frodo said and beamed at his friend.

“This was your idea?” Gandalf asked, turning to join their conversation as well. He raised a bushy eyebrow at Sam.

Sam blushed. “No, it weren’t exactly.”

“It was so! Well, yours and Merry’s,” Pippin said. “We couldn’t figure out why Strider just didn’t tell us. Then Sam said, ‘well, maybe he’s just lonely and talking about it would make him lonelier,’ to which Merry said, ‘how can he be lonely with all of us here?’ Then Sam said, ‘he’s lonely for a lass’s company,’ to which Merry replied, ‘well, I wanted to give him a lass’s company until you talked me out of it.’ So that’s when Frodo decided that Merry and I should go and find him some female companionship, and now he has four dark beauties to entertain him through the night.”

“For the feast only, of course,” Frodo amended, catching Legolas’s alarmed look. “They’ve been told this is merely a jest. They were somewhat scandalized at the idea of playing a jest on the king, but what lass can resist the prospect of dressing up and attending a royal ball?”  

The Haradrim appeared two hours into the ball. The wide double doors to the hall opened and the entire royal court entered, lead by their queen and king. The vizier and prince followed, and behind them were their attendants, the translators Soroush and Ashtir, the queen’s ladies-in-waiting and lastly the dancers and musicians with their drums and sitars. They filed into the hall in a double-lined procession that seemed never to end. When finally the last of them had entered, the doors were closed behind them and half the candles were extinguished, plunging the hall into semi-darkness.

The court went onto the stage and sat at the High Table, while the dancers and musicians formed two circles in the middle of the floor. The musicians formed the inner circle, sitting down on pillows that they had carried in with them. The dancers formed the outer circle, and this time both men and women were included, seven of each.

The ladies wore dance dresses with long, wide sleeves and skirts. The dresses alternated between burgundy and sky blue, with the lead dancer in red-orange. Wide trim of white lace decorated the hems and white lace was sewn into strange patterns up the sleeves and skirts. The bodice was a block of fabric, a shade darker than the dress, with lace and beads embroidered in four sections of square or chevron patterns. Over their heads were scarves matching their dresses, held in place by beaded circlets, and their feet were bare.

The men all wore beige kilts down to their knees, decorated with a simple belt, beaded the same as the ladies’ scarves. They wore closed vests that matched the patterns and colors on the ladies’ dresses, and tribal paint decorated their arms, legs and shaved heads. They stood in a line behind the ladies, waiting for the music to begin.

“Where is my son?” asked Lady Elainel.

“I don’t see my nephew,” said Lord Duinhir.

“Where’s Osric?” asked Wulf. “I thought he was supposed to be part of this.”

“I don’t know,” Merry said, looking around. “I don’t see any of the Gondorian lords either.”

“I think that’s them,” Sam said, pointing at the male dancers.

“Impossible. Osie has hair,” said Penda, then gasped. He blinked and looked again, squinting at the dancers to be sure. “By Hammerhand, that is him!”

“No, it can’t be,” said Ecgberht but his protest trailed off as he too looked closer at the third dancer. “They shaved his head?” he asked in horror, running a hand through his own locks to ensure himself they were still there.

“I don’t believe it,” said Wulf.

“He’s not paired with Jamila,” Pippin said, for Jamila stood in the center, wearing the red-orange dress. Behind her stood Lord Alcaron, looking more than uncomfortable. In fact, all the men looked both ready to bolt and determined to play their parts, but the determination was slowly giving way to their desire to flee as more people around the hall made the same realizations.

“Aragorn said a sacrifice would be required,” Gandalf said. “It is a small one and reasonable.”

Ecgberht looked ready to protest this when he thought better of arguing with the White Wizard and closed his mouth.

Everyone was so excited and appalled with their discovery of the identity of the seven male dancers, that they at first didn’t notice when the tombak players began to tap out a fast beat. Each drummer played a different beat, one layering on top of another, until the rhythm filled the air and became a pulse within each person, stronger than a heartbeat.

The ladies began to move, a quick and cheerful dance of intricate arm movements and hand claps. They stepped out of their positions and danced in a circle around the men. When they reached their partners again, the men joined the dance, echoing the women's movements but at a distance of an arm’s length. The third time around, the two lines drew in closer together and with each pass the distance between them narrowed more until on the sixth pass they were nearly touching. On the seventh pass, the line merged. The dancers were now a hand’s width away from each other and still they did not touch. Everyone watching held their breath’s, certain the next step would meet with a stumble, a slip of the foot, a turn taken too soon. The seventh pass ended and the dancers collapsed, the women falling to the right, the men to the left, and the music stopped.

Then a setar player began plucking out an intricate rhythm, and Jamila and Lord Alcaron rose to their feet and began a simple pairs dance, their hands coming within inches of touching but never making contact. As they finished their first pattern, a second couple rose from the floor to join them, then the third and so on until all seven couples were up, dancing in a starburst pattern.

The setar dropped away and a pair of ney flutes and a kamancheh began to play in soft, sultry tones. The couples separated into lines, which slowly drew into circles. Now the dance, before happy and carefree, became seductive, the women on the inside of the circle stepping in and out between the men in the outer circle, daring them to touch. The men’s dance grew more aggressive with each passing, reaching out, playing with the temptation, hands brushing against fabric, mere inches from skin.

By the time the seventh pass ended and the dancers slid to the ground in the traditional bow to the queen and king, the whole hall was transfixed with bated breath. The audience erupted into enthusiastic applause. The queen and king bowed their heads, indicating their satisfaction with the performance. The Haradrim performers rose to their feet with expert ease, the Gondorians and Osric with less finesse.

Wulf and Penda whooped over the din of the applause, drawing Osric’s attention. He nodded to them but pointed to the musicians and dancers who were making their way towards the stage. He was not yet released of his duty. He followed the Gondorian lords onto the stage and managed to claim a spot near Jamila at the stage’s edge. They all sat tailor-fashion on pillows provided there as food and drink were brought to them by the queen’s servants. Meanwhile, servants went around the hall, relighting the extinguished candles.

“Well, that was unexpected,” said Sam. “I liked that!”

“It was quite riveting,” Frodo agreed.

“I didn’t think Osie had it in him,” said Wulf in wonder. “But his hair…”

“That’s going to take years to grow back out,” Cuthred said with immense sympathy.

Merry frowned. “Poor lad. Is he at least already courting a lass?”

Wulf shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. No lass will want him now.”

“Surely it won’t be so tragic as all that. It’s only hair,” Pippin said.

“You’ve never had your foot shaved,” Sam said, thinking of the time he had sprained his ankle. The healer had been wise to give him a sleeping draught before shaving his foot hair in preparation for the cast, but what a shock that had been when the cast was at last removed!

Penda gasped in sudden horror. “I do hope that is tribal paint and not a tattoo.”

“It would be impossible to do that much detail work in seven hours,” Wulf reasoned, but shuddered none the less. “I wonder how long it takes for that come off.”

“Too long, I wager,” said Ecgberht.

“How much are you willing to bet?” asked Wulf.

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Come on, lads,” he said to his cousins and Sam. “Let’s see how Strider is faring with his lasses.”

They reached the High Table as the Citadel minstrels took the stage and began playing, encouraging everyone to dance. Pippin and Merry sat directly across from Strider and grinned. “So, don’t you owe these ladies a dance?” they asked in unison.

“I do, but first they wish to dance with you,” Aragorn said with a sly grin. “They are your guests after all, and they don’t mind about the height difference.”

The ladies rose and circled the table to stand beside the hobbits. Sam looked up at his guest and sighed. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he muttered, then offered his arm to Esti. At least word of this would never reach the Shire – or Rosie, if Merry and Pippin knew what was good for them.

To be continued…

GF 8/24/09
Published 9/21/09

Chapter 28 – Soirées and Mores

Aragorn watched with satisfaction as the hobbits led the ladies back to the floor. The song currently being performed was a sprightly tune, but the dance was simple, perfect for the hobbits. They had learned it at their first feast here and quite enjoyed it, as it was the same ten or so steps over and over again, performed once in each direction, and it didn’t require direct contact with anyone else. They shied away from the line dances, as they didn’t have the height to do them correctly, and they didn’t even bother with the ones that required the lass to be dipped or lifted in any way. Unfortunately, the next song was for just such a dance.

Frodo thought quickly. “Would you like to learn the Springle-ring?” he asked Marja.

“What is that?” she asked, intrigued.

The music was fast enough to merit the dance, so they went into a corner out of the way and began to teach their companions the Springle-ring. Their companions’ laughter drew the attention of those around them, and soon more and more people were watching and attempting the vigorous dance. They enjoyed learning it so much that once they had performed it successfully a couple of times, Merry and Pippin decided to teach them other dances as Frodo and Sam snuck back to the High Table for a mug of beer.

“It is safe to say Gondor will never be the same for having known hobbits,” Faramir said with a laugh.

“That it won’t,” Sam agreed. “Especially those two hobbits.” Everyone laughed at that.

Frodo winked at Aragorn. “Don’t think you’re free of your obligation, Strider. We’ll push you off this stage if we must, but you are going to dance with our guests. It was all they were able to talk about on their way here. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“Indeed not,” Aragorn agreed and rose to his feet. “There’s no time like the present.” He, Elrohir, Elladan and Faramir joined the others on the floor.

Frodo and Sam turned to watch and shout encouragement, until their food was brought to them. They turned their attention to their meal, eating heartily. After only a few bites, Frodo stopped and reached over to correct Sam’s grip on his fork. Sam always used his utensils as miniature trowels, digging into his food the same way he dug in the gardens of Bag End. Frodo placed Sam’s fingers into the correct position and nodded. At Sam’s bewildered look, Frodo explained, “That is how a gentlehobbit holds his fork.”

Sam’s frown grew. “I ain’t a gentlehobbit though, sir,” he said.

“Humor me,” Frodo requested, knowing that was the quickest way to gain his friend’s compliance. Trying to explain would only garner more questions.

Sam shrugged and commenced eating, somewhat awkwardly now as he was still attempting to shovel the food into his mouth.

Frodo shook his head. “Scoop up the food or spear it,” he instructed and demonstrated. “When you get to crumbs on the plate, use your bread, not your fingers, to push the food onto the fork or spoon.”

Sam nodded. “Very well, sir, if you say so,” he said, looking even more baffled than before. He proceeded to eat, watching his master sidelong for further prompts.

Frodo noticed Farzana watching him. She smiled graciously before returning her attention to her maids, Jamila in particular. The other maids were listening to the music with apt attention or talking to each other. Every now and then, one of the Gondorian lords would attempt to break into the conversation, resulting in a flurry of hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions as everyone tried to pantomime their meaning. Not so with the pretty dancer and the horse lord. Osric even seemed to forget that he was shaved, painted and wearing a kilt, so long as he could get Jamila to laugh and smile.

Farzana frowned at the pair as they spoke with ease, despite the language barrier. After some time, she leaned over to speak quietly with Faheem. The vizier looked startled by whatever she was saying but he nodded and began to speak with much consideration. Beside him, King Ashrif abruptly ceased his conversation with his son and they both turned to listen to the queen and vizier.

Frodo watched this with interest. Apparently, he was not the only one giving thought to his servant’s future.  

The dancing and merriment went on for some hours. Once Pippin and Merry finished their dance lessons, Elrohir and Elladan were called upon to teach an Elven dance or two, and the bar wenches finally got to dance with the king, his brothers and the steward. Pippin and Merry joined their friends at the High Table, and once they all had their fill, they rejoined the festivities with alacrity.

Midnight was approaching before Osric and the young lords were given leave to join the festivities. The men were at once surrounded by their families and friends. The Riders and hobbits encircled Osric, who laughed.

“I feel as though I am under interrogation,” he said. “All you’re missing are the spears.”

“What did they do to you?” Ecgberht asked.

Up close, Osric looked less like a Haradrim and more like a wild man of Woses. The paint on his flesh had been thickly applied and under the candlelight and firelight seemed to dance along his arms and legs.

“How did this happen?” Wulf asked, leaning in close to observe the shaved head.

“Lord Erkenbrand told me to come here and do as I was told without protest or question, so I did,” Osric said. “We learned the dance first. They had us practice without the ladies until they were satisfied that we could remember all the steps and not stumble. We only rehearsed the dance with them twice. I was hoping I would be paired with Jamila, but none of us were paired with the same woman who approached us last night.”

“The temptation would have been too great,” guessed Cuthred.

Osric nodded. “They are all beautiful ladies, and to think they’ve never once been touched by any man’s hand. They explained that to us, but I didn’t quite understand it. Something about purity of virtue in order to serve the queen. To touch them is to defile not only them but the queen herself. It is a punishable offense.”

“They cut off your hand?” Pippin guessed, with a glance at Soroush. Of course, they knew now the real reason the translator lost his hand, but the warning carried no less horror for it.

“It depends on the nature of the offense, whether it was intentional or by accident, to do harm or to prevent harm, but no matter what the purpose, no man is allowed to touch one of the queen’s maids. They are all punished, except the eunuchs, who aren’t considered to be men,” Osric said. He paused as he tried to remember the brief lesson they were given prior to being paired with the women. “Some men, if the offense results in violence, are even sentenced to death. Ashtir said that the Haradrim have two different levels of death: death by society and death by earth. With death by society, the offender is cast out of the House and all its lands and is no longer recognized as living by any who dwell there. Death by earth is what we consider death.”

“So when the man is sentenced to death?” Cuthred asked.

“It depends on the severity of the violence done,” Osric explained. “Ashtir didn’t know of any cases while he lived in Harad. It is a rare occurrence, since the maids are often accompanied by eunuchs or other female slaves when they go into the city. Usually, it is an accident.”

“What of the lass?” asked Merry. “Would she still be able to work for the queen?”

“Not as a personal body servant,” Osric said. “She may be assigned to some other task or sold to another master. If she instigated the contact though…” He trailed off and said no more on the subject.

“How does your head feel?” Frodo asked, sensing it was time to change the subject.

“I can’t believe you didn’t protest when they did that,” said Penda, joining Wulf in his scrutiny.

“It was a shock, I’ll admit!” Osric said. “After rehearsal, the ladies left to prepare and we were taken backstage to the dressing area. They had us sit down and when they brought out the shears, I thought they only meant to give us a trim. When that first lock was butchered off, it was everything I could do to not cry like a child! You do not realize how important your hair is until someone is ruthlessly removing it! They cut it to about an inch or so, then shaved off the rest. If we thought our torment was over at that point, we were wrong. They then proceeded to shave our arms, legs and… everything else.”

“Everything else?” Wulf asked in horror.

Osric could only nod. “We were then scrubbed head to toe with this foam that was quite invigorating actually. It felt like my skin was coming to life, if that makes any sense. Anyway, that is the only way I can describe it. Then they dumped water over us and scrubbed us with a different soap, and we were doused again. Apparently, this was to remove the taint of male impurity, so in case we did accidentally touch one of the maids during the dance, we wouldn’t have to lose our hands over it. Then they painted us with these symbols, which are supposed to bring forth good luck, and finally they dressed us.”

“Who’s they?” Sam asked.

Osric blushed. “Other servants of the household.”

“They know you pretty well by now then,” Wulf said with an evil grin.

Osric’s blush deepened. “I imagine they do, but thankfully, they will be leaving in the morning.”

“Does this paint wash off?” Offa asked.

“They assure us it will fade with time, about a moon’s turning,” Osric said. “Until it is completely faded, we are to remain pure of female contact.”

Wulf barked with laughter. “All this for talking to a girl and walking her home?”

“The dance is called the Dance of Life. It’s supposed to bring good luck to any tribe or people who perform it. The dancers who participate are said to receive the best luck of all, which is why it is considered such a high honor to be chosen to perform it. It is one of the very few dances that men perform,” Osric said. “I don’t know about luck, but it is important to the queen, and therefore to King Elessar and King Éomer. It has sealed our alliance. If I must shave every hair on my body and avoid women for a moon in order to ensure the future of our three kingdoms, I will proudly do so.”

“Then you’re a better man than I am,” Wulf said. “All this trouble, I’d at least expect a kiss.”

“I cannot have Jamila, even if it were possible,” Osric said with a sigh. “She is leaving in the morning and I shall never see her again.”

“Take heart, man,” said Offa, patting Osric on the back. “We do still have women in Rohan. Some of them even know how to dance.”

“What you need is a couple of pints,” Ecgberht said. “That will make you feel better.”

“The Haradrim don’t drink,” Osric said with another sigh. “I’m considered theirs until the paint fades.”

Wulf whistled consolingly. “Poor Osie. You look like a wild man, you didn’t get the girl, and you can’t even drown your sorrows over it. When is this good luck of yours supposed to start?”

“You’re thinking up puns right now, aren’t you?” Merry said with a grin.

“I am indeed, Master Holdwine,” Wulf admitted.

“If you all don’t mind, I think I’ll just head on home,” Osric said with a yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night and if I remain here much longer, I’m going to end up asleep in the punch bowl.”

“We’ll see you in the morning then,” Ecgberht said and they watched him walk off.

The hobbits wandered off to the drinks table, intent on enjoying a pint or two in Osric’s honor. They filled their cups and went to stand along the side of the hall, away from the traffic and noise. They were each growing tired as well, but none were yet ready to leave. They watched the revelers dancing and chatting. Aragorn, his brothers and Faramir had retreated to the safety of the High Table again, but were still in company of the bar wenches. The ladies were telling them a humorous story, for the men and elves were laughing heartily.

“Do you think it’s true, sir?” Sam asked Frodo after some time.

“About what?”

“Will Osric and the other chaps have good luck for this?”

“I don’t know,” Frodo said and was suddenly reminded of something the queen had said to him the day before. “Luck is a fickle thing, but if one could call Luck to them, perhaps it can be tamed. Would it still be Luck then?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, sir,” Sam said. “Luck is what you make of it, as my dad always says. I was just thinking that if being in the dance makes them believe as they’ll be lucky, maybe that’s all it takes.”

“We shall see, lad. We shall see.”  

The ball ended at one in the morning and the revelers dispersed with much regret. The night had been grand in every way imaginable and it would be a celebration much spoken of for many years to come. The royal court of the Haradrim returned to their homes in the Citadel and prepared for the few hours of sleep they had left to them before they must wake and depart the city.

When everyone was ready to settle in for the remainder of the night, Sultana Farzana entered her maids’ chamber. So great was their surprise that it took them some moments to jump from their beds and kowtow upon the floor. It took even greater effort to remain awake once they were there.

Farzana walked up to Jamila and nudged her with her foot. “Stand,” the sultana commanded.

Jamila stood, bewildered and startled by the hardness in her sultana’s voice. She had heard that tone before, but never directed at herself. She kept her head lowered, her eyes on the ground at Farzana’s feet as her mind reeled. What could she have done to displease her sultana so?

“I watched you tonight with the Rider,” Farzana said. “You disappoint me, Jamila.”

“My sultana?” Jamila asked.

“You allowed him to touch you.”

Jamila began to tremble with fear. She shook her head, her ears buzzing with her disbelief. “I did not, my sultana. I swear it! I remain untouched.”

“There is more than one way for a man to touch you, my dear,” said Farzana and placed a slender hand over Jamila’s heart. It felt like a block of marble upon the maid’s chest and it was cold with disappointment. “I told you it was not yours to give.”

Jamila began to weep and her knees weakened, sinking her to the floor. “I did not mean to, my sultana. I love only you, my sultana.”

“You love the Rider,” Farzana stated in a whisper. “Admit it and perhaps I may be lenient.”

There was no chance now of anyone falling asleep. The other maids held themselves as still as stone, in contrast with Jamila, who trembled so badly surely the ground was breaking beneath her. Her friends risked sidelong glances at each other. They knew the fine line Jamila had just been asked to walk. Deny the claim and her life was forfeit. Admit it, and if the sultana felt generous, perhaps she might only be banned from the House, which was no kinder a sentence. Jamila, as with all the maids, had only known life in the palace. They knew nothing else, were raised only to please the sultana and do her bidding, to dance for her and entertain her with their charms and grace. Their prospects outside the palace walls were not to be thought.

“Speak!” Farzana demanded.

Jamila sobbed. “I do! I love him!” she admitted. She looked up at her sultana, and pleaded. “I beg you, show mercy. I did not mean to do it! I love you, my queen. I have served only you. You are as a mother to me.”

“And you are as a daughter to me,” Farzana said. Her voice was calm and soft, but her eyes were full of anguish. “I will be sorry to lose you, my daughter, but lose you I must. You are henceforth banned from the House of the Moon. You will remain here and be given to the sultan, Éomer. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you may be given in marriage to the one you love. I have been assured he is not yet betrothed or married and would be receptive to the offer of your hand. It is clear he feels greatly for you. If, however, he refuses you, I am told the king is a just man and not cruel.” She reached down and wiped the tears from her maid’s face. “Fear not, child. There are worse fates than this.”

Shadows moved behind the sultana. The other maids looked up in time to see two eunuchs enter the chamber. The maids watched in amazement as the eunuchs came to stand behind the sultana. None of them could believe what was happening. Surely, this must be a dream.

“Take her. Be gentle,” Farzana ordered.

The eunuchs circled the sultana and took either of Jamila’s arms in a gentle grip. They helped her to her feet and supported her weight, for the maid was trembling so badly she could not stand on her own. The tears streaming down her face obscured her vision so much that her last glimpse of the maids who had been her sisters for so many years was nothing more than a blur. The eunuchs took her from the room. Halfway down the hall, she fell into a swoon and all faded to blackness.  

The morning of the Haradrim’s departure dawned cool and grey. Many of the citizens came to the Gates to see their visitors on their journey home, including many of the soldiers and masons who had worked with the Southrons in the past weeks. The King and his court and the First Company of the Guard of Tower, the Fellowship and the Rohirrim joined the Haradrim on their long descent down the circles of the city to the Gate, where their horses, wains and goods already awaited them. They walked casually, the groups mingling into one, guards walking with maids, attendants with lords, royalty with commoners.

When they passed through the gate to the fourth circle, Razeena, Soroush and Ashtir approached the hobbits. Razeena held a small bundle of parchments, rolled together and bound with a string. She bowed her pretty head to them. “I was most distressed that I was unable to teach you our way of cooking,” she said. “I would have enjoyed the teaching of you, but the opportunity did not arise.”

“We are sorry as well,” Frodo said, taking her hand to squeeze it gently. “There was simply not enough time. We understand.”

“I wrote down the recipes,” Razeena said. “Or rather, my husband wrote them down for me.”

“I converted the measurements as best as I could guess them to be,” Soroush said. “You may have to experiment until the food tastes right to you. We put together a bundle of the more common spices and herbs that are not available here. Receipts are not of much good when you don’t have the ingredients.”

Razeena gave the scrolls to Frodo, and Soroush handed the satchel to Sam.

“Thank you!” Sam said.

“Are you sorry you will not be able to return home to your family, Soroush?” Pippin asked.

“I am returning home to my family,” Soroush answered before he understood Pippin’s meaning. “My family here in Gondor, you mean. I would have loved dearly to see them again, yet there is always the hope that Ashtir — Sador, I mean; I shall have to get used to calling him by his Westron name again — may be able to bring them to Harad some day during one of his ambassadorial visits. For now, I shall have to content myself with knowing that Sador will carry news of my fate to my kin at last. I wrote letters for them all and included little trinkets, as well as a coal drawing of my family.”

“They will be glad for the news after all these years,” said Frodo.

“It is unfortunate that Ioveta couldn’t have any such reassurance,” said Merry.

“Who is Ioveta?” asked Ashtir.

“A friend of ours,” Pippin answered. “Her husband Leudred disappeared five years ago, killed or taken prisoner by the enemy. Yet perhaps he could have found refuge much as you did.”

“That name was not on the list of refugees,” Soroush said. “Five years ago you say. Where did the attack take place?”

“In Harondor, between the Harad Road and the Ephel Dúath,” Merry said. “They were attacked at night.”

“Yes, they would have been,” Ashtir said. “The Great Eye began to move troops into his lands ten years ago, just a few large companies a year, such as the one that thwarted our company, and a handful of smaller bands throughout the year. They marched only at night, for they moved in secrecy then. There were survivors then? They could not tell you if any prisoners were taken?”

“A small scouting party went to look for them when they never returned. They found the place where the party had camped and could see signs of a fight and the remnants of a large fire, but that is all,” Merry said. "The few who had managed to escape had not seen the end of the attack, so could offer little more details."

“Your people would not have been involved in that, would they?” Frodo asked.

Soroush shook his head. “Not at that time. The Enemy was not yet raiding our lands for troops.”

“Nor would any of the troops moving at that time have bothered themselves with prisoners,” said Ashtir. “Unless there was a general in the troop, someone whose knowledge would prove useful to the Eye, all the men would have been slain and swiftly; they could not have afforded to stop for a long engagement. Their bodies would have been cremated in the custom of our people. You may tell your friend this, for whatever comfort it may bring her, and give her our condolences.”

“We will tell her,” Pippin said, “though I doubt it will bring her comfort, except to at last be certain of his fate.”

They were joined then by Amir Shahzad, who beamed down at the hobbits and handed them a small parcel. Frodo took this and pulled back the cloth-wrapping to reveal a most unusual treasure trove. There were two roughly cylinder-shaped pendants, encased on either end with gold and hung on a chain of gold. The pendants were made of granite and chiseled on the small surface was an outline of a beetle. Next to the pendants was a small knife with a handle inlaid with citrines and lapis lazuri.

“This is a scarab beetle,” Ashtir translated for the prince. “It has the power of life and rebirth after death. I wish for the Ring-bearers to have these, if they will accept so humble an offering. The knife is for the Holdwine, who I am told lost his sword when helping to slay the Witch-King.”

The hobbits looked at the pendants with interest and Sam reached out a tentative finger to graze one. Merry took the knife, small enough for his hand, and tested the grip of the handle. He nodded with approval.

“Thank you,” they said.

Shahzad bowed his head. “I much enjoyed meeting the descendants of the beloved Hildos. I will forever remember you and will believe now that many of the great tales are true. I wish you a safe journey to your own lands, and be assured that if we should find your ancestor’s journal, it will be returned to you with all speed and affection.”

Frodo smiled now and took Shahzad’s hand. “Thank you, lad. We were glad to have met you also and will carry you and your family in our hearts.”

Shahzad blushed and fell in beside them.

Near the front of the procession, the Riders walked in a group. Osric craned his neck to get a better look at the queen’s maids, who were walking some paces behind the queen and king. There were seven maids, as there should be, and their heads and faces were covered with their shawls, so that only their eyes could be seen. Osric looked at each of them and shook his head.

“I don’t see Jamila,” he said.

“How can you tell?” asked Ceorl, looking at his friend rather than the maids. The shock of seeing his friend shaved and painted with savage symbols was beginning to fade, but the sight was still beyond belief.

“I was hoping to at least be able to say good-bye,” said Osric, searching the vast crowd for the dancer.

“Forget about her,” Erkenbrand advised. “I will be sorry to see their horses go, such fine and magnificent beasts they are.”

Discussion quickly switched to the many admirable traits of the sturdy desert horses, but Osric ignored his friends and continued his vain search. Let Ceorl say what he liked, but Osric knew Jamila was not among the maids. Where then was she? Was she already waiting with the caravan, not trusted to come too close to him? Would he be denied even one final glimpse of her?

When the procession reached the Gates, the Haradrim separated from the group and filed out onto the Pelennor amongst a chorus of farewells. Soroush and Razeena hugged Ashtir in brief farewell; they had said their good-byes earlier in the privacy of their rooms. Farzana, Ashraf and Shahzad faced Aragorn, Faramir and Erkenbrand.

“Gifts we have given you, one of your own returned, a first among many, and a sun among citrine,” said King Ashraf through Soroush. “Both are given freely, though their worth is beyond measure. Honor them well and they will bring you much wealth of heart.”

Erkenbrand inclined his head. “I am certain that they will.”

“What’s a citrine?” Sam asked in a whisper.

“The yellow gemstone on Merry’s knife,” Ashtir informed him.

“They gave King Éomer a jewel?” Pippin asked. “Why is that so invaluable?”

“Because to the queen it is worth more than all the gems and gold in Gondor and Rohan,” Ashtir said.

Aragorn stepped forward and bowed to Farzana and Ashraf. “We accept your gifts and give one of our own in return: aid in battle for the freedom of your people and the continued peace of ours. Your enemies are not only my enemies, but my ancestors of old. Dishonor they have brought to our forebears and I am honor-bound to redeem the Faithful of my own House. Will you deny me?”

The queen drew herself up and met Aragorn’s gaze, cold violet sparring with warm blue. At last Farzana nodded and spoke in her clear, commanding voice. Soroush translated for her, “Your gift is accepted, King Elessar, but do not confuse honor with obligation. I fear it will bode ill for us both if your armies should march upon my lands, yet perhaps I am wrong. That has happened, once or twice.” She and Ashraf bowed. “Farewell, Friend Gondor and Friend Rohan.”

“Farewell Friend Harad,” said Erkenbrand and Aragorn. “May no evil meet you on your road.”

Farzana and her court departed through the gates, followed by the First Company of the Tower of Guard, who would escort them to the port. The crowd stood and watched as the embassy pulled away from the gates and many remained until they were but specks against the horizon. At last, Erkenbrand came to his fellow Riders and clapped Osric on the shoulder.

“Come, sword-brother. Despair not, for you never know what is around the next corner,” he said and turned Osric away.
 
 
 
 

To be continued…
 
 

GF 8/26/09 
Published 9/28/09 

Chapter 29 – Fealty

Ashtir looked at himself in the mirror and tried to decide if perhaps he was asleep. He had been dreaming of this moment for so long that he could hardly believe it had finally arrived. He was here, in Gondor, returned to the people to whom he had once belonged, and he wore again the hauberk of the White Tree and Seven Stars.

When he and Soroush first pledged their fealty to Sultana Taja, they were given their robes and shown how to drape the cloth around them so that it would remain in place throughout the day. They had at first bemoaned the impossibility of learning the intricate pattern of knots, tucks and wraps, certain they would never figure it out. Then one day to their surprise they discovered they had been donning the robes without having to think about it for some time. When Ashtir traded his dagger for the shirt and pants of a commoner that he had worn to his first interview with the King Elessar, he wondered momentarily if he would be able to remember how to put them on. He was relieved when it came back to him so easily, when his fingers began tying up the laces of the breeches without any thought or hesitation. The relief was short-lived, for as soon as he moved, he was bemused to find the clothes binding and restrictive, and the fabric was so close to his body that he felt exposed in a manner he never would have suspected. He had been all too eager to shed them for the robes.

Now he stood in a sitting room off the Hall of Kings, standing in the uniform of Gondor. He had expected it to feel odd and foreign, a heavy and cumbersome obstruction. The Haradrim wore only armor plates over their vests and saw no point in weighing themselves down with chain mail as the Gondorians and Rohirrim did. The uniform did feel odd – the Guard of the Tower wore finer armor and fabric than had his uncle’s humble company – and yet it at once felt familiar and comfortable, as though the past seven years in Harad had never happened. Yet he carried the scars of the battle which had forever changed the course of his life, and he bore on his upper arm the mark of the House of the Moon. He was changed in other ways as well, ways he knew he would not fully understand or realize until he returned to his homeland and the people who had known him best. He was both excited and terrified at the prospect of going home, and more relieved than he cared to admit to have a position here in the White City to return to. Before he could do that though, he had to foreswear his queen, who had saved him and sheltered him, and pledge his allegiance to his new king.

He drew his scimitar from its scabbard. He had requested to retain his Haradrim sword. He’d had little occasion to use it over the years but it had been a constant companion at his side and he found the broad, curving blade contained a grace and beauty that a standard sword lacked. Furthermore, he had wished to keep one memento of his years in the House of the Moon and the sword had been the most practical choice.

He watched himself in the mirror as he moved through the traditional parley positions, pausing between each pose until he came to the last one. He then executed them again, this time in one smooth, continuing motion. He felt the slide of the chain mail against his skin, the pull and tug of the fabric as it shifted with his movements and the limitations of the armor. With each pass through the positions, he felt more comfortable with the uniform, more awake within himself. He finished a final pass and sheathed the scimitar. He was ready.

Another ten minutes ticked by before a knock on the door announced that the King was ready. Ashtir looked himself over once more and put his Haradrim robes and sandals in the sack the esquire had given him. The clothes would be taken he knew not where; he would never again see or wear them. Someday, he might even forget how to put them on. He opened the door and, after he passed the esquire’s inspection, followed him into the Hall of Kings.

The white polished stone gleamed in the morning sunlight that filtered into the room through high windows. Between the sunbeams the black pillars rose as shadows to the vaulted ceiling, the gold of which gleamed as the sun itself, casting a glowing hue upon the gargoyles and motifs at the tops of the pillars. The avenue of Kings stood grand and proud between the pillars, the golden light upon their crowns, the white sunlight illuminating their marble forms. Before the pillars and kings of old on either side of the hall stood flanks three rows deep: the officers of the three companies of the guard, the advisors and ambassadors of the court, and the princes and lords of the provinces. At the end of the hall was the dais. Upon the first step was a simple chair of black stone, upon which sat Prince Faramir, a golden circlet on his brow and in his hand the white staff of the Steward. At the top of dais, sitting upon the throne beneath the marble canopy, was the King Elessar. A great white crown sat upon his head, and the fiery gem set over the brow shined red hot. In his hand was a white sceptre and upon his cloak shone the Star of the North. Behind him upon the wall beset with emeralds and diamonds was a tree in flower, and the light danced off the gemstones so that it appeared alive and marvelous and beautiful. Attending the prince was the page, Bergil, and Sir Peregrin stood at his King’s right side.

Ashtir’s nerves returned and redoubled. If he had thought himself ready, he found himself now sadly lacking in resolve. His heart pounded in his chest and the pulse at his throat, already restricted from the collar of the uniform, felt as though it would burst with each beat. His limbs shook with fear and his breath quickened as one long pursued. His throat dried and he panicked – he would not be able to speak his pledge! He continued forward despite this, drawn by the esquire in front of him to the base of the dais. There he knelt upon his knees, and for a terrifying moment began to lean forward as though to lie upon the floor as the Haradrim to their majesties. With a great effort, he curbed the impulse and remained upright, but he was sweating now and he trembled so much he thought that certainly everyone must see it. Then the esquire brought him a wooden cup deep with water. Ashtir took it gratefully and drank it all. When he was ready, the esquire spoke.

“Master Ashtir of the Haradrim, Your Majesty.”

“Why come you before me, Master Ashtir?” King Elessar asked. His voice was gentle but commanding. It rebounded off the marble and echoed down from the golden dome, filling the otherwise silent hall with its warm vibrato.

“I come to pledge my fealty to the Lord and Steward of Gondor,” Ashtir said.

“And in doing so, do you understand and accept that you foreswear your service to any other Lord or Lady of any realm that is not Gondor or Arnor Reunited?” King Elessar asked. “For in the moment you pledge your fealty to me you will cease to be Master Ashtir of the Haradrim and your duty to them will be no more.”

“I understand this and accept this, Your Lordship,” Ashtir said.

“Then so speak your pledge,” commanded Prince Faramir.

Ashtir wished he had another drink of water, but failing to find one, he licked his lips and swallowed the bile creeping up his throat. He withdrew his scimitar, the familiar grip of the pommel acting as an anchor to this place. He held the sword before him and focused upon its reassuring weight. He cleared his mind of everything but the pledge he had been memorizing all morning. His voice shook at first but grew steadier as he continued.

“Here I do swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Sador son of Tangor of Belfalas in Gondor.”*

“And this do I hear, Aragorn the King Elessar son of Arathorn, High King of Gondor, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance.”* Elessar rose and as one his court fell to their knees. Elessar descended the stairs to stand before Sador. He took the scimitar and touched the blade on either of Sador’s shoulders, first the left then the right. “Now rise, Sador son of Tangor of Belfalas.”

Sador rose to his feet and with him rose the others. Elessar gave him back the scimitar and Sador slid it into its sheath.

“I appoint you my chief ambassador to Harad,” Elessar said. “Your duties will begin officially in the spring upon your return from your homeland. Until you depart, you are to acquaint yourself with your brothers in arms and learn as much as you can of the ways of the Court.”

Sador bowed. “I accept your appointment and the duties you place upon my shoulders.”

“Then turn and greet your brothers in arms,” said Elessar. Sador turned and saluted his brothers, who returned the gesture.

The ceremony now complete, the flanks broke and the babble of the men soon filled the hall. Elessar placed a hand on Sador’s shoulder. “Welcome home, Sador. Once you acquaint yourself with your co-counselors, come to my chamber above,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Sador said and with a deep breath, he stepped forward to greet his brothers in arms.  

Pippin entered the King’s private chamber behind Aragorn and closed the door. He poured some wine into a glass and carried it to his lord. Aragorn accepted it but did not drink until he removed the crown from his head. He handed the crown to Pippin, and rubbed and stretched his neck.

“Heavy, is it?” Pippin asked, even as he struggled to put it back in its place in the wardrobe.

“I could feel my neck being pushed into my chest,” Aragorn admitted as he sat. He then reached for his glass and sipped the wine. “I thank the Valar I must not wear that all the time. A day of that and I’ll have no neck left.”

“But you’re king,” Pippin said. He closed the wardrobe and sat beside his friend. “Couldn’t you just change the custom if that were the case?”

“I am king, but I cannot simply go about changing laws and customs to please myself,” Aragorn said. He sat back in his chair and studied the wine in the sunlight. “The people expect a certain amount of fortitude in their leaders, Pippin.”

“Posh,” Pippin said. “It’s a crown, not a law or custom, and wearing it has nothing to do with fortitude. I doubt the people would care if you wore it all day long or not if you didn’t wish to, no matter what the custom was – if any of them can even remember the customs. None of them were alive a thousand years ago, after all. They’re just happy to have a king again. They don’t care about the crown. What difference does it make to them if you’re wearing it in the privy, for instance? Unless the weight of it causes you to loose balance when you’re trying to stand up and you fall backward, hit your head on the wall and give yourself a concussion on your way to the bottom of the latrine. They would mind that, I’d wager.”

Aragorn choked on his wine. “What?”

“You would never find the crown if that happened. At least, I wouldn’t want to be the one to have to search for it, and who’d want to wear it after that? Best not to wear it at all, if you ask me. You don’t suppose that’s ever actually happened, has it? What do you think it’s like for him?” Pippin asked.

“For who?” Aragorn asked, trying to follow Pippin’s chain of thought, without much success.

“For Ash—Sador,” Pippin clarified. “He’s been gone for seven years, in a strange land, living by their customs and laws. We don’t really know anything about his experiences there, and the only person who can truly understand what he’s been through is now gone. Seven years. I’ve only been away from the Shire for nine months, and it already feels like a dream sometimes. The other day, I couldn’t remember what color my mother’s eyes were, or the path I used to take to get to the dining hall from my room at Great Smials. When I tried to remember the market square in Tuckborough, it took me a half-hour to remember all the shops and where they were located. Imagine what it would be like after seven years? He probably couldn’t tell up from down right now.”

“Which is precisely why I am giving him this time to return to his homeland before beginning his service to me,” Aragorn said. “Do you fear that you will no longer fit into the Shire when you go home?”

“I fear my mother and father more than anything,” Pippin said. “I gave them a fright, leaving that way. I hope the letters we wrote in Rivendell were able to reach them. Do you really think the elves would be able to deliver them for us?”

“Elrond gave his word,” Aragorn said. “His people will ensure they are delivered. Granted, you may arrive in the Shire before your letters do.”

“That’s what Merry figured.” Pippin sighed and looked out the window at the sky, now clear and brilliant blue.

“Perhaps we should call for luncheon,” Aragorn suggested, setting down his wine glass. Food always cheered the hobbits.

Pippin grinned. “I already did,” he said just as a knock sounded on the door. “That must be it.” He hopped to his feet and went to open the door. He found not the kitchen attendant on the other side, but Sador. “Master Sador for Your Lordship,” he announced.

Aragorn sat up and waved for the man to be permitted to enter. Sador stepped inside and bowed. At Aragorn’s gesture, he sat in the chair across from the king as Pippin closed the door and took his post. “You wished for us to speak, Your Lordship,” Sador said.

“I did,” Aragorn said. “We will speak often, in truth, for I am greatly curious about the state of things in Harad.”

“What do you wish to know?” Sador asked.

“To start, you heard Queen Farzana’s description of the slavery system. How does it truly work?”

“Just as she says,” Sador said, his impulse to protect his queen – his former queen – too strong to resist.

Aragorn lifted his eyebrows and waited.

“Our laws are—I mean, Haradrim law in the Faithful Houses were so written to encourage kind treatment of slaves. A slave who is treated justly is unlikely to spy for the Enemy, on the hope that His lies of a better life among His Houses might be true,” Sador said.

Aragorn nodded.

Sador drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Practice of the laws is not always so ideal.”

“How so?”

“I mean no offense,” Sador said rather than answering, “but Your Lordship cannot effect Haradrim law. Your alliance allows you safety in their lands, and for them to be safe in yours, that is all.”

“This I know,” Aragorn replied calmly. “How so are the laws and the execution of those laws different?”

“It is true that knaves who join the military are not enslaved, such as it were, but military service has always been a form of slavery in its own right,” Sador began. “As for commoners learning a trade in order to avoid being enslaved once they reach their majority, that is true also but it is rarely employed. If you were a trader or merchant and had your own children, would you rather they be enslaved to save another’s child from that fate? There is a reason businesses are passed down the family.

“Children usually are kept with their mothers, if not their fathers, at least until the children are weaned. Some masters do foster the children after the parents pass, but by this they mean that they begin the children’s training in their duties early so they may take over for the parents. They become slaves in practice if not in name. Families are allowed to see each other at the festivals, but only then. Correspondence between family members is always in the form of trinkets and small gifts, and there are any number of reasons why these do not always reach the intended recipient. As far as compensation, only the most trusted slaves are allowed to carry money; they wear a special bracelet on their right wrists. They will be allowed money to shop for the household, as well as a few sparse coins a season to purchase whatever little trinkets they can haggle out of the merchants for themselves and the other slaves of their household. Children are educated, but they are taught only the basics, never enough to make them dangerous, or they are taught specialties, such as the queen’s maids and her musicians.”

“What of crimes committed?” asked Aragorn. “Are they truly bound by the same laws as everyone else?”

Sador smirked. “Naturally, just as your people are. But tell me, when was the last time a lord was bound in stocks for public ridicule because he defied a command, or the last time a prince was hung for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his family? And even if they should commit a crime worthy of punishment, they can usually afford to pay their way out of it, or barter information to reduce the sentence, or mysteriously vanish in the middle of the night; not all the nomads wandering the deserts do so because their village was attacked by the Enemy. Slaves are not so fortunate, and they cannot run because of their brands.

“It is not a perfect system, but it is far better than the one held in place by the Houses of the Eye.”

“There is no consideration to freeing the slaves,” Aragorn stated.

“Free them to what?” Sador asked. “Poverty? Starvation? What purpose would that serve? Do not misunderstand me. The slaves are not happy with their lives, but they are content with it and will not love you for meddling.”

“Surely there is enough wealth in your lands to allow freed slaves to be paid. Razeena was freed. She cannot be the only one,” Aragorn countered.

“Razeena is married. Her husband provides for her needs,” Sador said. “She still works in the palace, doing the same work she has always done. Her compensation for this is adequate, because she is married. Alone, she could not survive. The wealthy could afford to free their slaves and pay them all. The proprietors could not, if they wish to continue enjoying the lives they have right now, and they would wish it. It is a grand idea, and every now and then someone will bring it to the court, but it is not feasible, My Lord. At least, they are not yet ready for it to be feasible.”

“What is the system like in the Houses of the Eye?” Aragorn asked.

Sador shrugged. “I’ve only heard the rumors, same as everyone else, same as they say here. What we hear in Harad is more detailed, but the same overall.”

“What happens to the masters in the Faithful Houses who do not treat their slaves decently?”

“That all depends on the master, the crime and the slave or slaves involved,” Sador said, with a glance at Pippin.

Aragorn understood. “Peregrin, find out what is taking so long with the food, then find my brothers and tell them I shall be late for supper. This may take some time. Send Valcir to attend me until you return.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Pippin said and departed gratefully. He was no more eager to learn about the vulgarities of Haradrim law than Sador was to disclose them. He nodded to the guards at the door and headed to the buttery. Valcir would be there eating already. Pippin could send up the kitchen attendant, find Valcir and then sit to his own meal before going to the King’s House to report Aragorn’s message to his brothers. Pippin’s stomach grumbled as he reached the Hall of Kings. He hoped there was still meatloaf left.  

Sador returned home late. He was staying still in the house given to the Haradrim but it was empty now of the bustle and laughter that had filled it the last two weeks. It was also dark. He fuddled in the shadows for the striker and lit the lamp that sat by the door. He carried the lamp through the house, his worry growing as he made his way through one empty chamber after another. Finally he went upstairs to the chamber in which the maids had slept and there on the center bed was Jamila.

The maid looked so forlorn that it took all his resolve not to approach her and pull her into his arms. In one stroke, she had lost everything, her home, her family, her standing, her life’s purpose. Whatever joy she had felt upon learning that she would be given to King Éomer with the intent that she would marry Osric had diminished when she was forced to remain behind in the house as everything and everyone she had known and loved walked out the door and away from her forever. She had been crying nearly nonstop since and Sador frowned when he noticed the food tray on the floor, the food untouched.

“Jamila,” he said softly. “You must eat.”

“I do not hunger,” she said, whisper soft.

“You must keep your strength up,” Sador said, stepping into the room. “Sultana Farzana would want it.”

“She gave me away!” Jamila cried and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks were blotched and she held a handkerchief in her hand. She used it now, more out of habit than desire to appear presentable. The maid wore the same dress she had worn last night, and he knew from her unkempt hair that she had not attended to her daily bath.

“I thought you wanted to marry Osric,” Sador said. “You said that you love him.”

“I do, or I think I do. How can I know such a thing as this?” Jamila said, sniffling. She gave a great sigh and looked up at Sador beseechingly. “I had thought he would come with us and that I could remain in the palace, just as Razeena and Soroush. I did not determine I would be made to stay, that I would be made dead, and now I cannot even remain here with you. Osric is from another land and they do not even speak in Westron there.”

“So you would have him lose everything that he knows and loves, as my cousin did?” Sador asked.

“I—No, I would not want that,” Jamila said, looking down at her hands in confusion. “But Soroush is happy there.”

“And you will be happy here. You know many of the Riders already, and they will introduce you to their families. You will have friends in Rohan,” Sador said, inching further into the room. He picked up the tray and frowned at the spoiled food. “You must trust that Farzana would not abandon you into squalor. She is a wise woman and a kind mistress. She saw the truth in your heart, even if you find it difficult to see it yourself now. She knew you would be happy with Osric or she never would have entrusted you to his care.”

“When may I see him?” Jamila asked.

“Soon,” Sador promised. “In a couple of days. The queen felt you should be taught the duties of a wife while you are here. Tomorrow, you’ll come with me to the King’s House and meet with Mistress Porcia. She will teach you how to clean and launder and cook, things you will need to know if you are to be a wife of a soldier. Osric doesn’t have servants.”

Jamila gaped at him. “I must clean? I must cook?” she asked, so astonished that for a moment she forgot to cry.

“You’ll do fine,” Sador assured her. “You’ll learn it all in no time, and once you get to see Osric again, you’ll find that many of your doubts and fears won’t seem so great anymore. In truth, you’ll be surprised just how brave love can make you. That’s why the Great Eye ultimately failed; he thought the only strength was in might of arms and brute force. He never knew how weak he really was.”

Jamila wiped her tears and looked at Sador with bemusement. “You’ve been listening to too many of the Pale Skins’ songs. Love is not so grand.”

“You still have much to learn, young one,” Sador said. “I’m going to the buttery for more food, which you will eat. I’ll be back soon.” He stepped into the hall.

“Ashtir!”

“Yes, Jamila?” Sador came back into the room at once.

“Must I stay here all alone?” she asked. “I have never before slept by myself. I do not think that I can.”

Sador glanced around at the many empty beds, grateful for their presence. “I’ll stay here with you until you fall asleep, how’s that?”

Jamila nodded. “Do not be too long?”

“I won’t. Go downstairs. Light the candles in the dining room and set the table. We’ll eat there. I’ll teach you how to eat with utensils,” Sador said and left. This was going to be a long night.

