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

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

Chapter Thirteen: Something Wicked This Way Comes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

“Are we in trouble?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What secret room?”

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

“It’s far too early,” she moaned.

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

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

“Eowyn! Come look at this.”

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

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

“A book?” Eowyn guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

Aragorn rolled his eyes. Hobbits.

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

“Faramir, what is that?” He pointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC