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

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

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

Chapter Eleven: For Never Was a Story of More Woe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

  And he led the way back inside.

*****

  “This castle is haunted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lothiriel paused to scan her audience.

  “Go on!” they shrieked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I want to see that room.”

TBC