To be continued…

GF 8/31/09
Published 10/12/09

* - The pledge of fealty and the King’s response are from ROTK, “Minas Tirith”

Chapter 30 – The Final Strike

Frodo wandered into the proprietor’s shop just before closing. The man looked up when the door opened and his face split into a grin. “My Lord!” he exclaimed and jumped up from his chair with enthusiasm. His thin frame had filled out somewhat in the weeks since Frodo’s initial visit but he still appeared thinner than he was accustomed to. “I was beginning to think you would not come and perhaps I should mail the package to you after all.”

“I am sorry for coming so late,” Frodo said. “I could not get away until now. Is it ready?”

The proprietor nodded. He went into the back room and returned with a small parcel wrapped in a rag. “I must ask, my lord, but why do you require only the one?” he said, handing over the parcel.

“It is a present for my cousin,” Frodo said, unwrapping the parcel to examine the so-called gift.

“I hope that it is satisfactory?” the proprietor asked, wringing his hands anxiously. “This is not my usual occupation. If it does not please you, I would be more than happy to gather more material and send it to a proper master.”

Frodo turned the gift around and upside down, then he too grinned. “No, this is perfect. Merry will be thrilled.”

“He is fond of them, then?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t say that,” Frodo said, wrapping up the parcel again and tucking it into his coat pocket. “I am afraid in my rush to leave tonight, I forget my purse at the house. I will return tomorrow with your fee. Have a good night.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the proprietor said. “A good night to you as well.”

Frodo exited the little shop and slipped into the alley to navigate his way back home in secret. He patted the parcel and chuckled with gleeful anticipation. He had forgotten how much fun this could be!

Sam was waiting for him on the porch when he returned. The moonlight cast the gardener in shades of pale blue. A small orange light flashed from a burning pipe and shadowy smoke rose into the air. Frodo gave him the parcel. “How did you get the pipeweed?”

“Won it,” Sam said. “Mr. Merry’s not so good at cards as he likes to think.”

“Is Merry looking for me?”

“Mr. Pippin’s got him distracted sorting through the mail,” Sam said. “Why do lasses insist on sending us bits of their hair? I find it very disturbing.”

“I think it must be some custom of Men, a way of showing one’s appreciation,” Frodo said. “Or at least, that’s what I hope it means.”

“They’re an odd sort, Big Folk are,” Sam said and drew again on his pipe.

Frodo leaned against the house beside him. Sam was still feeling talkative after his stone treatment the other night, and Frodo intended to take advantage of it if he could. “I wanted to talk to you about something. What do you say about going to Hobbiton first when we get home? There’s no need to go to Crickhollow straight away. Merry can go to Brandy Hall and let everyone know that we are back and well, and see the house readied for our arrival. Pippin will be wanting to get to Tuckborough as quickly as possible. We’ll travel with him to Three-Farthing Stone, then continue to Hobbiton together. We can see your father and the Cottons. They shouldn’t have to wait for the gossip to find out you’re back.”

“I’d like that,” Sam said, smiling wistfully. “You really wouldn’t mind? We’d likely run into the S.-B.s as soon as we set foot in Hobbiton.”

“I don’t mind,” Frodo said. “Sam, why didn’t you tell me about your worries earlier, about Rosie?”

“There’s naught as can be done about it,” Sam said. “Best not to talk about it.”

“I want to know when things are bothering you,” Frodo said. “You do consider me your friend, don’t you?”

“Of course, sir!”

“Good. Then no more secrets.”

“No more secrets, sir,” Sam said. He drew on his pipe again, lingering over the taste of the weed before letting out the smoke. He handed the pipe to Frodo. “You know, sir, I do have something as I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

“Did the Ring ever make you hate anyone?”

“Not that I can recall,” Frodo said slowly. “Why?”

“There were times that I hated Gollum, with every part of me,” Sam said. “I didn’t think about it at the time, but I have since then and I can’t figure why I hated him so much. He was a pitiable thing, he was, even if he was a villain. He didn’t deserve my trust, and that’s the truth, but he didn’t do aught as to make me hate him either. Do you think it was the Ring?”

“The Ring was whispering to Boromir long before we neared Mordor. It told him lies and showed him empty promises,” Frodo said. “You don’t have a hateful bone in your body, Sam.”

“But I must, if the Ring was able to find it.”

“Perhaps, but you’re a kind hobbit and that’s a fact,” Frodo said, handing the pipe back. “If you hated Gollum, I think it must have been the Ring. It knew if Gollum got his hands on It, he’d take It back to the caves. By making you hate him, or twisting your mistrust into hate, you prevented him from making a move too soon, when he could have escaped with It. The Ring wanted to return to Its master and It would have done anything to accomplish that.”

“We have that in common then,” Sam said.

“You have nothing in common with that thing,” Frodo said with vehemence. “Its devotion, if you can even call it that, wasn’t out of love, but the desire for power, and you, Samwise Gamgee, care nothing for power. You are the most humble and pure hobbit that I know, and the Quest would have been lost if not for you. I believe I owe you a very substantial raise. It may be a few years in coming though.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s all right, sir. I’ve no need for money, seeing as I won’t be getting married anytime soon.”

Frodo chuckled also and took back the pipe. “You’ll get married to your Rose if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Well, I should hope I won’t have to be waiting that long!” Sam said. “You really think she’s waited for me? They must have reckoned us dead long ago.”

“I know she did,” Frodo said. “You’ll be married in the spring. She’s going to look lovely.”

“She always looks lovely.”

They finished Sam’s pipe and went inside together. Sam went into the kitchen to hide the parcel, and Frodo went into the parlor where Merry and Pippin were on the floor surrounded by mail. Sitting in the chairs were Gimli and Legolas and scattered on the table between them were sketches of the houses being rebuilt on the Pelennor.

Legolas sorted through the sketches as Gimli made notes on them and put them aside. “Does the land wish for the homes to be where you are putting them?” Legolas asked.

Gimli regarded the elf with exasperation. “I imagine the land doesn’t much care where we put the houses,” he said. “Besides, they are being built on the foundations of the old houses, so if the land hasn’t protested their positions before, it seems unlikely it would do so now.”

“What about trees?” Legolas asked next. “They would provide shade and protection from the weather for the houses.”

“Trees will uproot the foundations,” Gimli said.

“You should plant the trees first, let them mature, then build around them,” Legolas said.

“Let them mature? Build around them? That would take years and…” Gimli stopped, suddenly noticing Legolas’s too-placid expression. “If you are bored, I suggest you go and help the hobbits with their mail. That will keep you entertained and out of my hair.”

“That’s a hairy proposition,” Pippin quipped with a glance at the locks of hair that were piling up between him and Merry. The cousins snickered.

Legolas shook his head. “I have hair enough of my own.” He stood and walked past Frodo to go outside. “I think I shall take a stroll in the moonlight.”

Frodo passed through the parlor to the study. He caught Pippin’s eyes on the way and winked. The plan was in motion.  

“Where’s Gandalf?” Pippin asked the next morning at breakfast.

“He did not return from the Citadel last night,” Legolas answered.

Gimli poured juice for himself and the hobbits and water for Legolas. “Another late night. It would not be the first time.”

“Perhaps,” Pippin agreed with a frown at Gandalf’s empty chair. “But he always sends word so we won’t worry.”

“You can lecture him when he comes home tonight,” Merry said.

Sam dished out the eggs and bacon. “I don’t like it,” he declared. “Mr. Pippin’s right. Gandalf always lets us know when he ain’t going to come back. On the other hand, if something had happened to him, I’m sure we’d’ve heard about it.”

“How then do you read this riddle?” Legolas asked.

“More secrets is how,” Sam answered. He sat next to his master and shook his head. “Him and Strider both. It don’t seem a proper way to begin your job as king, keeping secrets from your closest friends. That’s hard, that is. Folk shouldn’t keep secrets. Like you, Master, letting Mr. Merry think as you’re going to prank him back when you ain’t.”

“I knew it!” Merry exclaimed.

“And you, Mr. Merry, inviting all these folks to luncheon to force Mr. Frodo out of his room and the house,” Sam continued.

“Sam!” Merry cried.

“Merry,” Frodo growled.

“That’s the real prank, sir, and I’ve been feeling right awful keeping it from you,” Sam went on. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, Sam. You needn’t ask,” Frodo said and patted his friend’s hand.

“That’s awfully big of you, cousin,” Merry said.

Frodo narrowed his eyes at Merry. “Sam is forgiven. You are not. And you, Pip? What was your involvement in this little scheme?”

“It was my idea!” Pippin said cheerfully. “I figured that if we started inviting over guests immediately after Merry declared war, you’d figure it out. So I suggested a decoy prank. Merry came up with that prank all on his own though, and wouldn’t let either of us help him. But Sam and I helped plenty with the real prank. I even went to Faramir and he agreed to give us copies of the court dockets so we could find potential houseguests, and he allowed us to use Bergil in hunting down their addresses and sending the invitations.”

“Bergil again,” Frodo muttered. “I can see the lad is benefiting from his acquaintance with you.”

Pippin nodded. “I think so.”

“Then you are forgiven too,” Frodo said.

“What? Why!” Merry demanded.

“I forgave him of any involvement ahead of time, remember,” Frodo said.

“But you already forgave him for the fake prank.”

“First, he clearly was not involved in the fake prank, so any forgiveness extended to him at that time was given prematurely. Second, even if he was involved, that prank is but a small part of the larger prank, and so the forgiveness would by rights included the entire prank,” Frodo said.

“You can’t be arguing with that, lad,” Gimli said.

“You have no such insurance,” Frodo continued to Merry.

“But I know what your prank is now, so the game is over,” Merry said hopefully. “You don’t have to stay for luncheon today if you don’t want to.”

“You played two pranks on me, Merry, not one as previously agreed upon. I believe that leaves me one short of the mark, and I will not be found short. This game is far from over, but believe me, you will soon be wishing that it was,” Frodo said. He picked up his cup of juice and lifted it into the air. “Cheers.”

“For you maybe,” Merry mumbled and stuffed his mouth with eggs.

“We’ll be meeting with Master Duilfin today,” Pippin said. “You’ve met him, haven’t you, Gimli?”

Gimli nodded. “Aye, he’s a fine cooper, the best in the city I’ve met. He built the casks in which we store the cement sand. It’s a shame about his son.”

“What happened to his son?” Frodo asked.

“He was one of many soldiers injured during the siege,” Gimli said. “His legs were crushed under one of the stones the Enemy was tossing over the walls. He lost them both. Many would consider him fortunate to be alive, but he does not share in that sentiment. He is healing physically, but the damage to his pride is proving stubborn. He can’t make peace with what he’s lost, and so he lingers in the Houses of the Healing, refusing to go home, though there is little more they can do for him there.”

“Poor chap,” Sam said.

“Has he met with Adrik’s father?” Frodo asked. “Adrik was telling me the other night that the men find his father to be an inspiration.”

“Oh, aye, they’ve known each other for years,” Gimli said. “Master Kirtis taught young Petras, and all the men in the Houses. Master Kirtis has been to see them all, and has spoken with the lad on many occasions. Petras seems set on festering though.”

“Perhaps we can go see him after Master Duilfin leaves. What will you be doing today?” Pippin asked of Gimli and Legolas.

“With the Haradrim gone, we have lost many good workers,” Gimli said. “We will have to find others that can help in their place, lest the reconstruction slow. We want to have as many houses completed before winter arrives.”

“We have an audience with Aragorn today to request more soldiers for the work,” Legolas said. “If that cannot be arranged, then we plan to request the help of the lords. They can afford to get their hands dirty.”

Only when Legolas and Gimli arrived at the White Tower, they were surprised to find the High Throne empty and Faramir alone holding the court. Faramir granted them their request of both soldiers and lords, but said nothing of the king’s whereabouts. As they left the Hall, they stopped to whisper with one of the guards at the White Tree.

“No one knows where they went,” said the guard. “The King Elessar and Mithrandir disappeared in the middle of the night. The king’s brothers went with them. Prince Faramir said only that they will return in a few day’s time and they will bring a gift for which the city has long awaited.”

Legolas and Gimli returned home, discussing what this gift might be, to find the hobbits in the midst of cooking and cleaning. Frodo and Sam were straightening up the parlor and study, while Pippin and Merry were in the kitchen putting together luncheon.

“You’ll be joining us?” Pippin asked when he saw them return.

“No, we must go and commission more workers,” Legolas said. “We just came from court and there is news, a new sentence to the riddle.”

Gimli gathered Frodo and Sam, and together they told them about the disappearance of Gandalf, Aragorn, Elrohir and Elladan and the gift they would be bringing back to the city.

“Do you suppose it’s Arwen?” Merry asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, thinking. “Elrohir and Elladan said that they’d be leaving as soon as the remodeling was finished, or rather, that the remodeling would be finished by the time they had to leave. I didn’t reckon them on coming back.”

“When did they say this?” Merry asked.

“That day you told Mr. Frodo I was spying on Strider,” Sam said. “Maybe that’s the day they were counting down to on that calendar. I figured it on Strider who was marking down to something, but it could have been them instead.”

“Maybe,” Pippin said. “It’s awfully strange, whatever is going on. We should ask around and find out what the people of the city have been waiting for, other than the king’s return.”

“We could ask Master Duilfin,” Merry said.

“We’ll ask the lords as we recruit their help,” Legolas said. “We should begin now. Enjoy your luncheon. We’ll meet here tonight and gather our data.”

“Wait. Lady Bodil was having her dinner party tonight,” Pippin said. “I can imagine all they’ll be talking about is the king’s disappearance. It would be simple enough to get them talking about any so-called gifts.”

“We should go to some of the inns also,” Merry said.

“Very well,” Frodo agreed. “But before we do any of that, we need to get through luncheon first.”

Gimli and Legolas departed and the hobbits went back to their duties. Frodo and Sam took up the dust cloths and attacked the surfaces of the furniture, while Merry and Pippin went back to cooking. When the rooms were cleaned, Frodo and Sam went into the dining room to set the table. They worked diligently, for luncheon was swiftly approaching and their guest would soon be arriving. Sam trotted outside to gather fresh cuttings from the garden for the centerpiece, and Frodo went to the closet to dig out the candlesticks. He set these in their sconces and lit them, then stood back and surveyed their work. He nodded; Mistress Porcia would approve.

Merry and Pippin were nearly done with the food preparations when they heard Sam outside in the garden greeting their guest. Pippin picked up the platter of water biscuits and sliced cheese and headed for the parlor. “Don’t forget the butter and preserves!” he called over his shoulder.

“Right!” Merry said. He darted over to the pantry, opened the door and let out a scream that could be heard clear to Mordor. There was a rat in the pantry! A huge, monstrous, hobbit-devouring rat! He slammed the door shut and ran from the kitchen.

Sam burst into the house, Master Duilfin following close behind, both looking startled. They ran into the parlor just as Merry reached it. Pippin stuck his head out of the dining room; he was still holding the platter.

“Merry?” he started to ask.

Merry pointed frantically in the direction of the kitchen. “Rat!” he squeaked. “In the pantry! It hissed at me!”

“A rat?” asked Master Duilfin, doing his best not to laugh.

Merry looked up and jumped. He had forgotten that their guest was here. He did his best to look composed as he drew himself to his full height. “Yes, a rat,” he said, his voice shaking for all that he tried to sound calm. “It’s just… Pippin’s afraid of them.”

Everyone looked at Pippin, who looked more startled by this pronouncement than anything else that had happened so far. He looked from Merry to Sam to Duilfin and back to Merry again. “Er, yes, I’m terrified of them. Nasty little critters,” he said.

“Shall I dispose of it for you, Sir Peregrin?” Duilfin asked, withdrawing a knife from his belt.

“Yes please,” Pippin said.

“Wait!” Merry shouted as Duilfin moved towards the kitchen. Merry’s eyes were as wide as teacups, and he looked ready to jump on the settee if need required it. “What if it jumps out of the pantry and runs into here?”

Sam picked up the newly-emptied trash bin and held it upside down. “We’ll catch it before it can get too close to Mr. Pippin.”

“Right,” Merry said and took a calming breath. “Be careful,” he said to Duilfin.

The man nodded. “I think I have the upper hand, Sir Meriadoc,” he said and went into the kitchen.

The hobbits listened with sharp ears, following by the sound the man’s careful approach of the pantry, the opening of the pantry door and then… absolute silence. Several long moments passed in which nothing happened. Now even Sam and Pippin were getting curious, and Sam was about to go into the kitchen himself when they heard the pantry door close. The man returned to the parlor and in his hand he held a brown shoe made of rat fur, the straw laces pulled to the heel and twirled together to resemble a rat’s tail.

“I believe I’ve found your culprit,” Duilfin said, looking stern. “He did not put up much of a fight.” He held out his finding. The hobbits leaned forward for a closer look.

“I’ve never seen a shoe made of rat fur before,” Pippin said.

“Nor have I,” said Duilfin. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Frodo,” Merry hissed and looked about. His dearly beloved older cousin was nowhere to be seen. He marched into the kitchen, the study and even went upstairs. Nothing. Merry returned to the parlor and only then noticed that the back door was opened ajar. “He snuck out while we weren’t looking! That scamp!”

“I told you he’d turn this around on you,” Pippin said.

“You said that about the prank we pulled on Strider,” Merry said.

“Did I?” Pippin asked, feigning confusion. “I’m certain that this is what I meant.”

“And you really should know Mr. Frodo better by now than to believe he’d do naught about it,” Sam said with a shrug. “Sorry, Mr. Merry, but he swore us to secrecy.”

“You were both in on this!” Merry asked in disbelief. “I expected this of Sam, but not you, Pip! You betrayed me.”

“Frodo wasn’t the only one who owed you for pranks, Merry,” Pippin said. “You tricked me into streaking too, and in front of all the Shire! You had this coming.”

“How long?” Merry asked. “How long have you all been plotting against me?”

“Only since Trewsday,” Pippin said. “It was all Frodo’s idea. He did all the legwork. Sam and I were just meant to keep you guessing, and it worked. Then when Sam spilled the milk about the fake prank after his bubble bath, Frodo knew just when to spring his rat trap on you. He really is quite brilliant, isn’t he?”

“He’s still a rascal and that’s a fact,” Sam agreed, beaming with pride.

“Rascal? Scamp? You cannot possibly mean Lord Frodo?” Duilfin asked, perplexed. He was still holding the rat shoe and looking from one hobbit to the other as though they had all completely lost their senses.

“Oh, we mean Lord Frodo, all right,” Merry said. “That lying, deceiving, wily little pretender! We had a pact! No more public pranks!”

“Well, technically, you are still in the house, Merry,” Pippin pointed out. “I’m sure that Master Duilfin will be discreet enough not to mention to anyone how afraid you – er, I – am of rats.”

“Please, sir, I beg you, just call this one over and done,” Sam said. “Mr. Frodo really does want to go easy on you. Believe me, he’s not above using real rats if there has to be a next time.”

“Fine. We’re even. It’s over,” Merry agreed grudgingly.

“I’m afraid I do not understand any of this,” Duilfin said, looking down at the shoe in his hand. He noticed then that he still held his knife in the other hand and he put this away. He set the rat shoe on the table.

“That’s my oven mitt!” Merry exclaimed, getting a better look at it. “I’ve been looking for that!” He noticed Sam and Pippin frowning at him, their arms crossed. “I have other slippers I could use.”

“Slippers for oven mitts?” Duilfin asked, more baffled than ever. “What exactly is this all about?”

“Sit down, Master Duilfin,” Pippin said and led the man to a nearby chair. “We’ll tell you all about it. Have you ever heard of streaking?”  

Frodo tiptoed past the kitchen and darted for the back door. He slipped outside onto the back porch and waited, his ear pressed to the door. Only a half-moment passed before Merry’s terrified shriek. Chuckling, he went out the gate and into the alley. He knew the alleys well and was able to reach the rat catcher’s without being seen, allowing him plenty of time to laugh and congratulate himself on a prank well pulled. He paused just outside the rat catcher’s cottage and willed his face into solemnity.

The old proprietor looked up when he entered. He came to Frodo immediately, looking both intrigued and worried. A more unusual request he had never been asked for before, the hide of a rat applied to a shoe – and he sincerely hoped not to be asked for more.

“Hullo,” Frodo greeted.

“Lord Frodo,” the proprietor said with a bow. “Are you not satisfied with your request?”

“I am perfectly satisfied,” Frodo said. “It did it’s job well. My cousin will never forget it. I’ve come to pay you. How much do I owe you?”

“You needn’t pay, my lord,” the proprietor said.

“How much do I owe you?” Frodo repeated, pulling out his purse. He counted out the proprietor’s mumbled response and added a couple of extra coins to the sum. “For a job well done.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the proprietor said, taking the money with another bow. “Will— will that be all that you require?”

“It will be,” Frodo said. “Thank you for your cooperation, and remember, this is our little secret.”

The proprietor nodded and watched the Ring-bearer leave. He heaved a deep sigh as the door closed behind the little lord and rattled the coins in his hand. He had heard that the halflings were strange and unpredictable creatures, but this was the first time he remembered when the reality exceeded the rumors!

To be continued…

GF 9/6/09
Published 10/19/09

Chapter 31 – Pacts and Promises

Frodo entered the alley behind the rat catcher’s cottage and roamed about in the shadows of the fifth circle. He felt it wise to keep a safe distance from Merry until his cousin had opportunity to calm down. At least he should wait until after tea to return to the house; Merry would be leaving at midnight to guard the tombs and so would go to his rest early tonight.

Frodo came at last to the sixth gate. On impulse, he left the alley and passed through the gate. To his left were the towering turrets of the Houses of Healing. The Houses shined in the midday sun and the flags whipped smartly in the breeze. Frodo paused, considering. He did not want to spend the next four hours wandering aimlessly through the alleyways, nor did he wish to attempt navigating the streets of the lower circles at this busy hour.

“Frodo?” asked a concerned voice, interrupting his thoughts.

Frodo turned and saw Sador standing a few feet away, watching him carefully.

“Are you well, my lord?” the man asked, looking between Frodo and the Houses.

“I am well,” Frodo reassured quickly. “Entirely well. What of you, Ash— Sador? How are you faring? Is Gondor as you remembered it?”

“I had never been to Minas Tirith before,” Sador said, “though the people here are very much like those I knew growing up. A bit harder perhaps than I remember, but just as generous.”

“It must be strange for you, after all these years, to be free and home again,” Frodo said.

Sador nodded. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve just woken from a dream, and at other times I think I must be dreaming still. I don’t know quite what to believe.”

“I know what you mean,” Frodo said. “I used to wonder if all of this has been a dream, and I never left the Shire at all.”

“It is a wonder what time can do,” Sador said as he started towards the Houses. Frodo fell in beside him, his decision made for him by Sador’s apparent destination. “I remember when I first awoke in Harad, I wondered if I was dreaming. Now I’m home and I’m still wondering it, but from the other side, if that makes any kind of sense. I suppose one day I will wake up again. Until then, I must simply pretend to be awake. That is but one reason I arranged to have Brondir join me upon his release from the Houses. He can remind me what is real and what isn’t.”

“Is Brondir a friend?” Frodo asked.

“We grew up together. It was a joy to discover him in the city,” Sador said. “He will be staying with me until it is time to return to Belfalas. Do you also have a friend in the Houses?”

“No,” Frodo said. “I was hoping to visit a soldier there. His father is worried about him. He refuses to return home, though the healers all say it is time. I’m not certain I can help, but I certainly couldn’t hurt anything just talking to him.”

“I’m certain that you will help,” Sador said with a smile. “You helped me.”

“How?”

“I’m home and free because of you,” Sador reminded. “Do not fret yourself. You cannot fix his life for him. You can only hope to distract him for a time.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Frodo said as they reached the Houses.

They entered together and spoke with the Warden, who called two attendants to direct them to their destinations. Frodo bid farewell to Sador and followed the first attendant, an elderly woman with a stern face, up the staircase to the third floor. They turned down the west passage to the fourth closed door.

The attendant knocked upon the door and opened it into a sun-lit room. Frodo entered behind her and glanced around the sparse chamber. Inside, the bed was made and the curtains were pulled back. The view out the window was of Mount Mindolluin, green and lush. On a chair by the window, looking like a dull winter’s day, was Petras. His sat hunched in the chair as a flower long devoid of sunlight. His raven hair was combed but lank, the curling strands drooping like the bare branches of the White Tree. More shocking than all of this was the man’s youth. Frodo had expected a seasoned soldier, but this man – boy – looked even younger than Adrik.

“He’s a child,” Frodo whispered to the attendant.

The attendant nodded. “Not much older than. He’ll be seventeen in a few months.” The attendant spoke up then, her stern face melting into kindly concern as she spoke. “Master Petras, you have a visitor.”

The patient did not look away from the window or give any indication of having heard her.

Frodo nodded for the attendant to leave. “I’ll be all right.”

“If you need anything, just send one of the pages,” she told him.

“Actually,” Frodo said, thinking quickly for a likely distraction for a copper’s son. “Could one of the lads bring up some parchment and ink or coal, preferably coal? And I do not wish to be interrupted, if possible,” he added, remembering that Pippin had suggested coming here after their luncheon with Master Duilfin.

The attendant raised her eyebrows but only said, “Of course, my lord,” before departing.

Frodo watched her as she moved down the long hallway, more to stall than to ensure she stopped to speak with the page on duty. He used that time to rein in his shock, and he clung to the hope of the coming distraction to fortify him. Finally, taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and stepped further into the room.

He looked around the room again. A wardrobe in the corner was half open, revealing a few pairs of trousers and some shirts. There were no shoes. The bed was made and ready for tonight’s rest. On the side table were a couple of books, a lamp and a terracotta vase of lavender haze.

He stepped around the bed and came to stand beside the young soldier. He glanced down at the chair, unable to help himself. The young man’s lap was covered with a blanket, but the familiar bulge of leg and limb ended just above where the knees would have been, so that the blanket fell flat over the edge of the chair in a dizzying, unfamiliar way.

He could understand now the lad’s despair. The lad was just out of his majority, as Men reckoned such things, and his life was stolen away. Whatever plans the lad once had for himself, they were now only dreams. But what had Farzana said about plans? They were designed only to get you from one place to another. The plan itself was not important, only what it helped you to accomplish.

He hoped the page was quick with the parchment.

Frodo gulped and steadied himself before speaking. “Hullo Petras,” he said, taking great care to keep pity from his voice; the lad deserved only his respect and empathy. “I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.”

A few moments passed in which Frodo thought perhaps he hadn’t been heard either, but then slow dawning came into the lad’s eyes. He blinked and swiveled his head to look at Frodo for several long moments. His dull eyes came alive as he realized he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. To be certain, he reached out and, after a moment’s hesitation, touched Frodo’s arm. He then pulled back swiftly and blinked again.

“I know who you are,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and licked cracked lips. “You are the Ring-bearer.”

“I am,” Frodo said.

“Petras, son of Duilfin, at the service of you and your family,” the lad said out of habit, though an ironic smirk ghosted his face as he spoke. “May I ask, my lord, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Frodo said, holding the lad’s gaze. “I heard you were hurt and that you are refusing to leave the Houses.”

The dead look returned to the young man’s eyes and he looked away, back out the window, seeing not a mountain in summer’s bloom but a wall of impenetrable stone. “I do not wish to speak of that.”

“Nor do I require you to,” Frodo said. “May I sit?”

Petras forced himself to focus on his visitor and nodded. “Of course, my lord, I apologize for not offering. I seem to be forgetful of late.”

Frodo pulled himself up onto the bed and dangled his legs over the side. He joined Petras in looking out the window at the mountain. “I forget things too. I understand,” he assured the lad. He allowed a few moments of comfortable silence to pass between them before speaking again. “I was hoping you could help me with a project.”

Petras looked at Frodo again, curiosity creeping into his dark brown eyes. “How can I possibly help you?”

Frodo met Petras’s eyes. “By building me a box.”

“A box?” Petras asked.

“Your father is a cooper. I assume you are apprenticed to him and are accustomed to working with your hands and with wood,” Frodo said.

“I am, but I have never built a box before,” Petras said. “If you need a barrel made, I will be more than willing to ask my father if he can manage it for you.”

“I don’t need a barrel. I need a box, a jewelry box in point of fact. Everyone else is busy with reparations for the city, and they don’t have time for such fancies. However, I would like to have something to give to our future queen, whenever she arrives.”

Just then, the page knocked upon the door and entered with the parchment and coal. Frodo hopped down from the bed and asked the page to help him move the eating table from the bed to the chair. He then had the page bring the other chair from the other side of the bed and set it next to Petras.

“Thank you, lad,” Frodo said and dismissed him.

When the door was closed, Frodo climbed onto the second chair and stood, then set down the parchment and coal on the table in front of Petras. “I would draw a sketch of it myself, but I am not entirely sure of what I want. It would require many sketches, I think, and my hand tends to cramp.” He rubbed his hand and the nub of his missing finger for emphasis. “I know only that I want it to be something Elvish. Would you be able to help me?”

Petras nodded, looking stunned both at the request and his acceptance of it. “Of course, my lord,” he said.

“Excellent!” Frodo exclaimed. “Now, I think a basic design to start, but perhaps rounder. Elves are quite elegant and are not very fond of hard corners.”

“It must have a firm base to stand,” Petras said, considering the parchment. “What sort of box exactly are you thinking of? The small kind for rings and bracelets that sit upon tables? Or a cabinet, for hanging necklaces and storing circlets?”

“Can it be both?” Frodo asked.

“She’ll need a vanity,” Petras said, thinking. He picked up the chalk and began to draw an oval sitting upon a long base. “My grandmother had one of these. The mirror was set in the door, which opened to reveal the cabinet, and on either side of the cabinet were mounted two boxes which acted as the base. Of course, it was quite huge and had to be mounted to the table. It is not something that I could build here.”

Frodo considered the sketch, drawn on a corner of the parchment. “She’ll have a vanity already. I’ve only ever seen her wear the one necklace and crown. A smaller one then, for her rings and pendants.”

“Perhaps something oval-shaped. The base could be plain or it could sit upon small legs with round feet,” Petras muttered to himself as he drew a few quick shapes.

“Could it stand on one leg, like a wine goblet?” Frodo asked.

Petras looked at him, considering the suggestion. “A wine goblet? For a jewelry box?”

“A thicker stem and base, of course, to accommodate the weight,” Frodo said, “but with the same oval shape as the box.”

Petras rubbed his chin. “It could work. It will take some experimentation.” He drew the outline of a wine glass, with the thicker stem and wider base. “It should probably all be made of one piece then. If we try to mount the stand to the box, it may not be stable enough.”

A few sketches later, they had a design that they were certain would be both feasible to build and appeasing to an elf’s eye. Frodo then instructed Petras on some Elvish designs for the panels of the box and the lid, replicas of the designs the twins had painted on the floors of the King’s House. They then discussed the design for the inside of the box, whether to keep it open or to create sections and if so, how many.

When Frodo got hungry, he called for the page to bring them food and made certain that Petras ate everything put on his plate. They spoke of songs and books and their families as they ate, and afterward they returned to their drawings and discussion with zest. The process took three hours before they had a final design, and they both grinned at it with satisfaction.

“She will love it,” Frodo declared. “Can you have it done within a week?”

Petras’s smile faltered. “A week?” he asked, surprised. He had become so engrossed in their discussion that he had managed to forget why they were designing the box in the first place. “I have never built anything like this before, and if it is to be for a queen, it should be done correctly.”

“So it will take longer than a week?” Frodo asked, not allowing the lad to back out of the job so easily.

Petras opened his mouth to protest, but as he looked up at Frodo’s hopeful face, he felt all excuses die in his throat. How could he possibly deny the Ring-bearer, who had given so much for them? How could he tell Lord Frodo that building a small jewelry box in a week was impossible, when Frodo had attempted the truly impossible and accomplished it? Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “I will require help to have it done within a week,” he said.

Frodo’s grin grew into a smile. “Thank you, Petras. I will have the supplies and tools you will need delivered to your home tomorrow morning.”

“My home?” Petras asked.

“Of course,” Frodo said. “You said you would need help. You will not get it here. Your father can assist you in between his regular duties, I am sure.”

Already bound by his promise, Petras could only nod. “Four hands are better than two,” he agreed reluctantly. He took another deep breath, this time to squash the panic twisting in his gut. “I will get started on it tomorrow.”

Frodo patted the lad’s arm and climbed down from the chair. “You’re a good lad, Petras. I wish that I could stay longer, but I fear my friends are likely worried about me. I should get to my own home before they start tearing apart the city looking for me. I will see you in a week’s time. Thank you again for agreeing to help.”

“You’re welcome, my lord,” Petras said. “Farewell.”

Frodo exited the room and leaned against the wall outside. He wasn’t sure if his meddling was likely to cause more trouble than it prevented, but at least he got the lad to agree to go home and he found something for Petras to pour his energies into for the next week. He hoped it was enough.  

Lady Bodil greeted Pippin and introduced him to the other guests in the parlor. Ioveta and Ogiva came over to hug him.

“The others were unable to attend?” asked Bodil.

Pippin nodded. “They wished to extend their apologies. Merry is sleeping; it’s his turn to stand guard at the tombs tomorrow and he’ll need to be awake for a full day starting at midnight. Frodo and Sam were pulled down to the tavern by Legolas and Gimli, who seemed to think the Ring-bearers weren’t getting out enough. Plus, Frodo has a new project and is in need of a woodblock, a handsaw, a mallet and chisel, an adaze and other such items. Gimli said his best chance of getting those at this hour is in the taverns. I’m sure he’ll be able to con some poor carpenter out of his livelihood before the end of the night. Have I missed anything?”

“We were just discussing the mysterious disappearance of our King,” Bodil said and several of the dinner guests nearby hushed themselves and came closer. “We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter.”

“Sadly, I cannot,” Pippin said. “We just learned about it this morning ourselves. His brothers and Gandalf are with him, we know that much. We thought perhaps this was some tradition of new kings.”

“There is no tradition I know of that would explain this vanishing,” said Amarlicus, stepping out of the crowd. “I have never read or heard any tales of a king simply vanishing from the city. King Elessar is quite unorthodox. He doesn’t even wear his royal crown in court.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll fall in the privy wearing that thing?” Pippin asked.

“I can safely say I’ve never considered the danger of that,” Amarlicus said with a laugh, while the others did their best to hide their shock at the suggestion. “There is nothing you can tell us then, Little One?”

“Only that Faramir said Aragorn would be back in a few days and he would be bringing something,” Pippin said. He spied what the old instructor was holding in his hand and looked up with the slightest of pouts. “Are those lemons bars?”

Bodil laughed now also. “I would never dream of depriving a perian of food!” she exclaimed. “Do go and get yourself something to eat, and then perhaps later if you would be so kind as to tell us some more tales of your Shire?”

“Of course,” Pippin agreed and followed Ogiva into the kitchen, where the cooks were assembling more platters to carry to the parlor. He grabbed a small plate and selected a few edibles to start. “It’s quite crowded out there. Where are your sisters?”

“Lue’s asleep,” Ogiva said. “Gerdy is supposed to be asleep also, but I spied her earlier. She likes to hide in the corners and watch the comings and goings. She should be under the table in the entryway. Only, don’t tell Mother.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I used to do such things as a child also,” Pippin told her as they made their way back to the parlor. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

The evening progressed in a swirl of conversation and story-telling, and every now and then someone would sing a lay or recite a poem. There was much discussion still of the king’s disappearance; lacking facts only made the gossip and speculation more exciting. They came up with many good theories, both outrageous and sensible, humorous and terrifying. One man even suggested that perhaps the King had gone to Minas Morgul to desecrate what was left of the once-majestic tower.

At length, Pippin found opportunity to get Ioveta alone. They went into the sitting room and he told her everything that Soroush and Sador had said about the attack of her husband’s company. “I am sorry,” he finished. “They were certain, beyond doubt, that no survivors were left or prisoners taken.”

Ioveta sat still for some time, absorbing the information. Many emotions warred for control of her face but she held them all in check and finally nodded. “Thank you, Pippin,” she said in a whisper. “That was kind of you to ask. It is good that I know. Still, to attack at night…”

“To be fair, they aren’t the only ones to do so,” Pippin said gently. “The Rohirrim attacked the orc camp at night. That’s how Merry and I were able to escape. Of course, the Rohirrim didn’t know we were there, or what we were if they had found us. Even Gondorian troops use the cover of night to hide their movements when they can. It makes sense, strategy-wise. The Rohirrim burned the orc bodies too, but I don’t think that was out of honor for their passing. They just didn’t want to bother with digging a burial pit. Soroush and Sador said that the Haradrim cremate their dead. They believe the fire releases the spirit to the world beyond here; they were honoring your husband and his company when they burned them, not desecrating them. Their methods may be different, but their hearts are the same as ours.”

Ioveta sniffed. Grief was quickly taking control of her visage.

“Can I get you something?” Pippin asked.

Ioveta shook her head. “Just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Pippin agreed. He rooted in his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her.

She took it and wiped the tears from her eyes. Then grief at last took her and for the first time since her husband’s disappearance, she allowed herself to cry in front of another. Pippin hugged her as she spent her tears and hopes, then stayed with her as she spoke of her husband’s last day on the farm.

“He was so concerned about that silly old milking goat,” she said. “He said he’d be back in time for the harvest, not to worry, just keep the pests away. If he had seen what I let become of it… I have failed him.”

“No you haven’t,” Pippin said.

“That farm has been in his family for generations,” Ioveta said. “Now all that’s left of it is rubble and stone.”

“His daughters are safe and happy and whole, and you have a new life for yourself,” Pippin said. “If he was the man you say he was, then that’s all he could have wished for you. He would not be disappointed. He would be proud to see how strong you are.”

“I do not feel very strong,” Ioveta said, wiping away silent tears. “I have to go back there tomorrow. I have avoided it all this time. How can I go back there?”

“I recently went back to the Hallows. I was there when Denethor died, did I tell you? I thought going back would be the end of me, but I’m still here,” Pippin said. “Go back there and try to remember all the good things that happened there. Take your daughters with you. It will be their last chance to see the place where they grew up. They deserve to see it.”

“I would never hear the end of it if I did not allow them to come,” Ioveta said. “At least, not from Ogiva. Leudreda doesn’t understand, and Gerdy…”

“She still isn’t talking?” Pippin asked.

“I think she wants to,” Ioveta said. “She’ll open her mouth and I can see in her eyes she wants to say something, but she’s either too afraid or it’s been too long. Can someone forget how to speak?”

“I don’t know, though I’m sure there were plenty of times when my parents wished that my sisters and I would forget how to talk. Especially Pervinca. You’d be shocked out of your petticoats to hear half the things that come out of her mouth,” Pippin said. “She and I have only ever fought each other, but in a strange way she’s the one I miss the most. Isn’t that odd?”

“Not at all,” Ioveta said. “She’s your sister. You love her.”

“I suppose so,” Pippin said wistfully. “I think we only fought because we were so similar. I’m often amazed that we’re both still in possession of our lives.”

Ioveta smiled. “Tell me about her.”

“Well, let’s see,” Pippin said, sitting back. “There was this one time that Merry and I came on her and our cousin Estella Bolger skinny-dipping in the Brandywine. Or at least, we thought they were skinny-dipping. We would find out much later that they were not…”*

Pippin remained at the party until eleven, when a number of other guests began to retire. On his way out the door with a group of neighbors, he feigned a use for the privy and then hid in the shadows until the entryway was empty. Then he tiptoed to the table, which was covered in a long white cloth that hung to the floor, and lifted the fabric to reveal Gerwinda. The lass was yawning widely and teetering back and forth where she sat, but upon seeing Pippin she perked up with a smile and held open her arms for a hug. Pippin joined her under the table and let the cloth fall.

“Evening, Gerdy,” he said, hugging her. “Looks like it’s time for you to retire as well.”

Gerwinda nodded reluctantly.

“I won’t tell your mother you’re here, don’t worry. Just go upstairs and tuck yourself away before she can go up and find you missing,” Pippin said. “You don’t want to startle her, do you?”

Gerwinda shook her head.

“Your mother tells me you’re still not speaking,” Pippin said, dropping his voice to a whisper as he heard more guests approaching the entryway. He waited until all was quiet once more before continuing. “Do you know, I used to be famous for my singing? No, I wouldn’t think you would, as I haven’t sung since I came back to the city. I’m afraid to, and now I’ve been avoiding it so long, that I think the fear has only grown worse. But my friend Gimli recently gave me something to give me courage, and it’s been helping. Do you want to see it?”

Gerwinda nodded.

There was very little light to see by under the table, so Pippin pulled out the bracelet and pressed it into her hand. “They’re magic stones that give the one who wears them the courage to do whatever they’re afraid of. They helped me return to the Hallows the other day; I didn’t think I would ever be able to go back there, but I did. I once thought I would never be able to sing here again, but I realize now that I can. And I will. I want to make a pact with you, Gerdy. Do you know what a pact is?”

Gerwinda shrugged and shook her head uncertainly.

“A pact is like a promise, but it’s more than a promise,” Pippin said. “It’s a contract of sorts, a verbal agreement that both parties involved must fulfill, no matter what. No excuses, no forgetting, no putting off to later. Understand?”

Gerwinda nodded and waited.

“Good. Then, the pact I want to make with you is this: we’re both afraid of something. I’m afraid to sing, and you’re afraid to talk. By this time tomorrow, we will both have done the thing we’re afraid of. I will go the Hallows and sing for Denethor, and you will speak to your mother. It doesn’t matter what you say, even if it’s just ‘good morning’, so long as you speak. Do we have an agreement?” He held out his hand.

Gerwinda looked at his hand for several minutes, not moving a muscle.

“The sooner you do it, Gerdy, the easier it will be. It’s only your fear telling you it’s impossible,” Pippin said. “You can keep the magic stones.”

Still Gerwinda did not move and for a while Pippin thought she would simply continue to sit there until he left. Finally, she reached out and took his hand. They shook on their pact and took identical deep breaths, letting them out slowly. Then she fingered the knot on the chord and slipped off two of the four beads. She pressed these into Pippin’s hand and smiled wanly.

“Thank you, lass,” Pippin said, closing his hand over hers for a brief squeeze. “Now off to bed.”

They climbed out from under the table and Pippin stood in the entryway until Gerwinda was upstairs and he heard the click of the bedroom door behind her. Then he hurried outside to the cool evening air and looked up at the moon, shining down brightly from the night sky.

Twenty-four hours. No excuses.

He gripped the two stone beads in his hand and, whistling a merry tune, started for home.

To be continued…

GF 9/21/09
Published 10/28/09

* - See “The Trouble With Lasses” and “The Trouble With Lads” in my series Of Merry and Pippin.

Chapter 32 – Farms and Charms

Pippin woke the following morning with mountain trolls rampaging through his stomach. He climbed out of bed with great reluctance and plodded over to the ewer to wash his face, neck and hands. He made the bed, smoothing the sheets and tucking in all the corners, taking more care than he usually did. He dressed with great deliberateness, hoping that if he took long enough, perhaps the day would pass without him noticing it. Unfortunately, he was dressed and ready far too soon, and he descended the stairs with a growing sense of dread. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed his friends in the kitchen.

They were a scant crew today. Merry was standing guard at the tombs – hence the reason Pippin had chosen today to face Denethor. He would need Merry there, nearby if not by his side, when he went to the Hallows. Gandalf was still gone, disappeared with Aragorn in the middle of the night. Pippin had hoped to ask Gandalf about the nature of ghosts, for surely a wizard would know about such things. At the least, he had wanted to question Aragorn again about the Shadow Men of Dwimoberg. Not that Aragorn’s advice would be of much help to Pippin; he wasn’t Isildur’s heir and Denethor owed him no oaths. He already knew what Gimli’s and Legolas’s reactions were to the ghost army: Gimli had been petrified and Legolas unconcerned over the ghosts of men.

“-that we heard,” Gimli was saying as Pippin entered the kitchen. The dwarf was beating a half-dozen eggs for the skillet, and Legolas was busy squeezing oranges for juice. Sam and Frodo were at the oven, frying the ham and bacon.

“Ingold was just as surprised as everyone else that Strider was gone,” Frodo said. “Wherever Strider and Gandalf snuck off to, they didn’t tell anyone they were going.”

“Good morning, Pippin,” Legolas said, seeing him first. “We were just discussing what we learned last night at the tavern. The rumors circulating about Aragorn’s disappearance were rather entertaining I thought. One person was even of the mind that Faramir had locked him and Gandalf away in the cells and was holding them there against their will.”

“Why would Faramir do that?” Pippin asked, grateful for the distraction but offended on his friend’s behalf.

Gimli scowled. “To pay them back for his brother and father,” he said, abusing the eggs more vigorously than before. “As though they had any part to play in that!”

“What rumors did you hear?” Legolas asked.

Pippin went to the cupboard and pulled out the plates to begin setting the table. He thought hard. Yesterday night seemed so far away already. “That Strider went to destroy Minas Morgul, that he went to restore Osgiliath, that he is hunting orcs in the Mountains of Ash, that he has some further command for the Shadow Men or that there’s some ritual he must perform at the Stone of Erech, that he and Gandalf are searching out some lost artifact of the Kings of Old,” Pippin listed off as he went back and forth from the cupboard to the table. “I even heard one person speculate that the Haradrim had circled back in the night and stolen away with the king and his brothers, though how they were supposed to accomplish such a feat he couldn’t explain. Will they never accept the Haradrim as our allies?”

“Not until the Black Númenóreans are defeated,” Gimli said, “and that is unlikely to happen any time soon. Things are unstable in the lands of Harad. The destruction of Sauron brought us peace, but to them it brought only more chaos and uncertainty. The truce that stands will not hold long, not once the Houses of the Eye have had a chance to regroup.”

“But how can they?” Sam asked. “I thought all their power came from the Enemy?”

“Their power to control Men’s minds perhaps,” Frodo said. “Sadly, that is not all that is required to sway men to war. It seems to be in their nature.”

“You are going to the Citadel, Peregrin?” Gimli asked, noticing Pippin’s uniform for the first time. He was so accustomed to seeing Pippin dressed up so that he had not at first remembered that the small knight had been dismissed of his regular duties until Aragorn’s return.

“I have a matter to attend to,” Pippin said. “It should not take long.”

“What is this?” Frodo asked.

“I’ve a promise to fulfill,” Pippin said. “I don’t wish to speak of it until afterwards.”

This only piqued his friends’ curiosity, but they refrained from asking further questions and pretended not to notice his uncommon silence during first breakfast. They washed the pots and dishes afterwards and then separated for their duties. Legolas and Gimli were as ever busy with the reconstruction of the Pelennor. They had recruited the additional help they required yesterday, and today they would need to teach that help what to do. Frodo wanted to see his carpentry supplies delivered to Lord Duilfin’s house and make certain that young Petras was settling in. He also owed a basket of produce to the carpenter who had lent him the tools, and he went into the pantry to scour the shelves while Sam went up to the roof garden for the tomatoes and cucumbers.

Before Pippin could leave, he had to find some cord for the two stones that Gerwinda had given back to him. He went to where Sam kept the sewing supplies and cut a length of black yarn. He slid the healing stones onto the cord and tied it around his neck, then tucked it under his hauberk. He lingered in the hallway, waiting for some sense of calm to descend, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Frodo tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Pippin whirled around, hand over heart.

“By the stars, Frodo!” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, frowning. “Are you quite certain you’re all right, Pip? You don’t look very well.”

“I’ll be all right,” Pippin said, more to reassure himself than Frodo. “After I’ve completed my task, I’ll be right as rain.”

“Sam and I could join you,” Frodo offered.

Pippin was very much tempted to accept the offer, but he knew that facing Denethor was something he needed to do on his own. That was another reason for choosing a day in which Merry would be standing guard. His friend would be nearby but unable to leave his post and hover.

“That won’t be necessary,” Pippin said. “I should go now.”

He took a deep breath and moved towards the door before he could talk himself out of it. He could feel Frodo’s eyes watching him as he went and was glad to step outside and put the door between them. He stepped onto the street and looked to his left. The walls of the Rath Dínen could be seen from their house but they had never looked more ominous to him than they did on this bright, midsummer morning. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the sixth gate and his Lord Steward.  

Legolas greeted Ioveta and her daughters at the main gate. They were all dressed in light frocks, for the morning was already warm and the clear skies promised a hot day ahead. Ogiva carried a basket over one arm, and all the girls looked excited at the prospect of leaving the city for a while. Ioveta smiled bravely at Legolas’s greeting and curtsied.

“Prince Legolas,” she said. “I have heard so much about you from the pheriannath. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Legolas said. “The court  recorder will be here shortly. Did you wish to wait for him?”

Ioveta looked ready to agree to this, but one glance at her daughters’ eager faces swayed her. “They want to see what treasures we can find. Has the rubble been cleared yet?”

“Some of it,” Legolas said. He led Ioveta and the girls down the road towards the place where their house once stood. “We began clearing the lot yesterday. We have not found any treasures as of yet, but there may still be something hidden near the bottom. There may also be nothing left at all. You must be prepared for that.”

The girls nodded but weren’t really paying attention. They were drinking in the sight of the Pelennor around them and seemed to blossom with the open fields and the breeze from the sea far away.

“You have missed living on the farm,” Legolas guessed.

Ogiva nodded. “The city is a grand place and we are growing accustomed to its closeness,” she said. “There are not enough open spaces in between all that stone. I think I shall marry a farmer.”

“It is quite too early to be thinking of such things, love,” Ioveta said with a fond smile. “You may grow to love the city yet. Gerwinda and Leudreda find many places to play and enjoy themselves.”

“Where’s the grain?” Leudreda asked then. She frowned with disappointment. She had heard so many stories from Ogiva about running up and down the endless rows of grain, hiding in the wheat and heather, and racing to reap the most grapes and cherries.

“There will be no new sowing in this part of the fields until the spring,” Legolas said. “Some has been planted on the farther reaches, where the least damage was done. It should be enough to see the city through a lean winter. I regret that another year of rations is ahead of you.”

“I’d rather face rations than orcs,” Ioveta said. She shaded her eyes against the bright sun with her hand. She should have accepted Lady Bodil’s offer of a hat, but she had not wanted to disturb her hair after combing it so carefully. Her brown tresses fell freely down her back, curling at the tips. This was the first time in years she had worn it so. She could not explain why, but she had felt it important to wear it as she had in the years of her marriage. She was in a fashion bidding farewell to her lost love, and he might not recognize her with her hair pulled into a bun.

They walked in silence for the remainder of the journey. The farmlands of her husband’s family were near the center of the fields, where the heaviest fighting had taken place. While on the outskirts of the fields could be seen skeletons of buildings and structures, here all was leveled to the ground, once smoldering heaps of brick and wood now cold mounds of powder and ash. They almost walked past the place where the lane had once been to their house, so little did they recognize anything around them.

They followed Legolas’s lead and treaded behind him over barren earth and rotted crops to the heap of debris, all that was left of their home. They stood and stared at the mess for some time, shocked and heartbroken. They had heard the tales, they had been warned, but none of that had prepared them for this moment. Silent tears streamed down their cheeks, even young Leudreda. She would not remember her home, of course, but she sensed her mother’s and sisters’ turmoil and responded likewise to it.

Finally, Ioveta pulled back her shoulders and took a deep breath. She took a tentative step forward and said, “We won’t find anything just standing here. Come, ladies. Let us see what treasures we can find, if any. Be careful you don’t hurt yourselves.”

“Yes Mother,” Ogiva and Leudreda said. Gerwinda nodded. They fanned out and circled the mound, each one looking in a different section for whatever they could find.

Legolas waited by the main road for the court recorder, giving the family time alone with their former home. An hour ticked by before Legolas spotted them coming up the center lane, each riding a horse. The recorder looked like he would much rather be walking. He was not accustomed to riding on horseback, and his eyes kept darting to the ground beneath him. His face was pinched up from the discomfort of the saddle and he clutched the reins so tight his knuckles were white. Beside him rode Sador. The former Haradim rode tall and straight, and he held the reins loosely, allowing the horse to meander as he glanced around the fields, guiding the beast only when needed. While the recorder was dressed for a morning in court, Sador wore breeches and a shirt with the sleeves torn off. His tanned skin glowed golden in the sun and though he had claimed his Gondorian name he still had about him an air of Harad.

When at length they reached Legolas, they dismounted – the recorder with a sigh of obvious relief – and followed Legolas to the house.

“Have you seen the sketches yet, Sador?” Legolas asked. “It was designed based on what Ioveta told us of the previous house. If there are any changes you require, we would need to know now.”

“I have seen it,” Sador said. “I will require only one change: an additional room. I plan to bring my brother and his family to stay here with me.” He crouched down and raked his fingers through the soil. He brought some of the soil to his nose to smell. “It is fertile land. It did not fail the crops without a fight. Only grain has been grown here before?”

“So far that I know,” Legolas said. “The previous mistress of the land is here with her daughters. She can answer more of your questions than I can. You should be warned, she has little love for the Haradrim. Her husband was one of a company killed by them a few years ago. She has grown bitter over the years, and though she has recently begun to shed that anger she is still unlikely to look kindly upon you.”

“What is her name?” Sador asked.

“Ioveta, my lord,” said the recorder. “Wife of the late Leudred.”

“The hobbits mentioned her husband,” Sador said, spotting the woman and girls crawling over the debris. “Is it safe for them to be doing that?”

“They will not be harmed,” Legolas said. He looked behind him to the lane and saw far off the cartload of men coming up the road. “The diggers will be here soon to start hauling away more of the debris.”

They reached the mound in short order and Legolas made the introductions. The girls greeted both men happily, though Ogiva’s gaze lingered over Sador’s tattoo with interest. The moon-phase band around his upper left arm was the only mark upon his skin that signaled he once belonged to the Haradrim. Ioveta noticed it also but she greeted him cordially, if impersonally.

“You are the one to whom they are giving my farm?” she asked.

“I am,” said Sador. “I grew up on a farm and only dreamed that I might again oversee one.”

“Please, mistress,” the recorder said. “I need your mark upon the parchment, to make it official.” He opened the case he carried and pulled out a scroll, a quill and an inkwell. He pulled out the stopper from the well, dipped the quill then held the quill out to Ioveta, but she did not take it. “Mistress?”

Ioveta was eyeing Sador with cold calculation. Sador met her gaze unwaveringly, his manner resigned. He had been met with similar regard since he first came to the city; he could hardly expect for her to feel any differently, especially given the circumstances.

“Mistress Ioveta,” the recorder said. “I do not mean to press you, but I must return to the Citadel.”

Ioveta looked down and took the quill. She read through the contract quickly and then glanced over her shoulder where Leudreda was digging through some dirt. Ogiva and Gerwinda were watching her, waiting.

“Mistress?” the recorder said again.

“Leave her be,” Sador said. “This cannot be an easy task for her. Allow her a few minutes. You’ll be no later to return to the Citadel for it.”

“I do not require you to defend me,” Ioveta said, glaring up at the man.

“I apologize,” Sador said with a bow of his head.

“There are many types of farms, Master Sador,” Ioveta said. “You grew crops, I assume?”

“We raised sheep and goats, actually,” Sador answered. “We had crops to meet our own needs and enough to trade at market for those crops we didn’t grow ourselves. I will be a worthy caretaker for this land, I assure you.”

“Did you grow grain?” Ioveta asked.

“My uncle did and I helped on his farm during the summers,” Sador said. “I will of course be happy for any advice you can give me on the matter.”

Ioveta dipped the quill again and signed her name upon the parchment. “You will find you have endless advice from the other farmers. Everyone helps each other for the sowing and the harvest, and you can always hire a crop master.” She handed the quill back to the recorder, curtsied and turned back to the mound of debris.

“Your signature as well, good sir,” the recorder said.

Sador signed quickly. As he signed, a tension he had not realized he was carrying eased from his shoulders. When he looked up, he gazed over his lands, his farm, his home to be, and sighed. He was truly returned to Gondor.

When the recorder was finished repacking his things, Sador helped him to mount his steed. He watched as the man rode away then turned to Legolas. “About the changes to the house, who do I see about that? I will also need to acquire the necessary supplies and seed.”

“Master Merovin will be able to help you acquire all that you need,” Legolas said. “I will take you to him once the ladies are returned to the city.”

“What are they doing?”

“Looking for treasures,” Legolas said. “There may be small trinkets that survived the desecration. Others have been able to find things: pipes, books, small portraits, combs.”

“Six pairs of hands are better than four,” Sador said and began to move towards the mound.

“I do not think she will welcome your help,” Legolas warned.

“This land is under my care now,” Sador said. “Welcome it or no, I will help.”

They climbed onto the mound with care and began to root through the debris. If Ioveta noticed, she pretended not to and the next hour passed in careful silence until the diggers arrived with their large carts. Only then did Ioveta approach Sador again.

“We will take care of things from here,” she told him.

Sador smiled but did not move. “This is my land now, and I wish to help.”

“I read the contract. This is still my husband’s lands until the first of next month, and you will remove yourself until that time,” Ioveta ordered. The diggers paused in their preparations to watch, ready to come to the lady’s defense if need be.

Legolas waited on the fringe, knowing it was best not to interrupt until it was necessary. He caught movement to his right and turned to see Gerwinda picking her way down the mound. The young girl came to stand at her mother’s side and she looked up at the man with interest.

“I sympathize with your loss, Mistress, but I assure you I am not your enemy,” Sador said.

“You are one of them!” Ioveta returned hotly, with a glance at his armband.

Sador nodded. “I am, but I am one of you also.”

Ioveta looked ready to say something else but at that moment Gerwinda took her hand. Ioveta jumped in surprised and watched as Gerwinda reached out and took one of Sador’s hands. The girl stood between them, looking back and forth between them with wide brown eyes, full of confusion and pleading. Then the girl placed her mother’s hand in Sador’s, and nodded with purpose. They both looked at their joined hands with wonder.

“Please, Mama,” Gerwinda said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Let him help.”

Ioveta’s eyes filled with tears of joy and she dropped to her knees, pulling her daughter into a fierce hug. Ogiva joined them, and the three of them sat there for some time, simply holding each other. Sador, not knowing what to make of it, but sensing that he was given a reprieve, joined the diggers and Legolas in loading the larger chunks of debris into the wagon.  

Pippin had passed through the Closed Door and down Rath Dínen easily enough, or at least, more easily than he had thought possible. Stepping onto the Silent Street had been more difficult but once he had taken that first step, the others followed without his being aware of them. As he drew closer to the end of the road, he saw the two silent sentries in front of the House of Kings. He spotted Merry and knew his cousin was watching him too. Pippin turned before getting too close; he did not want Merry to think he was approaching with some message from the Citadel.

He stopped before the House of Stewards and looked up at its gleaming white marble. How long he stood there he could not tell, but to his wonder the fear and dread slowly faded to a bearable level. At length, he could close his eyes and feel a sense of calm beneath the panic. He focused on that calm and willed it to overtake him, to push away all other feelings and thoughts until he could leave this place. When at last he was as pulled together as he thought himself likely to get, he opened his eyes again and looked into the windows of the House.

He had planned to say something, but words for once failed him. Remembering that night, those hours of terror and horror, of watching and waiting, remembering the growing madness of Denethor as he imagined the lose of his last son, his final kin, what could he say? That he was sorry? That he wished Denethor could be here now to see what had grown out of hope in the darkness of that dawnless day? He did wish it, but he knew also, somehow, that Denethor would not have welcomed the victory but would have been the more miserable for it, knowing how close he came to ruining his city because of the lies of the Enemy.

In the end, Pippin knew that all he could do was fulfill Denethor’s request for a song, but which song should he sing? He should have thought of this beforehand, should have figured out which one to sing before leaving the house. Now all he could think of were bathing songs, or cooking songs, or bawdy inn songs that would earn him a mouth full of soap just for uttering a word of them were his mother nearby to hear. There were the standard funeral songs, but those did not seem appropriate either. Denethor had already received his service and was not waiting for that.

Pippin dithered there, looking up at the mausoleum before him, until at last a song popped into his head. He, Frodo and Sam had sung it at the start of their quest, while they were still safe (or so they thought at the time) in the Shire and walking to Buckland under the moonlight. A walking song seemed just the thing to send Denethor on his way to wherever he was going.

Pippin licked his lips and hummed the song once to warm his voice. Then he took a deep breath and began to sing in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

Upon the hearth the fire is red,
Beneath the roof there is a bed;
But not yet weary are our feet,
Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone. 
            Tree and flower and leaf and grass, 
            Let them pass! Let them pass! 
            Hill and water under sky, 
            Pass them by! Pass them by!

He finished this stanza with a strong, steady voice and he found that the singing became easier as he went. He also fancied that Denethor was enjoying the tune, for it was a cheerful melody set to a quick beat to encourage the weary traveler to hurry home after a long journey.

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun. 
     Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe, 
     Let them go! Let them go! 
     Sand and stone and pool and dell,
     Fare you well! Fare you well!

Now the song was strong enough to reach the ears of Cuthred and Merry, and they listened with wonder as Pippin’s fair voice soared to the sky and filled the Hallows with a joy and hope that had not been heard or felt there before. Tears spilled down Merry’s cheeks and it was everything he could do not to smile and join in the song.

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We’ll wander back to home and bed. 
            Mist and twilight, cloud and shade, 
            Away shall fade! Away shall fade! 
            Fire and lamp, and meat and bread, 
            And then to bed! And then to bed!*

Pippin finished with a high, clear voice and instantly started again so that Denethor could hear it properly. He finished a second time and bowed. Peering into the tombs’ windows again, he said quietly, “I regret I couldn’t sing for you while you yet lived, but I hope that this suffices. You released me of my duty to you and said I should die in whatever way seemed fit to me. Well, I am a Hobbit, Lord, as you know, since you were kind enough to let me serve you without the burden of boots. So if it’s all the same to you, I think I shall die when I am very old and have had lots of children and led a full life, for dying in battle would seem a waste to a Hobbit, not a glorious thing as you deem it to be. Be at rest, my friend.”

With that he turned and walked away from the tomb wherein lay the body of Denethor, the palantír grasped in his burnt hands. Pippin met Merry’s eyes and smiled, and Merry broke his guard to smile in return. Then, whistling heartily, Pippin left the Hallows and returned home. He would not again smell the phantom vapors of ash or flesh whilst in the city.  

The sun began to sink in the West when Ioveta called her girls to her. They had found a few spare bits and pieces: a porcelain cup, the only remaining one of a set that had belonged to her husband’s grandmother; a letter opener; some sconces; and of all things a winter stocking.

“There is nothing else here, girls,” she said. She looked around at the diggers and smiled gratefully. “Thank you all for helping.” Her eyes lingered over Sador so that he knew he was included in this sentiment as well. He nodded ever so slightly.

“Mistress, we found this,” said one of the men. “It got caught up with the brick as we were shoveling.”

He handed her a small box. It had once been beautiful, crafted by her father-in-law long ago. The box was charred on all surfaces but she recognized it instantly. She drew in a breath and held it, not daring to open the lid. The outside was beyond repair. Was it possible that the contents remained intact? Ogiva and Gerwinda recognized it also and they both touched it with tentative fingers.

“Daddy’s songs,” Gerwinda said.

“The ones he wrote for you,” Ogiva said.

“Open it, Mama,” Leudreda said. “Open it!”

Ioveta pulled back the lid. The parchment inside had once been folded neatly and stacked in proper order and packed tightly. The parchments at the top, the last ones Leudred would have written, were as burnt as the outside of the box, but as she dug further she found that the remaining ones were singed but readable. She unfolded the one at the very bottom, the first song he had written, back when they were courting. She cleared her throat and read.

Your eyes round as pies
Your lips soft as wisps
Of a flower’s petal
I sigh as you walk by
Your heart sweet not tart
Nor dark like a kettle

“It’s just as horrible as I remember,” she said with a laugh and handed it to her daughters for their careful inspection. “Thank you so much,” she said to the digger. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“I’ve an inkling, mistress,” the digger said.

Legolas returned from a neighboring farm where he had been helping to stake out the frame lines for the new house. “We should be returning to the city now, Mistress Ioveta.”

“Yes, we will go now,” Ioveta said. She took back the parchment from her daughters, closed the box and added it to the basket that Ogiva still carried. “Let’s go, ladies.”

They followed the wagon to the road. Ioveta looked back and said a silent farewell to the land that had been her home for so long. Then she took Leudreda’s hand and looked forward to the city.

To be continued…

GF 9/27/09
Published 11/9/09

* - From FOTR, “Three Is Company”

Chapter 33 – All Is Revealed

The fourth morning of the king’s absence dawned light and fair. The initial shock of the king’s flight into the night had faded with Prince Faramir’s calm reassurance that Elessar would be soon to return. The speculation was no less rampant, though people had moved from discussing why the king had to left to wondering with what he would return. The popular theory was that he had gone to retrieve a lost heirloom of the throne, the Star of Elendil perhaps, or the Sceptre of Annúminas. Some bold enough asked Faramir, but if the Steward knew anything he made no mention of it.

Merry began that day by dressing in his livery and eating a quick first breakfast before heading to the Rohirrim’s house on the fourth circle. The little house looked lonely and forlorn since the Haradrim’s departure, as the surrounding homes were still empty of occupants. Smoke issued from the chimney in the kitchen. The household would be awake and preparing for their day as well.

Tucking his helm under his arm, Merry entered the little patio and strolled around the corner to enter the house through the kitchen door. There he found Adda and Feologild cooking what the Riders considered an adequate breakfast. They had cut a melon already, and over the stove bacon and ham was sizzling enticingly.

“Morning, lads!” he greeted and sniffed the bubbling concoction over the hearth fire. “Too much water. It’ll be runny. It’s too late to add more oats. Best to sift in some flour to thicken it and add two cups of sugar and a teaspoon of salt while you’re at it.”

“Sugar?” Adda asked, looking into the pot with interest. One would think the dour young Rider had never heard of such an ingredient before.

“What do you mean by sift?” Feologild asked. He had sifted through ruin and wreckage aplenty, but he had never before sifted flour.

“Or honey if you have any,” Merry said, answering Adda first. “By sift, I mean get some flour in a cup or bowl, then slowly add it to the porridge, mixing as you go so it doesn’t clump.”

He found the flour and scooped some into a mug, then demonstrated briefly. He then watched Feologild as he mimicked the hobbit, looking up for approval. Merry nodded and patted the large man on the arm. “That’s the trick! And the bacon and ham are finished.”

Adda interrupted his search for the elusive sugar to remove the meat from the oven. Merry left them to their own defenses and went in search of Erkenbrand.

He could hear some of the Riders upstairs moving about, fixing their rooms and dressing for the day ahead. Wiglaf and Offa he knew would be standing guard at the tombs today. He was about to wonder where Erkenbrand might be in the house when he entered the parlor and found the Marshall helping Penda, Osric and Ceorl polish the swords before their training session.

“Good morning all!” Merry said cheerfully.

“Good morning, Master Bag!” they replied.

“My lord, I have a missive for you from the Citadel,” Merry announced.

“Lord Aragorn has returned?” asked Erkenbrand, putting his polishing rag aside.

“Nay. The seal appears to be Southron. Bergil said it was from Sador,” Merry said, showing him the scroll. “He also says it’s urgent, hence the red seal.”

“Bergil?” Osric asked, clearly wondering why the young esquire was not present himself.

“He stopped by the house to pick up our extra rations to disperse amongst the neighbors. He likes to pick them up early when he can, to prevent the neighbors from spying him,” Merry explained. “Since I was coming here anyway, it made more sense for me to deliver the letter.”

Erkenbrand leaned his sword against the wall and stood. “Let’s go into the study,” he said and led the way. He closed the door behind them and gestured for Merry to open the scroll.

Merry broke the seal and opened the scroll, his brow scrunching up into his curls almost instantly. “This is odd. It says, ‘My Lord Erkenbrand, I regret to inform you that the Queen’s citrine is not adapting as well as had been hoped previously. Every day it grows more agitated with despair and I begin to worry for its health. If it is at all possible, I think it would be prudent to allow Osric to come and see it before too much more time can pass. With respect, Sador.’”

Merry rolled up the scroll and frowned. “Isn’t the citrine a jewel? How can a jewel despair or be unhealthy? It is an Elven jewel? The Haradrim never mentioned having elves in their lands, though I did notice they were rather unimpressed with Legolas and the twins.”

“This is a most unusual jewel, though in no way Elven,” Erkenbrand said.

“What does Osric have to do with it? I thought the citrine was for Éomer,” Merry said.

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?” Erkenbrand asked.

“All the time,” Merry said and let the matter drop. There was time enough to unravel this little riddle later.

“It is unfortunate that Bergil did not come so I could send a reply,” Erkenbrand said, looking uneasy. He paced back and forth for a time, thinking fiercely. “Very well. Osric and I will report to the Citadel after practice. Hopefully, Sador will be able to make the citrine available.”

“If it’s for Éomer, why does Sador have it?” Merry asked on impulse.

“Sador can better protect it than we can,” Erkenbrand said and stowed the scroll in the desk. He opened the door and returned to the parlor, ending the conversation.

Merry joined the Riders in polishing the swords. They finished just as the others came down the stairs. Cuthred grinned at the little knight. A moment later, Adda entered to announce that breakfast was ready.

“Have you eaten already, Master Holdwine?” Cuthred asked.

“I have, but I can eat again,” Merry said, following them into the dining room, where Feologild was finishing setting the table.

They all took a seat, Erkenbrand at the head of the table, and Adda circled them with the cauldron, spooning the steaming porridge into the awaiting bowls. Feologild followed, giving each man a few slices of bacon, ham and melon. They waited until Adda and Feologild were seated before digging into their fare. Exclamations of surprised delight sounded all around the table.

“This is good!” Wulf complimented the chefs.

“This is almost like my mother makes it,” Osric added. His shaved and painted head looked even more foreign and jarring against his livery and hauberk. Merry blinked and wondered when exactly the paint was supposed to start fading. It still looked as vibrant and bold as ever.

“You can thank Sir Merry for that,” Adda said. “In fact, I think we can thank him for all our meals which ended up tasting far better than usual.”

“It was nothing, really,” Merry said.

“Are you certain you want to return home?” asked Ceorl. “You can come with us on our campaigns and cook our meals.”

“That does sound like an adventure,” Merry said, “but now that you understand that heating up food is not the same as cooking it, you will fare much better.”

They finished eating and put the dishes to soak while they went to their practice. The morning passed languidly. The summer sun heated up as it climbed the sky overhead and by midmorning they were all sweating heavily under their armor. They preserved however, intent on their practice. When the sun was directly overhead, they stopped and cooled down with a jog around the field.

They were on their way to the baths when Bergil found them. The boy ran up, his face alight with excitement. “Sir Merry! Sir Merry! Lord Erkenbrand!”

“What is it, Bergil?” Merry asked.

“Lord Elessar has returned! Mithrandir is with him and they are bringing something!” Bergil announced between pants.

“They have been spotted?” Erkenbrand asked.

Bergil nodded. “They entered through the gate in Rammas Echor just about a half-hour ago. They should reach the city in another hour.”

“What about Elrohir and Elladan?” Merry asked.

“They were not with them,” Bergil said with a shrug. He did not look very concerned over the missing elf brothers. “The guards on the wall say that Mithrandir and Elessar carry between them a great package, wrapped in the king’s standard. Surely it must be some lost heirloom indeed!”

“We shall soon discover the truth,” Erkenbrand said with a kind smile. “Return to the wall and discover what other information you may, then report back to us if you are able. We will be at the baths.”

“Yes, My Lord!” Bergil said and turned to run back to the Gate.

“So the mystery is about to be solved,” Osric said as they watched the lad dash off.

“More than one,” Merry muttered, looking up at the Rider. If Aragorn’s secrets were anything to go by, Merry thought he suspected just what – or more precisely, who – this citrine of Queen Farzana’s was.

They speculated anew about this mysterious package as they soaked in their bath. All their theories about rings, staffs or crowns now seemed improbable. The object must be of some size for the guards on the wall to be able to spy it. What then could it be? By the time they finished their bath and were heading for the tavern where they took their noon meal, they had got no further than ruling out what it could not be.

There was a certain excitement in the air as they navigated through the streets. The news had spread quickly of the king’s return and people were gathering at yard posts and in the market squares to discuss this latest development. The tavern was more full than usual, and Erkenbrand was about to use this as a very poor excuse for going to the Citadel instead when Bergil found them again. He ran up to them and grinned.

“They are nearing the Gate!” he announced. “The king has sent forth a message that you are to meet him before the White Tower in two hours.” He did not wait for a reply but dashed off again, on his way to deliver the message to anyone else who was privy to an invitation.

Deciding that another two hours would hardly hurt anything, and that the King’s command made for a far better excuse to journey to the Citadel than did a crowded tavern, Erkenbrand followed his men inside. They were instantly approached by the bar wench with a pitcher of foaming ale.

“Isn’t this exciting!” she exclaimed and glanced around the tavern. She whistled over the din of the patrons and shouted for a group of young lads to vacate the table where the Riders usually sat. “Your usual?”

“Thank you,” Erkenbrand said. They navigated their way through the common room and couldn’t help but notice that everyone seemed to be discussing the same thing.

“What do you think our liege is bringing, Sir Meriadoc?” asked an older man and the room quieted for a moment to allow Merry to answer.

“I am as much in the dark as the rest of you, I fear,” Merry said to the disappointment of all and settled himself into his usual seat.

They spent the next hour and a half gossiping and speculating with the patrons, then dismissed themselves. They reached the Citadel and found all the lords and princes within the city gathered around the courtyard in front of the White Tower. Gandalf and Aragorn stood near the dead tree, the bundled package lying on the ground between them. Merry left the Riders and went to stand with his cousins and Sam.

“What do you know?” he asked.

Pippin shook his head. “Not much.”

“It’s a tree,” Sam announced, looking at the bundle.

“You think so?” Merry asked, taking a better look. It was indeed tree-shaped, and they were standing at the pool of the White Tree.

“Where are the twins?” Frodo asked, looking around.

“They didn’t return to the city,” Merry said.

Aragorn stood forward then and held up his hand for silence. When all gathered were quiet, he turned to Legolas, who went to the withered old tree and placed his hand upon its ancient bole. He closed his eyes and seemed to commune with the tree for many long minutes. At last he stepped back and nodded.

“In Númenor stood Nimloth, a White Tree given to our forebears by the Elves of Eressëa who befriended them, and it became as much a symbol of the Kings of old as did the crown and standard,” Aragorn announced. “Its image is stenciled upon the standard and the uniforms that our Guard wear so proudly and boldly, and its blossoming image is seen upon the wall behind the throne in the Hall of Kings. Yet only by the quick wit of Isildur, son of Elendil, does its descendants survive. At Sauron’s bidding, Nimloth was destroyed, for in it he saw a link to the Valar, his once companions and now eternal enemies. Isildur rescued a fruit from the boughs of Nimloth before it could be destroyed, and upon coming to Gondor, he planted it in Minas Ithil. Alas, that Sauron took siege of that fortress and again destroyed the tree, but again, a seed was rescued and planted here in Minas Anor by King Tarondor. Sauron sought to destroy our link to the Valar, and failed, for still does this tree stand, though it be now old and withered, while Sauron is perished. Here it has rested its roots for many hundreds of years, its one-time glory lost to the depths of time, but still it has continued to guard the Tower. Alas, it has no descendants, but we shall honor it always and place it to rest in the Silent Street.”

Then Gandalf threw open the standard that held the sapling he and Aragorn had retrieved from the hallows in Mindolluin. The sapling was no bigger than the tallest man and its thin limbs bore no blossoms yet, though the buds were many. Still it seemed to shine with a light of its own and all those gathered there looked upon it with reverence. Then Faramir and Imrahil removed the old tree, which gave away its hold on the earth with ease, and the ancient tree was hauled off to Rath Dínen with care by a small contingent of Guards of the Tower. Aragorn lifted the sapling and placed it in the earth where the old tree had stood just moments before, and as Gandalf held the sapling in place, Aragorn filled the hole with new earth. Water was brought from the pool and poured over the fresh soil, and Aragorn said an Elven prayer over the earth.

“May this sapling grow and bloom with all the promise of the new age to come,” Aragorn finished.

The ceremony over, the men lined up to walk past the sapling and admire it up close. The hobbits were near the front of the line, and as they drew near it, Pippin looked up and shook his head. “All this noise over a tree?” he said.

“It’s a very pretty tree,” Sam said, looking up at the sapling with a smile. “It’ll give good shade once it’s grown out some.”

“A new king, a new age, a new tree,” Frodo said. “It seems appropriate.”

“I still don’t understand why Strider didn’t tell us why he was leaving,” Merry said. “We wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“It’s a gift, Merry,” Frodo said, “as much for us as everyone else. He didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

They walked past the tree and Merry spotted Erkenbrand and Osric in the distance, speaking with Aragorn and Sador, the latter of whom looked most distressed. In fact, he looked quite tired, as though he hadn’t slept well since the Haradrim and his cousin departed the city.

“Let’s go,” he said and led the way towards the men. They reached them just as they were turning towards the King’s House. “That’s a lovely tree, Strider.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Aragorn said.

“I didn’t know that one hunted for trees,” Pippin quipped. “Does Treebeard know about this little habit of yours?”

“If you decide to go hunting for lilies, you best take Sam along,” Frodo said. “Some of these plants can be dangerous, you know. Sam can identify them before you get too close. We don’t want our new king rummaging around in poisonous or prickly plants. That won’t do at all.”

“I hear there’s ferns growing wild on the banks of the port,” Merry said, grinning. “Perhaps you could tame it where no one else could.”

“How long until you stop pestering me about this?” Aragorn asked with a laugh.

“A week at least,” Frodo said. “Maybe more. We haven’t decided yet.”

They came to the King’s House and settled in the parlor. The hobbits immediately began to question Aragorn and Gandalf about their trip. Aragorn and Gandalf happily told of their journey to Mindolluin, but of the twins they said only that Elrohir and Elladan parted from them after leaving the city.

“Tell us more about the White Tree,” Frodo said, as Mistress Porcia entered with a laden tray of tea and scones.

“Pardon me, Lord Aragorn,” Erkenbrand said, seizing the opportunity while Porcia was here. He stood and bowed his head to the company. “I had come to see your maid about your newest apprentice. As Master Merry so cleverly made clear this morning, we are in dire need of a proper cook.”

Aragorn lifted an eyebrow at this and shot a quick glance at Sador and Osric. “Very well,” he said, dismissing them; he would get the details later.

“Osric, let us leave old friends to catch up. Sador, join us if you will. You know more than us what to look for in a cook,” Erkenbrand said.

“Gladly,” said Sador, and the three men followed Porcia to the kitchen, while the others continued speaking.

The kitchen was warm with low hearth fires and the air was flavored with spices and simmering meat. The afternoon sun slanted in through high windows, lighting the space with a soft white glow. At a small table in the corner were a handful of cooks and maids taking an early supper. They were speaking jovially when Porcia entered, but upon seeing the three men, they quieted and concentrated on their food.

“How is she?” Sador asked as they continued into the butler’s pantry.

“She is doing well enough,” Porcia said, coming to a stop. “She listens well and does as she’s told. She’s a quick study, but the poor dear’s heart isn’t in it. I’ve yet to see her smile, and she’s shy about speaking to the others.”

“She’s been shy with Brondir also, which is most unusual. She is not shy by nature. Bring her to us,” Sador requested.

“Right away sir,” Porcia said and retreated through the dining room.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly,” Sador said to Erkenbrand. “I worried when I did not get a response to my letter.”

“There was no opportunity to send one,” Erkenbrand said. “Is it truly as bad as you said? It has only been five days.”

“More time will help, but this will help more,” Sador said.

Osric looked back and forth between the two in utter confusion. Whatever they were talking about, it was clearly not a cook. “What is this about?” he asked.

“The queen’s citrine,” Sador said, looking at Osric for the first time. “You are not allowed to touch women.”

“Not for another twenty-five days at least,” Osric said, examining the dye lines on his arms. “Does the paint fade all at once, or does it simply take longer to begin to fade?”

Sador took Osric’s arm, then the other, and examined them closely. “There should be some fading already, very subtle, but this looks the same as it did the night of the feast. How often do you bathe, if I may ask?”

“We bathed just this morning,” Osric said.

Sador released his arms and nodded. “I had forgotten that it is the custom of our people to only wash their hands and face on a daily basis. The Haradrim, however, bathe every day. The palace alone has over a dozen bathing chambers. I suggest, unless you want your month of sacrifice to turn into three or four, that you begin bathing every day as well.”

Osric nodded. “No more nights in the taverns then, as that would be the only time I’d be able to bathe every day. It’s just as well. The taverns aren’t as much fun when you can’t drink anyway. Now, why does Mistress Porcia have the queen’s citrine, and who were you talking about before?”

“They are one and the same,” Sador said. “Let us go into the dining room. We will have more room to speak, and there is something we need to tell you before Porcia returns.”

They went into the dining room and sat at the near end of the table. Sador and Erkenbrand exchanged looks, then Sador turned once again to Osric. “Jamila remains in the city. She will be going with your company to Rohan.”

There was a moment’s silence as Osric absorbed this information. He looked to Erkenbrand for confirmation. “This is true? Why was I not told before? Why did she not return to Harad?”

“She is to be given to Éomer,” Erkenbrand said. “However, Éomer will have no desire to have a former Haradrim slave serving in Meduseld. There are too many secrets for her to learn there. He cannot simply put her out though, so she will need to be married to someone. Farzana determined that someone should be you. I see no reason why Éomer would not agree.”

“Marry? I do not understand,” said Osric, more confused now than before.

“Do you not love her then?” Erkenbrand asked.

“I do,” Osric said. He looked stunned, as though he could not believe what he was hearing. “But, is that what she wants? Why would the queen care?”

Sador nodded thoughtfully. “I believe that she cares for you. She admitted so to the queen at any rate. As you may recall, it is forbidden for any man to touch a maid of the queen. It is equally forbidden for a maid to allow a man to touch her. Jamila gave her heart to you, and that is seen as the same. The queen released her of her bonds and left her here, for if Jamila had been permitted to cross into Harad, Farzana would have had no choice but to try her in court. There could only be one result of such a trial.”

“That is barbaric!” Osric exclaimed, feeling sick and outraged. “To punish someone for love! How can they do such a thing? How can the queen allow it?”

“She did not,” Sador said. “Jamila remains.”

“She remains?” Osric said. He stood up and started pacing, trying to understand the strange customs of the Southrons. “Why couldn’t Farzana simply ignore it?”

“There would have been talk. The truth would have been revealed eventually,” Sador said. “The people would demand a trial. The queen cannot simply change the customs and laws merely to suit her own desires, but she does what she can, when she can. She questioned Jamila here, where our customs could not be carried out. Jamila was left, with the understanding that if you so choose, you will be married. She has a chance for a free life, hopefully a happy life. Jamila understands this, but she has been unable to accept her new life. She is not adjusting well. I am hoping that seeing you will give her back some of her spirit.”

“Why is she here in the King’s House then?” Osric asked next, coming to a stop behind his chair. He was still too restless to sit, so he stood there with his hands on the chair’s back, and every few moments he glanced at the doorway.

“So she can learn to keep house and cook,” Erkenbrand said. “It was my idea. She knows nothing except dancing and waiting on her queen. Those skills will help her little on a farm, as a wife of a soldier. Unless you do not require her to know those things?”

“I just… I’ve never thought about it,” Osric said. He was still trying to understand everything that he had learned, but that word – wife – had dropped like a stone in the pit of his stomach. All of this had happened because he had permitted himself to flirt with the pretty maid. She had lost everything, been exiled from her homeland to escape execution, because she had returned the favor. And Sador had warned him, warned them all, what the punishments were for touching a maid. Yet it had seemed so innocent at the time. How could he have been so foolish?

“You better start thinking about it,” Erkenbrand advised, breaking into Osric’s thoughts. “This poor girl has been through enough without having to worry about you getting cold feet.”

He would have said more but at that moment the door opened and Porcia entered. He waved her inside and she opened the door wider, revealing Jamila behind her. Jamila followed Porcia into the room, her head lowered, her eyes on the floor. The young maid wore the grey smock and white apron of the house attendants, and her long raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Of all the things Osric had learned and seen so far today, this was the hardest. Such an exotic creature should not be dressed so plainly. Worse than that was the maid’s demeanor. Gone were the proud step and confident back, the shining eyes and the quick smile. In just a few days, she had withered away, a mere ghost of her former self.

“Jamila,” Osric said, stepping forward. He stopped an arm’s length away from her, conscious of the sacrifice that bound him while the savage symbols remained on his flesh.

Jamila’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice and her eyes latched onto his. She blinked quickly, then pulled her eyes away to find Sador, who nodded his approval. A slow smile graced her lips and she looked to Osric again, drinking him in. Then she remembered herself and curtsied as she had been taught to do. “Master Osric,” she said, eyes again on the floor. “You have come.”

“Of course I did,” Osric said. “I will always come for you.”

Sador and Erkenbrand stood and circled the couple to join Porcia at the door. Sador caught Osric’s eye over Jamila’s shoulder. “Perhaps you can ease some of her fears and tell her what life will be like in Rohan, maybe teach her some more of your language. We will give you an hour to talk, but remember your duty.” He repeated the same warning to Jamila in Haradrim, then left with the others.

Jamila and Osric stood facing each other for endless moments, neither quite able to believe their luck in having each other still. Then Osric remembered his manners and pulled out a chair for Jamila to sit. She only glanced at it.

“Do you want to sit?” Osric asked.

“Do you wish for me to sit?” Jamila asked, confused by the question.

“Only if you want to,” Osric said. “We can stand here, or sit somewhere else.”

Jamila hesitated for a time, then sat upon the floor where she was, her legs folded to her right side. She propped herself up on the palm of her left hand, for lack of a pillow. Osric put the chair back and sat tailor-fashion across from her, as close as he dared to get so he would not be tempted to reach out and take her hand.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Many things to say, but I am most happy to see you.”

“As I am you. I thought I would never see you again. It was a feeling darker than the Nazgul’s cold dread. And now they tell me we are to be married. That is what you want, isn’t it? I will not take you if you do not want to be with me.”

“I want,” Jamila said, smiling shyly.

Osric grinned in return. “So then what do you want to know about Rohan?”

Jamila glanced around the room, but Osric had the sense that she was seeing more than just these four walls. “Is it much like Gondor?” she asked.

“Edoras is our capitol, but it is nothing like Minas Tirith, all this stone and mortar. It is more like the Pelennor, open plains and farmlands. All of Rohan is like that actually. There are stone forts of course, but our buildings are made of wood, mud and hay usually. We live very simply, most of us are farmers of some kind, or horse-breeders. I tend my father’s farm…”

Erkenbrand and Sador stepped away from the door, leaving the couple to their privacy. “Thank you again for brining him. I think it will help.”

“We shall see,” Erkenbrand said, thinking of Finduilas, Faramir’s mother and the last Lady Steward. She too had left behind all she loved and in not so nearly dramatic a fashion. She had not adjusted well to the change and had spent her last years in a state of dull unhappiness. Yet perhaps Jamila was made of sterner stuff. “I hope so, for both their sakes.”

To be continued…

GF 10/30/09
Published 11/17/09

Chapter 34 – The Beginning Of All Things

A week passed and the White Tree grew and blossomed, taking root more swiftly than could have been hoped. Already it seemed as though it had always been there, and its fragrant flowers were a beauty to behold, but for none so much as Sam. Often he could be found beneath the tree, looking up into the boughs with a far away look upon his face.

On the morning before Midsummer, Frodo found him there after breakfast and sat beside him. “A farthing for your thoughts,” Frodo said after some time passed in silence.

Sam stirred as one from a dream. He turned to Frodo and blinked several times before focusing on his friend’s face, then he looked up at the tree again and sighed. “It reminds me of the Party Tree. I always thought Rosie and I would marry under that tree. I guess sitting here makes home seem closer somehow, if you follow.”

“It does feel like home,” Frodo said wistfully. He put his hand to the tree’s bole and closed his eyes to listen, as he had seen Legolas do so many times before. He heard nothing but the wind blowing through the leaves and Sam shifting beside him. If the tree was speaking, it was in a language Frodo knew not.

Frodo gave it up and took Sam’s hand instead, squeezing it once. “We’ll be homeward bound soon enough. For now, I must see to Petras. I got a letter from him yesterday that the jewelry box will be ready to pick up today. He finished it sooner than I thought possible. Master Duilfin has also invited you and the lads to luncheon. We can kill two orcs with one stone. Are you coming?”

“Of course, Master,” Sam said. He stood and gave the tree a final glance. He’d be back, later.

They returned to the house to pick up Merry and Pippin, who were upstairs and clearly in the middle of a contest to determine who could sing the bawdiest tavern song. Sam, his ears burning, went to the parlor to write a list for the market while Frodo went to gather his cousins. Ten minutes later, they were heading to the third circle to the home of Master Duilfin.

The cooper’s house was located just above the coopery. A stair on the side led up to the house, and the courtyard there was littered with spare bits of wood and metal, and barrels for collecting rain water. Merry knocked upon the door and a minute later it was answered by a young woman. She smiled at them and bid them enter. She saw them settled in the parlor, then went to fetch the master and his son.

The hobbits looked around the parlor while they waited. If Lady Bodil’s home was sparsely decorated out of choice, they guessed that Master Duilfin’s was decorated so out of necessity. Items had likely been traded for things they needed and the rest lost or damaged in the fighting. Many homes on the lower circles had been sacked by the Enemy, and Merry pointed out a few slash marks on the walls that could only have been made by tempered steel.

As they waited, they could hear scuffling down the hall in one of the chambers. It sounded as though someone was wrestling with a wild boar, and it ended a few minutes later with a resounding thunk. The hobbits looked at each other questioningly but, guessing what was likely the cause of the noise, none of them were willing to get up and inspect the matter. It was just as well, as their guess was confirmed a few minutes later when the woman returned, followed by Master Duilfin pushing Petras in a wheeled chair.

The hobbits stood and bowed to their host, who bowed back. Petras nodded from his chair; a small bundle was wrapped in cloth on his lap. The woman went to gather the refreshments, and when she returned, they were all seated. The woman sat next to Petras to be of assistance if needed. Only then did the hobbits notice the resemblance between them. 

The young soldier looked improved, if still too thin. Some color had returned to him, and he was freshly bathed and groomed for their visit. His clothes had been resettled as best they could after the shuffle from bed to chair. His eyes still held a wounded look, but there too could be seen a silent determination, or perhaps desperation. His eyes met Frodo's, and they smiled as old friends.

“Lord Frodo, might I introduce you to my cousin, Pavla,” Petras said. “She lost her husband in the war and she has come to stay with us. Pavla, this is Lord Frodo, the Ring-bearer.”

Pavla managed a bob that resembled a curtsy from her sitting position. “Lord Frodo, I am honored to meet you. The country sings your praises. Truly, we would have been lost if not for you.”

“I am honored to meet you as well, Mistress Pavla,” Frodo said.

“Pavla dear,” Master Duilfin said, “may I also introduce Lord Samwise, Lord Frodo’s companion; the Ernil i Pheriannath, Sir Peregrin; and the Holdwine of Rohan, Sir Meriadoc.”

“It is an honor to meet you as well,” Pavla said. “I have heard so much about all of you. I was surprised to learn that you would be visiting today, and I admit at first I thought my uncle playing a joke on me!”

“He was not joking,” Merry said. “We met your father at the groundbreaking of the Pelennor. Were you here for that?”

“I was, but I was not feeling well,” Pavla said. “I stayed home that day.”

“I am glad that you are feeling better then,” Merry said.

“And we are sorry to hear about your husband,” Pippin said. “Do you have children?”

“Alas, no,” Pavla said, smiling bravely. “We hadn’t been married more than a few months when the call for soldiers came. We had hoped to begin a family in a year or two. Now all I have of him are memories.”

“They are good memories,” Frodo stated.

“Oh yes! He was a kind man, very good to me,” Pavla said. “But enough about me. I am certain you came to see my uncle and cousin. I do not wish to get in the way.”

“You are not a bother at all,” Frodo assured her. “Have you been to see the White Tree that the King has planted at the Citadel yet?” For many of the citizens of Gondor had made the journey to see the tree and marvel at it. So long had there been only death and an echo of former glory standing there at the pool. To now see life and new hope growing there was beyond imagining.

“We have not,” Duilfin said with a sideways glance at his son.

Frodo leaned forward and nodded at the bundle in Petras’s lap. “Is that the jewelry box?” he asked, changing the subject, for he guessed it was a sore one.

Petras nodded. “It is,” he said and played with the cloth wrapping nervously. “I hope that it suffices.”

He pulled back the cloth and held it out for Frodo and the others to see. It was exactly as it looked in the design. Petras had chosen ash wood, a hard and sturdy wood. Making the box and pedestal as one continuous piece had been more difficult than he originally thought, and this final product was his seventh attempt. He began to doubt himself after his fourth failed attempt, but he had persevered, not wanting to let down the Ring-bearer. He had never been prouder than when he finally succeeded.

After that, the rest had been fairly simple and straightforward. He and Frodo had not spoken of colors or paints, so Pavla had suggested midnight blue, with white for the Elven letters and designs. She had also suggested the silver cloth for the inside of the box.

“Do you think a queen will like it?” Petras asked nervously.

“It’s wonderful!” Merry complimented.

“It’s truly beautiful!” Pippin agreed.

“Are you sure you aren’t Elvish yourself then?” Sam asked, making Petras and Pavla grin.

“Quite sure, my lord,” Petras said. “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t finish by your deadline, Lord Frodo. I wanted it to be perfect. But, if I may ask, who is to be queen? Do you know? No one else seems to know anything about it.”

Frodo took the box and set it upon the table to continue admiring it. “We have our guess, but I believe Lord Aragorn has intended it be a surprise. You have not told anyone else?”

“Oh, no, my lord. We’ve only been asking how long until the King shall find himself a Queen,” Duilfin said. “Needless to say, there are many a young maid pining for the chance to meet with the King.”

“You should have heard the talk after the ball,” Pavla said. “No one could believe that the King Elessar had been seen dancing with bar wenches! Oh, the courtesans were in a fury over it! To think that they’ve been waiting patiently for an invitation to meet with the King, and here these four wenches get to meet him first! It was such delicious gossip!”

“I am sure that Lord Aragorn would love to hear more about this gossip,” Pippin said, with a wicked little glint in his eyes. “Can you be more specific?”

“Yes, do tell,” Merry goaded.

“Now, let me think,” Pavla said, sitting back. “I was at the market doing the weekly shopping when I heard the maiden to Miss Vibeka talking to the cook’s aide for Lady Finalda...”

They spent the next hour swapping gossip, then retreated to the kitchen for luncheon. Pavla had prepared simple fare, cucumber sandwiches, sliced cheese, strawberries and apples with a cream sauce, and wine. She worried it was not grand enough, but the hobbits were quick to assure her this was precisely what they were accustomed to eating at home. They ate with gusto and when the meal was over they returned to the parlor to speak again.

The hobbits regaled them with memoirs from their homeland and Pavla told them about growing up in Minas Tirith. She had met Boromir once, though she was just a child when he was already lieutenant of his company. He had helped her once when he saw her struggling to roll a barrel of mead up to the fourth circle. He had been most kind to her, letting her dither on about her sewing and crocheting as they worked. Then he had escorted her back to her parents’ house and kissed her hand. After that, whenever he saw her in the city, he would smile and nod, and sometimes greet her good day.

“I was very sad to hear that he had been killed,” she concluded. “He was a good man.”

“Yes he was,” Frodo said.

As they readied to leave, Petras asked to speak with Frodo in private. Duilfin pushed Petras into the study and closed the door. Frodo stood before Petras and waited.

“I wanted to thank you,” Petras said. “I still sometimes wonder if coming back was the right thing to do. There is so much I am unable to do for myself anymore, and Pavla must help me constantly, but I am starting to learn how to manage certain things on my own. Making the box for you was a handy distraction.”

“But?” Frodo prompted when the lad paused.

“But now I’m finished with it,” Petras said, the quiet despair returning to haunt his grey eyes. “What do I do now?”

“Now, you do whatever you can do,” Frodo said. “Help your cousin. Work on strengthening your arms so you can push yourself around.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but what do I do?” Petras asked. “I cannot do anything worthy. I will never marry, never have children. I try to imagine what my life will be like ten years from now, twenty, thirty, and all I see is this chair.”

Frodo didn’t answer at first. He knew too well how the lad felt, had attempted to imagine his own life down the road and seen only blackness. Yet he had to believe there was hope; the fact that they were all free was proof of that. Why then wasn’t it enough?

"I don’t know,” Frodo said, in answer to his own question as much as Petras's. He smiled wanly. “I don’t know what you do, or what I am to do. All I know is that the impossible is possible. If you can imagine it, you can make it be. If you can imagine it. What can you imagine?”

Petras shrugged. “I can perhaps make a living with this,” he said, pointing at the jewelry box that Frodo carried. “Specializing in small pieces. I can expand on that, to working with metal and stones. I’ll need the equipment of course. I have to return the tools you bartered for me.”

“Necessity fosters creativity,” Frodo said. “I’m sure that you can come up with some way of getting the equipment you need. You can barter your services, just as I bartered food. Anyone who gives you tools will receive free repairs on their tools.”

“Anyone who has tools can fix their own,” Petras said.

“Not everyone,” Frodo said. “Most just use their broken tools for scraps and have to trade for new ones. There are other things you could do. Everyone needs something.”

“What do you need?” Petras asked.

“I need to know that you’ll be all right,” Frodo answered. “You will be, won’t you?”

Petras breathed deep and let it out in a huff. He nodded bravely. “I’ll try to be. I keep telling myself every day will be better than the last. They gave me this cream to put on my… it helps with the pain.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Frodo said. He shook Petras’s hand. “I hope to see you again, before we leave the city.”

“I would like that,” Petras said.

“Then until next time,” Frodo said and took his leave.

He found his friends outside with Master Duilfin, digging through the scraps that were littered there. They discovered that Duilfin had a system of organization: pieces that could be melted to reuse went in one pile, parts that could be refashioned into other tools went in another pile, parts he could barter to others in yet a third pile, and the wood of course for burning.

Duilfin bowed to them and bid them farewell. He knelt before Frodo and took his hand. “Thank you for my son,” he said.

“It was my pleasure,” Frodo said, with a glance around the piles. He was getting an idea. “He’s a good lad. Perhaps he can hold onto those tools a few weeks longer. He could begin to make his own from these scraps.”

“That’s just what we were looking for, sir,” Sam said. “A hammer, adze, and chisel will be what he’s needing right off, and he could use those to fashion the smaller tools for the detail work. Course, smaller instruments are easier to break, so he’ll likely want molds for those; it’ll be easier to make news ones from melted metal than to try to fashion them from bone or wood all the time.”

They poked around for another few minutes, piling the best candidates for future tools near the door. Then they left to complete their marketing and returned home to find that Legolas and Gimli in a flurry of excitement – or in as much of a flurry as a stoic dwarf and taciturn elf can be. Word had come from the Citadel – a party was approaching the city and Aragorn wanted them dressed in their best and ready to greet the guests before the main gate by sundown.

The hobbits hurried to put their shopping away. Sam began the water steaming, enough for four baths, while Merry and Pippin set about making a quick tea. Frodo slipped into the study without being seen and sat in the shadows. He was tired already from luncheon and the marketing, and he had learned by now that doing too much was a guarantee for nightmares come bedtime. He thought he could guess just who was in this party, and knowing that, he couldn’t even begin to contemplate not showing up. Aragorn was counting on them; he would have to be there.

So for now, he sat in the stuffed chair and closed his eyes. He tried to clear his mind as he did when using the healing stones. Soon enough the sounds in the parlor and kitchen faded away, and his thoughts dimmed to soft whispers. Yet even then he could still hear loud as thunder Petras’s desperate plea.

What do I do now?  

Earlier that morning, word came from Amon Dîn that a party of fair folk was coming from the northwest. A runner came down from the White Tower and found Aragorn in his house as he was preparing for another day at court. He was mentally running through a list of proclamations he needed to sign when the knock sounded on his door and the runner entered.

“Fair folk? They are sure?” Aragorn asked, doing his best to appear calm, even while his heart leapt into his throat.

“They sent the signal, My Lord,” the runner said. “They should be arriving in the city by sundown.”

“Thank you. Send word to the guards on the wall to permit the party through Rammas Echor and to send work back to me when they have done so. I would meet them at the Gate. At last they have come! Let all the City be made ready!*”

“Yes, My Lord,” the runner said with a bow and left.

Aragorn waited until he was certain the runner was out of earshot, then let out a whoop, surprising his valet. He sent his valet to fetch breakfast so he could pace the room in private. A party of Fair Folk… Arwen. He was surprised to find his palms sweating and shaking with anticipation. After all these years and all his labors, the day had finally arrived. However was he to get through the day’s court proceedings?

Yet somehow he managed it. Just after three o’clock, another runner came into the Hall of Kings and announced that the party was passing through the north gate of Rammas Echor. Aragorn finished the current item of business, then ended the court early so that he and Faramir could prepare for the guests’ arrival.

When Aragorn was ready, he met Faramir at the courtyard of the White Tree, and together they went down to the fifth circle to the Fellowship’s house, where they were joined by the others. As they made their way down to the first circle, they noticed that the citizenry were beginning to line the streets. They too were eager to see this party that was approaching, as they wondered what new surprise their King had in store for them now. The excitement in the city was building to a fevered pitch, and by the time twilight was approaching nearly every citizen was on the streets or leaning over rooftops and balconies.

A small contingent of Guards on the first circle had to hold back the mass of citizenry to keep clear the square before the Gate. In the middle of the square stood the Fellowship, Aragorn and Gandalf at the front, the hobbits to one side, and Legolas, Gimli and Faramir, standing in for Boromir, to the other. 

The minutes dragged by and as the shadows lengthened, the whispers of those standing nearby grew into an impatient din. At length the guards on the wall sounded their horns and all in the square grew silent again. The great Gate swung slowly open, and the crowd pressed forward for a better look.

Elrohir and Elladan entered first, carrying between them a banner of silver. After them came Glorfindel and Erestor, followed by all the members of the Last Homely House. Then came Galadriel and Celeborn riding upon white steeds that seemed to shine just as did the Lady and Lord; Frodo could hear Gimli’s gasp of surprise upon seeing the grand queen so unexpectedly. Many of their people followed them. Each stopped to greet Aragorn and brief hellos were bade to the rest of the Fellowship as each elf cleared the gate to make way for the next person. The clearing in the square was nearly full when at last came Elrond. He held in his hand the Sceptre of Annúminas, but no one paid this any heed for riding at his side was Arwen, the Evenstar, in a gown of sparkling silver. Behind her the night sky shone with many twinkling lights that beamed down upon her hair and in her eyes, and all about her was the fragrance of primrose and dahlia.

Frodo gasped at the sight of her. He had never before seen her like this, under the night sky with starlight shining upon her. He turned to Gandalf and whispered, “At last I understand why we have waited! This is the ending. Now not day only shall be loved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fears pass away!”*

Gandalf smiled but could do no more than that at the moment.

Aragorn bowed to Elrond and Arwen. “Welcome, Father.” He had planned a much more elaborate speech, but words failed him in this moment.

Elrond smiled kindly and bowed, as beside him Arwen curtsied. “Hello, my son,” he said. He handed over the sceptre, then took his daughter’s hand. He squeezed it gently and, with only mild hesitation, placed it in Aragorn’s hand. Then Aragorn and Arwen led the way into the High City, and as the citizenry beheld their Royal Couple, shining as bright as the stars, they fell to their knees in awe.

At length they reached the sixth circle and there many soldiers and pages greeted them to take their steeds. The party then continued to the Citadel and the Steward’s House, for Arwen would not enter the King’s House until she was Queen.

The Steward’s House was for once fully staffed to accommodate the many guests, but Faramir did not take the company inside but instead led them around the House to the Great Lawn where tables stood and food was steaming, filling the air with delicious scents.

The meal was grand and wonderful, and the night was filled with laughter and music. Midnight came and went and still no one was ready to retire, until finally Gandalf stood and tapped his glass with his spoon.

“If any of us are to be awake in the morning for the ceremony, I suggest we take to our beds now.”

“But it is tomorrow! Surely we can have the ceremony now!” Merry said.

Everyone laughed. “As much as I would love to do so,” Aragorn said, standing, “I believe Gandalf is right. What is a few more hours?” He gave his hand to Arwen to help her to her feet.

“Come my friends,” Aragorn said to the Fellowship. “You will stay with me in my home tonight.”

They went into the House and Gandalf, sensing that sleep was the last thing on any of their minds, took out a flask which he passed around. “This will help you to find your slumber. You must be alert in the morning.”

The hobbits took rooms on the second floor. Sam saw his master settled before he went to his own bed. Despite the drink, he lay awake for another hour, thinking of his Rose. She was on his mind constantly these days, and after seeing Aragorn reunited with Arwen, she was nearly all he could think about. His only comfort was that soon enough they would be permitted to leave and he would see Rose again. What may happen then he couldn’t guess, but as he drifted off to sleep at last, he dreamt of her in a green dress carrying a bouquet of furze and thyme. Ribbons streamed in her curls and she smiled as radiantly as the sun. She was walking towards him where he stood under the Party Tree, only it wasn’t the Party Tree, and it bloomed with fragrant flowers and glowed silver under the sunlight. She reached him and put her hand in his and –

“Sam!” Pippin poked him again. “Are you ever waking up? We have to get ready. The wedding’s in two hours!” He poked Sam again and stayed bent over the gardener until his eyes blinked open. “Well, it’s about time! All these years of waiting and now they’re rushing to the altar. I don't see why they can’t wait until after first breakfast.”

Two hours later, the hobbits were standing with the other guests on the Great Lawn, which had been prepared for the ceremony while the others had been sleeping. An altar had been placed at its center, with an arbor behind it, and vines of ivy had been weaved around its trellis.

At the altar stood Elrond, Gandalf and Faramir. They spoke quietly amongst themselves until at length Aragorn appeared. The whispering ceased, and as if on cue the sun peeked over the distant mountains, shining upon the king with warm golden rays. He held the Sceptre of Annúminas in his hand and he walked down the aisle with a regal air that brought everyone to attention. Behind him came his brothers, and when they reached the altar they turned, waiting.

Then from the Steward’s House, the doors opened and the bride’s train began to file out, Galadriel and Celeborn first, then a handful of maids from Elrond’s House, and finally Arwen. The walk seemed to take forever but before too long she stood at the altar across from Aragorn. She took his hand and they gazed into each other’s eyes so intently that it seemed everything else around them faded.

Sam had no idea what was said or done during that ceremony. Looking back on it later, he could only ever say that it was grand and beautiful and perfect, and that it was the finest Midsummer Day he had ever known up to that point. When the newlyweds kissed and the audience clapped, he clapped with them and didn’t notice the tears in his eyes until Frodo handed him a handkerchief.

The King and Queen retreated down the aisle, followed by Elrond, Galadriel and the others. The rest of the guests followed them to Merethrond where a grand breakfast had been prepared.

After the feast, Aragorn took Arwen and her family on a tour of the King’s House. The Fellowship came as well; this would be the first time that Gimli, Gandalf and Legolas had seen the house since its remodeling.

Floor by floor they went. In the rooms that were redecorated, Pippin was quick to point out all the things that were his idea, interrupting the twins’ commentary of the changes made. The library looked much brighter and more welcoming than before, and the long curtains waved in the breeze as the sea coming to a grassy shore. The painting that would go above the fireplace was not yet complete; Beren and Luthien would be the final touch. The sunroom was also brighter and the plants there were arranged in much the same way as they had been in her sunroom in Rivendell, though they were by necessity of different varieties. Still, Sam had done his best to select plants that were of the same family as those in the Last Homely House. In the master guest suite on the second floor, the portrait of Queen Fíriel now hung over the mantle and lent the room with a regal air it had lacked before. The elegant Elven designs softened the room and the light shined through the uncovered windows; the moveable shade the twins’ had commissioned for the room was pulled to one side. When and if the twins returned to the city to visit - for they would not be sailing with their father - they would be comfortable and at home in these chambers.

On the third and final floor, Aragorn bid the company to wait. He turned to Arwen and kissed her hand. “My Lady,” he said, then bent down and swooped her up in his arms. The shout of surprised delight that escaped Arwen’s lips was music to his ears. “Close your eyes,” he requested, and she did so without hesitation.

He carried her up the final set of stairs and down the short hall leading to the main parlor of the master suite. He set her gently on her feet, took her hand and said, “Open them.”

Arwen opened her eyes to a room that was as close to resembling the main parlor in Rivendell as could be managed. Clearly, they were unable to open up the walls to expose the room to the elements, but they had painted a mural of Rivendell’s pine forest on one wall and hung lacy white curtains on the other, so that light would come through them whether opened or closed. The curtains and windows were open now, and a fresh breeze carried the scent of salt air into the room. Arwen slowly turned, taking in the room. Tears of joy welled in her eyes and she hugged Aragorn fiercely.

“It feels like home already,” she said.

“Can we come in now?” Pippin shouted from the stair.

Aragorn and Arwen laughed. “Yes, come in.”

The others entered and they completed the tour.

“I am duly impressed,” said Gandalf, eyes twinkling. “The hobbits have a fair eye.”

“I have a fair eye, two of them actually,” Pippin said. “It’s a good thing I was here to help avert their worst ideas.”

Merry nudged him in the ribs playfully. “Oh, I suppose mud brown was a bad idea for the bedchambers, but I hardly think puce was any better,” he joked, making everyone laugh.

“Pippin did come to the rescue many times though,” Frodo admitted. “Even your brothers were impressed with some of his suggestions. I suppose being raised with four sisters helps a lad to be more… womanly.”

“Womanly?!” Pippin scoffed. “You think I’m womanly?”

“And what is wrong with that?” Galadriel asked, pulling herself up to her full, intimidating height.

“Nothing, Fair Lady,” Pippin said, embarrassed and horrified.

Galadriel laughed. “Just remember that.”

“You have a grand view from here,” Legolas said, looking out of the windows. He smelled the salt air and his heart clenched. Each time he smelled the Sea the longing grew that much stronger, but he could wait. He would not leave his friends to sail, and there was still much to do here. He turned and saw Galadriel watching him knowingly, but she smiled when he did. Her warning had gone unheeded but not unappreciated.

“A grand view perhaps, for those who can see it,” Gimli said with a huff. “You need seating boxes here, lad, or at least a stepping stool. Why did you hobbits not think of that?”

“Begging your pardon, but we’ve had enough of heights for one lifetime,” Sam said with a shudder. He could put aside his fear of heights at need now, as could the others, but none of them would have dreamed of wanting to see the view.

“Shall we go down to the city now?” Elrond suggested. “My sons can guide us.”

“We’ll guide you too,” Pippin insisted. “We know the city better than they do, and we owe you for making us so welcome in Rivendell.”

“We also know where all the good Midsummer celebrations are going to be,” Merry said with a conspiratorial wink.

“Then by all means, lead the way,” Elrond said with a stately bow.

Aragorn and Arwen hung back, unnoticed by the others as they made their way back downstairs, Pippin’s running monologue filling the hallway.

Aragorn chuckled and turned to his wife. His wife! “Are we really here?”

“We really are,” Arwen said. She cupped his bearded chin and smiled wistfully. “You did it, beyond all hope, as I always knew you would.”

They leaned in for a kiss, but at that moment, Arwen caught the last audible part of Pippin’s rattling speech. “And there’s a tavern on the fourth circle, The Peeking Eagle, where we met these bar wenches and invited them to the Haradrim’s farewell feast to court Strider! It was hilarious!”

Arwen leaned back out of the kiss, much to Aragorn’s confusion: he had not the keen hearing of Elves.

“Is something wrong, my love?” he asked.

“Bar wenches?” Arwen asked, raising an eyebrow. She wasn’t upset - yet.

“Pippin,” Aragorn hissed under his breath. He had been hoping to go a few days longer before Arwen caught word of that fiasco. He sighed and, taking Arwen’s hand, led her to their bedchamber. If he was going to explain the bar wenches, he’d have to start at the beginning. “Have you ever heard of streaking?” he began. “It’s something that only hobbits do,” he added quickly, before Arwen could get the wrong idea.

“I’m listening,” she said, though she wasn’t really. The story could wait.

To be concluded…

GF 11/17/09
Published 11/20/09

* - From “The Steward and the King”, The Return of the King

Epilogue – The World Ahead

Jamila picked up the polished bone brush and gently pulled the bristles through Arwen’s hair. All of her various duties - cooking, cleaning, attending to the Riders, doing the marketing, learning Rohirric - she enjoyed this part of her day the most. Arwen was a fair queen, in both beauty and manner, and Jamila enjoyed being able to employ her skills as the queen’s maid. She knew this task, could do it in her sleep and probably had on some occasions in her past seventeen years, especially after festivals and feasts when she was required to see her queen to her rest before finding her own bed. She thought she had fallen into a dream when the King Elessar told her she was to attend the queen in the mornings; if only she could be guaranteed such a position when she went to Rohan, but she knew it wouldn’t be so. She would likely never do this again after leaving Gondor.

“Is something wrong?” Arwen asked suddenly. She had spied in the mirror the maid’s small frown, and she had sensed a quiet unrest in the maid over the last two and-a-half weeks. Some mornings it could hardly be registered, other mornings, such as now, it all but vibrated through her being.

Jamila shook her head. “No, my queen,” she said, wiping her face of any apprehension with practiced ease. She began to hum, and started counting brushstrokes to keep her mind from wandering.

Arwen wasn’t about to be put off though. She had spoken to her husband, as well as Erkenbrand and Osric about the maid, and she could guess well enough what the trouble may be. “You have heard by now that one day my father will be sailing over the Seas with many of his household,” she said.

“I have, my queen,” Jamila said with curiosity. She wasn’t at all sure what to make of these rumors. There were few elves in Harad, and most Men believed that those who claimed to be elves were merely posing. She didn’t at all understand what all this sailing business was about, or why Arwen was mentioning it to her now.

“Do you know anything at all about my people, Jamila?” Arwen asked.

“No my queen, but they are a fine people,” the maid answered. This was not entirely true. Everyone in Harad knew exactly how the Black Númenóreans felt about the Elves, but she could hardly accept such hatred as truth, especially now that she was acquainted with so many of them.

“It is said that when the world was young and the Elves awoke and the Great Evil appeared, the Elves were ushered to the West by a host of the Valar. Do you know of the Valar? They are the deities that helped to form and shape our world and all things in it, and gave us the stars, moon and sun. One of the Vala became jealous. He felt that his creations should be honored above all others, rather than become just another note in the music. He was blinded by his pride, and a great hatred blackened his heart. He became the Great Evil, of whom your Eye was just a pupil once.

“The other Valar sought to save the Elves by urging us to move West. Some stayed here and did not go. Those that went were forbidden to ever return to what were then the Eastern lands. Most were happy to stay in the West, but there were some who returned despite the warning, and in their departure, a battle erupted and many Elves were killed. These Elves, and all their kin to follow, were banished from ever returning to the West. That banishment has now been lifted, with the defeat of Sauron. Now all Elves, whether they were banished or not, are free to go into the West,” Arwen said, giving the briefest explanation she possibly could to avoid confusing and overwhelming the maid.

“Do you know of Númenor? Yes, I thought you would. After Númenor was sunk into the Sea, Valinor was removed from the circles of the World, and now only Elves can find the Straight Road that leads to it. To get to the West, those who sail must pass through a veil and into the skies, and once past the veil, there is no coming back. All Elves have this right, to return to our home, including me. There we would live together forever, never to be parted or know death, whether ours or those of our friends and loved-ones. I have forsaken my passage.”

“Why?” Jamila asked, for she could not imagine any reason worth giving up such a paradise.

“Because Estel is a Man,” Arwen said. “I love him, and to be with him, I must give up that right and remain here, even as all my family sail away.”

“You love him that much?” Jamila asked with astonishment. She had noticed the bond between king and queen and had not determined it to be any greater than that of Farzana and Ashraf. Her former queen and king would have moved mountains for each other if they were capable of it, but this… “But you are still an Elf, still immortal. Elessar is not. You would give up living with your family forever, to be with him for but a few short years?”

“He is of Númenórean blood and will live longer than most Men, but yes, some day he will pass,” Arwen said, with a slight shudder. “I would rather spend what years he has left together than apart.”

“Then truly your love for him is great,” Jamila said in awe. With a start, she resumed her brushing, not having realized that she had stopped. She thought furiously, her own dilemma now paled by comparison. Osric was a good man, and he loved her. She found she loved him also and while she was still uncertain of how she would be received in Rohan, she did at least have friends among the Riders. Did she love him enough though for the loss of her home and family, such as they were, to be worth it? And did it really matter? She could not go back, only forward, and today at last she was to meet the King Éomer. He was to arrive this very morning, and tomorrow they would be leaving for Rohan and her new life there.

“Estel’s love for me is just as great,” Arwen said, breaking into the maid’s thoughts. “I would not have chosen so if he did not love me equally.”

“You are happy with your decision?” Jamila asked.

Arwen smiled wistfully. “I am. I would not change it for anything. Love can make you stronger than you ever thought possible, Jamila. Remember that.”  

Osric and Erkenbrand looked across the desk at Éomer.

After the Riders had greeted Éomer and his éored at the Gate, they had taken their breakfast at a tavern and only now returned to their home on the fourth circle. The éored would be bunking in the house tonight; the rooms would be cramped but tolerable. Once Erkenbrand had set everyone on the task of figuring out their sleeping arrangements, he went with Éomer into the study and brought him up-to-date on all the happenings since his departure to Rohan. Éomer was satisfied with all he heard, except on the point of the Haradrim slave girl. Hence Osric was requested to join them and give his own account of all that had transpired. Éomer couldn’t deny Erkenbrand’s assessment that having a former slave in Meduseld was foolish, and that marrying her to a farmer as far away from the capital as they could place her was the best solution. He was not so certain that allowing Osric to marry her was the right choice.

“You would have been an officer, perhaps a marshal yourself one day,” Éomer said to him, watching the young man closely. Only one-and-twenty he was, but he was a valiant soldier and his judgment was usually sound, swift and accurate. “You would have to resign for marrying a foreigner. If we should ever go to war with Harad, we cannot risk the compromise.”

“I would never betray Rohan, My Lord,” Osric said with conviction.

“I do not doubt that, only that you may find yourself suffering from compassion when only a swift blow will save your life,” Éomer said. “Could you kill someone, knowing they might be your wife’s kinsman? If you could, would she accept that?”

Family was one of the first things Osric had spoken about with Jamila. He had been saddened to hear that she had no immediate family that she knew about for certain. She had heard once that she had a sister somewhere, and she thought her parents were still alive, but the last gift she ever received from them was over six years ago. The other slaves of the palace had been her family, and she missed them terribly, though the pain was becoming more bearable with each day passed.

As far as war and death went, she was frighteningly pragmatic, more so than himself. One chose one’s master and mistress above all others; blood meant nothing to the engrained servitude of a good slave, and Jamila was a good slave or had been. He wondered if she would ever accept that she was her own mistress now. He had noticed that she accepted Erkenbrand’s word above all others, except perhaps Sador, Aragorn and Arwen. If it ever came to a debate between the four of them, Osric could guess that Jamila’s instinct would be to side with Arwen. Now that Éomer was here, Osric knew her loyalty would shift to her new king, wholly and blindly. It was a rather unnerving prospect.

“I could and without hesitation,” Osric answered. “And she would accept it, without question. However, I shall resign if you think it in the best interest of Rohan.” He swallowed reflexively and forced a smile. “Mother will be happy. She’ll get me back in one piece.”

“I do not think that will be necessary, at least not right away,” Éomer said. “The other Haradrim, the translator, is he still in the city? I should like to speak with him if he is.”

“He is, My Lord. He prepares to depart tomorrow as well,” Erkenbrand informed him. “He suspected you may want to speak with him and Jamila. They will be here shortly after the noon meal.”

“Very good,” Éomer said. “I cannot permit her to enter Rohan until I have interviewed her.”

“You will have to make the interview swift. The hobbits have invited us to dinner and she is to help cook,” Osric said with a grin. “Sam has insisted on giving her proper cooking lessons, and our stomachs have much to thank him for it.”

Éomer laughed and shook his head. He was still getting used to seeing Osric bald, and he was glad that he hadn’t been privy to seeing the symbols that had once been painting on his flesh. It must have been a sight though, from what everyone else has said, and Adda had promised to show him a drawing later. “Your month of sacrifice then is over,” he said.

“Yes, thankfully,” Osric said. “I have missed beer.”

Erkenbrand laughed and patted the soldier on the back. “That may be, and I don’t blame you, but I believe our King Éomer was thinking of the other part of your sacrifice. You’re not married yet, and won’t be until after we’ve arrived in Rohan. Don’t put the cart before the horse, hm?”

“Of course not, my lords,” Osric promised, blushing slightly. He had been daydreaming endlessly what it would be like to finally kiss Jamila, or at least take her hand to help her to sit at table. He imagined her skin would be smooth and creamy, and she still had about her that intoxicating scent of jasmine and frankincense.

Éomer cleared his throat pointedly. “She is in my charge until she is married, Osric.”

“Yes, right. No horse,” Osric repeated, shaking himself from his daydreaming. “No cart.”

“Good. Now, how much are we going to be expected to eat at this dinner?” Éomer asked, remembering only too well the hobbits’ insatiable appetites. “Should we forego our noon meal?”

Erkenbrand and Osric laughed and stood, sensing the interview was at its end. “They would be horrified to think you skipped a meal on their account,” Erkenbrand said. “Perhaps we should make it a light meal, however, to be safe.”  

Ioveta and her daughters were the first to arrive.

“Good evening!” Gerwinda greeted everyone when Legolas led them into the parlor. “We brought biscuits, and on the way here, we saw this man who was cowering in a garden saying that ugly hairless cat kept following him. Isn’t that funny?”

Jamila came out from the kitchen and set down the plate of appetizers on the tea table. She frowned at the mention of the hairless cat; so far she had been fortunate enough not to run into it, but she remembered Razeena’s description of finding the thing so unexpectedly in the city. She overcame her fear of the beast long enough to ask, “Who was this man? What was his business?”

Ogiva shrugged. “Just a merchant,” she said. “A fisherman from his clothes. I told him he probably smells like fish, at least enough for the cat to smell.”

“Were there other cats?” Jamila asked.

“No,” Gerwinda said, frowning. “We didn’t even see the ugly one.”

“Someone should keep an eye on that man,” Jamila said, looking at Pippin. “You should tell the king.”

“That cat isn’t a spy of the Enemy,” Pippin said, soothingly. “He’s just a cat.”

“Perhaps, but one cannot fight their nature,” Jamila said with a sage nod. “He will spy for his master, and your king is the Enemy of the Eye.”

“Jamila,” Sam said, interrupting the conversation before it could get too heated and ridiculous. “The tarts are likely burning.”

Jamila’s eyes went round and she dashed back into the kitchen.

“So much noise over a cat,” Frodo said with a shake of his head.

“But it’s an orc cat,” Merry said.

“What’s an orc cat?” Ioveta asked.

“Nothing,” Frodo said, giving his friends a stern look that said to drop the matter now while they were still intact. “How are things in your new home? Have you heard from Lady Bodil yet?”

“Not yet. She should be arriving in her homeland soon, within the next day or so if her travel went smoothly,” Ioveta said. “The mail delivery being what it is though, it may be another month or so before we get word from her. I’m sure she will be happy to be near her daughters and grandchildren again. As for us, the new house is suiting us quite well. I am able to share the shop with our new landlady and she has taught me so much already about the art of dress-making. We are kept busy, now that so many have returned to the City and are in need of new gowns. The house even has a lawn in the back for the girls to run around and get some sun and air. They have started their studies again at last. Their master tutor is a fine man, and they have learned much from him already. Gerdy is proving to have quite a head for poetry, better than her father’s thankfully.”

Gerwinda nodded. “I love rhyming.”

“And singing, and talking, and blathering, and dithering,” Ogiva teased.

“She keeps us up at night,” Leudreda complained, arms crossed. “I liked it better when she didn’t talk.”

Everyone laughed, and they nearly missed the knock on the door. Gimli went to answer it this time, and he brought back with him Éomer, Erkenbrand, Osric, Ceorl, Penda and Wulf. The other Riders were either guarding the tombs, preparing for the return trip to Rohan or showing the newcomers about the city. Introductions were made and everyone was seated again.

“Whatever you are preparing smells delicious,” Éomer complimented.

“Jamila did most of the cooking,” Merry said. “Sam’s a good teacher. He had to have been, to teach Frodo how to stop poisoning us with his concoctions.”

“I was never a bad cook,” Frodo said, sounding put upon. This was clearly a conversation they’ve had many times over the years.

“Not a bad one, perhaps,” Merry allowed. “Just an easily-distracted one.”

“I had better check and see that she’s not needing any help,” Sam said.

“I can help,” Osric offered.

“Speaking of distractions,” Sam said, dryly. “Nay, Master Osric, I think it’ll go over smoother if she only has the food to pay attention to, begging your pardon.”

“Besides, the kitchen’s hot enough,” Wulf added, with a wink to his friend. “No need to go setting it on fire.”

Sam frowned and shot a look at Osric that permanently banished the Rider from the kitchen while Jamila was in it. Only Osric noticed it though, as the others were too busy laughing at his expense.

A half-hour later, they were filing outside in the courtyard to eat. The hobbits had borrowed a few small tables and some chairs from the neighbors, and everyone sat wherever they pleased. Éomer and Erkenbrand made sure to sit so that Jamila and Osric were across from each other, rather than side by side, and Jamila was sufficiently timid of Éomer to prevent her from swooning. Éomer, for his part, kept the conversation light. He had already interviewed the maid that afternoon and found her surprisingly mature, serious, and forthcoming. As she relaxed through the meal, he was glad to see she also displayed a sense of humor and a sharp wit. Perhaps she was a good match for Osric after all. She would certainly keep him on his toes.

By the end of the meal and subsequent entertainment, which was provided by Pippin, Merry, Wulf, Gerwinda and Leudreda, the sun was set below mountaintops and the moon was rising over the East. Everyone filed back inside, and Sam and Frodo served afters.

“Is it true you have a horn from Prince Faramir?” Ogiva asked Pippin halfway through a cream tart.

Pippin nodded and swallowed. “It’s a fine instrument, made from the husk of an oliphaunt. Want to see it?”

The girls nodded eagerly, and Pippin abandoned his plate to dash upstairs. A few minutes later, he was lugging the case down the stairs and with the help of Gimli placed it on the table. Ogiva and Merry grinned at each other over Pippin’s head. Gandalf saw this and lifted an eyebrow. What was that about?

He found out a second later when Pippin opened the case and nearly jumped out of his skin, an almighty shriek escaping his lips. He did jump backward into Gimli, nearly knocking over the surprised dwarf.

“What in the Shire?!” Pippin exclaimed, hand over heart. He took a tentative step towards the case and narrowed his eyes, peeking at the lump of brown mass that was poking out of the bell of the horn. “Is that—?”

Merry and Ogiva burst into giggles. “Thank you, lass,” Merry said, slipping her a butterfly hairclip. “Who knew when he might have found that otherwise, and I wanted to be sure to enjoy it.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, as everyone gathered around the case to peer inside.

Pippin pulled the slipper-rat from the horn’s bell and threw it at Merry, who ducked just in time to avoid being hit in the face. “What was that about?” he demanded.

“I owed you one,” Merry said. “I promised to end things with Frodo, and I made an oath to Sam years ago to not play pranks on him, so that left you by default. Never conspire against me, Peregrin Took.”

Laughter floated out the windows into the courtyard, where Osric and Jamila stood in the shade of the portico, having escaped during the commotion. “Sounds like they’re having fun,” Osric said, his heart racing in his chest. All this time waiting. The month was over and the paint was gone at last. Was this finally the moment.

“They are odd things,” Jamila said. “These… pranks…” She said the word carefully. “We do not do such things in Harad.”

“No? Never?” Osric asked.

Jamila shook her head. “There are deviants, oafs, who like to cause trouble, but they get trouble in turn. Most of us are smarter than that.”

“The hobbits do not do it to cause trouble,” Osric said, wondering why they were dithering about hobbits all of a sudden. He took a decisive step forward and was pleased that Jamila did not back away. “Can I—?”

“You can,” Jamila said and took his hand in hers, suddenly shy. “If you want.”

“I want.” He took another step and with a deep breath, lifted her chin with his free hand. “Do you want?”

She nodded. “I have wanted since first I saw you,” she said, surprising him. “You do not have to be so careful with me, Osie.”

He grinned. “I like it when you call me that.” Her accent lent the word with an interesting twist that his ear was still trying to decipher.

“Osie,” she repeated.

They kissed then under the stars and moonlight, the pale blue shadows concealing them from view of house and lane. Jamila knew then why the royals feared love as they did, why a man would abandon his queen for his family, why a princess would deny her birthright and why Sador was so convinced that love was mightier than any force in Arda, even the Eye. In that moment, she knew where her home would be forever after and her heart sang.
 

The End!

GF 11/20/09
Published 11/24/09

  
 
Author's Notes to follow...

Author’s Notes

When I first set out to write this story, I had in mind a simple one-shot, or at the very most a three- or four-chapter story detailing Merry’s prank, Frodo’s return prank and any outcome of that. However, Merry lingered, refusing to tell me his prank (he in fact had no idea what it was himself) and as I continued to write, I realized that there was much more going on in the City at this time than I had previously suspected. The end result is my second-longest novel, after The Tale That Grew in the Telling, and this very much is a tale that grew longer with each chapter written!
 

The Pranks

It was clear from the start that Merry really didn’t want to prank Frodo, but he had made a vow and so was bound to keep it. That he and his co-conspirators also sought to discover what was going on with Aragorn, who had become even more close upon becoming King than a certain bushy-eyed wizard, was a complete surprise to me. I had no idea what they had in mind for Aragorn. It’s possible that they didn’t know either, but once they pieced together his little secret, they agreed that there was little they could do for him other than to help him wait for Arwen. The bar wenches were entirely Merry’s idea!

It isn’t entirely canon for hobbits to play pranks. Tolkien writes them as fun-loving and enjoying the simple pleasures of life, and it is clear that they have a rather canny sense of humor. I can easily enough see them enjoying a harmless prank now and again, to help pass the time and liven things up a bit. I myself never participated in pranks as a child – my mother would not have been pleased with me if I had! – so writing hobbit prank war stories is my way of living vicariously through them in this regard. When I wrote my first ever prank some years ago, I had no idea how to do it and had to rack my brain for days before coming up with one that seemed halfway plausible. Now, the pranks just seem to fall in my lap. It appears I missed out on a natural talent, but at least the hobbits are able to enjoy it!
 

The King’s House and the Pelennor Fields

Reconstruction being the long and arduous process that it is, I cannot imagine all the citizens of Minas Tirith swarming back to the city as is described in the book. There would be very little food after such an extensive battle, except for what could be brought in from lands not as adversely affected by the war; many of the buildings in the lower circles, and the Pelennor especially, would be completely destroyed and ransacked. Where were these people to live and what were they to eat? Certainly many of them did return as soon as they discovered the war was won and the King was returning. Such an historic event was not to be missed! But I can imagine many others waiting for things to settle, even more relocating elsewhere where the immediate prospects are better, and yet others deciding this is the opportune time to go to the capital and make a name for themselves in helping to restore the city in some manner.

The Citadel in the book, and in Tolkien’s partial sketches, is described as having lanes and many buildings upon them, rather than just one large building, tower and tree as depicted in the movie. While writing this, I had to figure out who would be living in these buildings. The obvious answer are the lords of the City, the counselors and advisors, though they do not by necessity have to live there. The embassies and ambassadors of outlying provinces and countries would also house in these buildings while staying the City. The King’s House and Steward’s House would be on either side of the Guard’s barracks, with the Great Lawn between them, where Aragorn and Arwen are wed. The King’s House has four levels, the first level for private meetings and entertaining of select guests. The second and third would house the servants of the household and their families, if any, as well as any special guests that are visiting the King and Queen. The top level is for the King’s personal dwelling.

The King’s House would have been kept up over the thousand-odd years it stood without a king, so it technically would not require reconstruction or redecoration. The people of Gondor would be appalled if their new King were made to stay in an embassy house, or worse a tavern, because they fell lax on keeping up the palace. However, much as each new president redecorates the White House, I could see Aragorn, and Arwen now that she has arrived, slowly going through the rooms and making them feel more like home. Certain items would be required to remain, for tradition's sake, but others could be moved or put into storage to make way for things they wished to have there.

The least damaged parts of the Pelennor could be replanted immediately to guarantee at least a partial harvest, enough to see the people through a lean winter. It wouldn’t be until the following year's harvest that the rations could be eased, if not done away with entirely, and things would return to normal, at least so far as food and goods are concerned.

Elrohir, Elladan and Arwen

This is the one AU element that snuck into this story, and it was entirely by accident. When combing through Return of the King and the timelines, I missed the two dates concerning the twins’ departure from Gondor and meeting up with the escort of Arwen. Silly me, I was looking for reference to ‘Elrohir and Elladan’, but Tolkien had referred to them instead as ‘the sons of Elrond’ and so my eyes just bounced right over those two dates until I was about eight chapters into the story. So I made up the excuse that they had agreed to stay in the city to help with the redecoration of the King’s House, as they would know best what Arwen would like. I then arranged it for them to depart when Aragorn and Gandalf went to harvest the White Tree so that they could then join Arwen’s escort and still be riding at the head of it as described in the book.

Whether or not the hobbits figuring out that Arwen is coming to the City to be wed to Aragorn is an AU element, I leave up to the reader. Tolkien certainly makes it appear that the hobbits had no prior knowledge, but much as Merry was made a dupe by necessity in regards to Dernhelm, I interpret this as a case of ignorance of the character for the benefit of the reader. Tolkien didn’t want to give away his surprise ending, and so by necessity Aragorn couldn’t tell the hobbits. However, I find it incredibly unfair to the hobbits, and the others of the Fellowship, who traveled alongside Aragorn for months, that the good people of Rohan knew about Arwen before they did! I’m fairly certain the hobbits would share that opinion. And whether they figured it out ahead of time or not, Frodo’s words to Gandalf at Arwen’s entrance to the City still read the same, which is why I was vigilant to include that quote from the book. Therefore, my hobbits do know about Arwen, but they were courteous of Aragorn’s wishes and refrained from telling even him (at least directly) that they knew the truth. And Frodo, being the wise hobbit that he is, refrains from hinting at their knowledge when putting it down in the Red Book.
 

The Healing Stones

Healing stones and dwarves just seem to go hand in hand. I once read a story by Auntiemeesh in which Gimli used healing stones on Pippin and that idea struck a chord. Of course, if there is any race in Middle-earth that would understand the healing nature of stones and rock, it would be the Dwarves. As with all other methods of healing, I figured that all dwarves would understand the basics – your first-aid line of defense. More intricate healing needs would require a master in the art. Gimli is no master, but he knows the basics and was given a brief crash-course by his father, who likely learned from the Master Healer himself, before departing on the Quest. It would give him something to do when he was on watch or when the Ring started to whisper to him: go over the stones in his pouch and repeat their qualities, uses, and placements and patterns on the body.

The healing stones work wonders for Frodo – for now. The healing stones only work as well as you allow them to, and there are some things that they simply cannot combat at all, such as Frodo’s anniversary illnesses. So while they will make his life more bearable in between those illnesses, at least at first, they will not be able to prevent his ultimate sailing over the Sea. The only stone that is able to help Frodo with his illnesses in any degree is the one given to him by Arwen, and even its power dims against the darkness of the Shadow.
 

The Haradrim

In my universe, there are five Houses, or sultanates (kingdoms), within Harad and Far Harad. The Houses of the Moon, Stars and Sun are the Faithful Houses, in which the leaders resisted the influence of the Black Númenóreans and Sauron. Surrounding these sultanates are the Houses of the Sea and the Earth, the Dark Houses; these Houses were led by the Black Númenóreans and were under the full sway of Sauron upon his return to Mordor. When Sauron first came to Harad and gained control of these two Houses, they created a sixth House, the House of the Eye, so that their number would equal the Faithful. The physical location of the House of the Eye is known only to those in command of the Dark Houses. It is believed among the Faithful that the House of the Eye is actually Barad-Dûr itself, now destroyed in the desolation of Mordor, but they cannot be certain. It could just as easily be one of the many temples that were built in tribute to Sauron after the destruction of Númenor. Sauron may now be gone, but the Black Númenóreans still rule the Dark Houses and they will not go down without a fight. The Faithful Houses took advantage of the confusion following the destruction of Mordor to get an embassy through Harad into Gondor, so that a peace treaty could be forged, but they are in no delusion that their own war is over. A civil war is brewing and there will be much social unrest until matters can be settled there.

Betrayal was once rife among the Faithful Houses, in the years following Sauron’s initial return to Middle-earth. He convinced the Southrons that He was a god and was able to convince the subjects to turn on their rulers and leaders. Assassinations and disappearances were common occurrences, as were thievery and trafficking. Due to the machinations of the Houses of the Eye (those being the two Dark Houses, and the House of the Eye itself), the Faithful Houses long ago came into the habit of removing their eldest living son or daughter, the heir to the throne, to another location away from the palace. There they would carry out intelligence operations and clandestine patrols and attacks against the Enemy at need. 

In order to survive, the Faithful Houses closed their borders, forbidding anyone to enter or leave without permission. They relaxed the demands on their slaves to encourage loyalty to the sultanate. Due to the history of betrayal, it became the custom of the royals, for their personal welfare, to surround themselves with slaves and servants who are forbidden families of their own, knowing that one will look to their family’s safety before that of the sultanate at large. To serve the sultan or sultana, one can have no attachment other than to his or her master or mistress. These slaves are chosen at a very young age, are allowed almost no contact with their former families, and are raised as members of the royal household, so that by the time they come into their full service, they will be completely and wholly loyal to their sultan and sultana, and will do as they are commanded without question or hesitation. These slaves command the highest positions allowed to their kind and the greatest respect for their service. To betray that trust is to betray the House itself and is the highest form of Treason.

The younger children of the royals take up positions within the militaries as commanders, or in politics as advisors, ambassadors or judges. Hence the reason why Shahzad is present in the City with his mother and father, while his eldest sister is at home, taking over the Sultana’s duties. His brothers are left in charge of the army and courts. Shahzad’s position, as the youngest child, will be an ambassadorial one, which he learns at his father’s side and will one day take over.

The Haradrim are tedious about their hygiene, believing that cleanliness is the highest form of purity. Even the most poor of the People will take daily baths in the rivers and lakes. They are ruled by sacrifice: of physical comforts, and personal wishes or desires.

The Haradrim do not believe in foiling one’s mind with drink or drugs. To do so is to open oneself for deception; only the Dark Houses believe in the validity of such questionable magic. This does not include the wiseman or wisewoman. Such people are Chosen and have the ability to navigate the Outer Worlds to discover the Higher Truth. They do not use drinks or volatile drugs to do this, but are instead capable of going into trances, with the assistance of certain Pure Herbs, such as frankincense, or even stones of pure quality, such as lapis lazuli, to transcend the barriers of the physical world. They were given these abilities many thousands of years ago, upon the arrival of the Blue Wizards, who have since disappeared from their lands. It is said by some that the Blue Wizards merely awakened this ability in those who already had it. It is a known fact that the ability tends to run in families. 

The Haradrim calendar is set by the lunar cycle, so that it has thirteen months of 28 days each month. The extra day falls in the middle of the seventh month, and the leap day on leap years falls between the last day of the thirteenth month of the old year and the first day of the first month and the new year.

Basing the Haradrim on Persian culture, with some influences from Turkish, Arabian and Egyptian cultures was a natural choice for me. Their lands would be in that general area.
 

Original Characters

I’m fortunate in that my original characters come relatively easily to me. Most of the time, I require an OC for a story and so just make one up. I know already what function that OC is to perform. The personality and characteristics just seem to fall into place from there. Finding the right name is not always so easy, and that has been known to change various times throughout the drafting process, but the character itself changes very little once he or she first appears on the page.

There are other times when I know that I need, as in this story, some Riders of Rohan to remain in the City after Éomer and Éowyn leave. Someone needed to be there to watch over Théoden’s body, after all. 12 sounded like a good number to me and so I went in search of twelve names. Erkenbrand and Ceorl are obviously from the books. The others are names that I found at baby name websites that just sounded ‘right’ to me, so I wrote them down. As a scene with the Riders came up, I would consult my list, find a name, and the character would just start forming himself as I wrote the scene. Four in particular grew on me almost immediately: Penda, Wulf, Osric, and Ecgberht. Cuthred took longer to figure out, as he is a rather reserved young fellow. The others served their parts as needed but never really made much of an impression on me. Finally, as I was writing the second to last chapter, I realized that I never even used two of the characters at all, so I was pleased to discover them in the kitchen when Merry came to call on Erkenbrand. They seem like amiable enough chaps, and I’m rather sorry I didn’t get to know them sooner. I have no idea where they've been this whole time. Perhaps they were among the guards chosen to follow the hobbits about the city and see that they came to no harm.

There are times when an OC will just show up, quite without my asking them to or even needing them to. That would cover nearly all of the Haradrim! I was as surprised as anyone else when they first arrived on the scene. I wasn’t even sure if they should be there until I found the quote in “The Steward and The King” briefly describing Aragorn’s pardon of the Easterlings, and his making of peace with Harad. Rather hard to make peace with a country without meeting with them. So the embassy came into town, and with them came Shahzad, and the revelation of Isengar’s and Hildifons’s adventures in the Sunlands, as the Hobbits call Harad. (Of course, in Harad the term 'Sunlands' refers only to the lands of the House of the Sun.) Shahzad was so obviously the Haradrim equivalent of Pippin, that the two ended up bonding rather quickly and breaking the ice in a way no one else could.

The Sultana and Sultan would obviously require translators (or so I thought at the time – I had no idea at first that the Sultana spoke fluent Westron!) and so Soroush and Ashtir arrived on the scene. Ashtir actually revealed himself to me somewhat later, and his role in the story slowly unfolded with the rest of the tale. Ioveta and her daughters are lifted almost entirely as they are depicted here from a story that Rick tells Frodo and Sam in “The Blue Wizard Blues”. There were some minor changes made to their tale so that it fit into this story, but their role was already told for them. Petras came to me as a side note; I needed a few more examples of the sort of people Pippin was researching to possibly invite to luncheon and he just happened to be one of them. So when I decided there was time to visit one more person in need, I chose him and what a blessing, for he is very much the physical embodiment of Frodo’s own inner turmoil.
 

Osric and Jamila

Now these two particular OCs drove me nuts! Don’t get me wrong. I love them dearly, if only for the pain they have caused me, and I am extremely happy that I was able to get that storyline to work out the way it did and that it was able to contribute something substantial to the narrative so that it wasn’t a complete waste of my time and yours. But my lord! What started out as a cute little side story ended up causing the most rewrites and shuffling of timelines and plot points than anything else that appeared in this story, and it nearly destroyed the peace treaty in the process! Let’s just say that I am extremely glad that Pippin finally remembered that the Sultana’s maids are strictly hands-off, because otherwise, heads would have been rolling, hopefully only figuratively. And I was also relieved to discover that the Sultana is a much more clever woman than I am. The end result is that Osric and Jamila were spared the ultimate punishment, and the peace treaty was saved, but it was a very close call indeed.
 

Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor

In all my longer fics, I always end up having to trim things out or move them around. I have many of these deleted or alternate scenes as a result of this story. In fact, this whole story started because of a bit a dialogue that was cut out of “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Hobbits” because I was afraid that bit of dialogue would take that story in a direction I didn’t want it to go and end up running away from me. Gee, wonder what made me think that! This little bunny would have made the Energizer Bunny proud. ;)

Many of the scenes that were cut ended up being revised and put back into the story at different places. Others just didn’t make it at all, at least one I never even transferred from paper to computer. (Yes, I still use paper and pen at times.) Thankfully, none of the cut scenes from this story are biting at my ankles, but it is a shame not to share some of them, or their alternates. I have put these on my DreamWidth journal here: http://gamgee-fics.dreamwidth.org/94681.html. 
 

Weblinks

I thought I would post links to some of the sites I used when researching information for this story. I am not in any way associated with any of these sites, am not responsible for the validity of any of the information on these sites, and make no profit from them. They were used solely as source material.

Arash Dejkam’s Traditional Iranian Music - This is contains pictures, descriptions, uses and sound bites of traditional Persian instruments.

Anvari - All the Persian dishes mentioned in this story come from this website. They are untested by me.  

Baby Names World - This is one of the more compressive baby name websites I’ve come across, and contains both Old World and contemporary sources. I used this site for nearly all of the OC names in this story.

Gemstone Gifts, Sparklecove, and Beadage - These have some very thorough information on healing stones, as well as pretty pictures.  

Mystic Familiar - This was the most useful site I could find about charkas. This uses the traditional Eastern chakra system, though there are many others.  

The Encyclopedia of Arda - This is naturally the best source of everything Tolkien on the web, and has come through for me in a pinch on several occasions.  

About.com - Next to EOA, this is a very helpful site to use when researching just about everything else. It was quite handy when it came to Gimli’s cement and mortar recipes.

Thank you to everyone who read, and especially those who took the time to review. You stuck in there with me and made the writing of this story that much more enjoyable. I only hope that you found it as enjoyable as I did. Until next time!
 
 

GF 11/24/09
Published 11/28/09