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

Author’s Note: I should go to my brother’s house more often. It is there that I most generally actually sit down and write a chapter up, even when it’s been planned in my head for a very long time. The chapter title is from Byron’s Hebrew Melodies.

Chapter Twenty-two: I See Thee Weep

“Where do you think it’s hidden?”

“They. She mentioned two of them. Where do you think they are hidden?”

“Stop bickering, you two, it’s only phrasing! And I know where at least one is.”

The hobbits ceased arguing and turned to Eowyn. The lady had one long strand of hair absently twisted in her fingers, a sure sign of deep thought, and her brow was furrowed as she peered into her mug of tea.

“Where?” Arwen asked.

Eowyn looked up. “In that room where Pippin about bashed his skull in. It makes sense; according to the Librarian’s map, it’s the only secret room in the Citadel.”

“Oh, there are others,” muttered Aragorn. When they looked at him, he gave them a peevish look. “But they have nothing to do with this at all. Eowyn is quite right; this has to do with the empty wing.”

Pippin leaned forward, intrigued. “What do the other rooms do?”

Aragorn glowered at him. “That is not important right now, Peregrin. Leave it for a different day.”

The look on the king’s face was enough to make Pippin sit back, although it was with an audible sigh. The conversation turned back to Belecthor’s hidden alchemy room, and where in it the mirror could be. It was decided that an expedition would be mounted to the empty wing, and a search would ensue.

“I’ll send for some torches,” Eowyn said, and went to the door to call for a servant. “Faramir, fetch my sword.”

“Who said you were coming?” replied the Steward, who had taken the images in the mirror to heart. He had spent the past hour brooding into his tea, to which Aragorn had silently added a dose of brandy.

Eowyn turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you seriously think you can make me stay here?”

“I wouldn’t recommend trying,” Aragorn said in an undertone to his steward. “Refusal of anything Eowyn wants can have unforeseen results.”

Faramir glanced between the two of them and shrugged. “All right then. But you’re going to be careful.”

“When is she ever not?” Merry replied with a slight grin, and was rewarded with a snort from Faramir as the steward went to fetch his betrothed’s sword.

*****

It took a half an hour to assemble all of the necessary items for an expedition into the dusty parts of the palace. Namely, old cloths, candles, and various weaponry. Bergil arrived bearing the lights that Eowyn had sent for, and an uncharacteristically determined look on his small face.

“I am going with you,” he announced when Merry had relieved him of his burden. “No, don’t say I cannot, sir, because I am going to!” he added as Aragorn opened his mouth. The King shut it again with a snap. “I can’t bear to be left behind when I already know so much, and I’ve been helping, and I promise that I won’t be a hindrance. But I’ll follow even if you don’t let me come; you’ll have to tie me in a sack if you don’t want me to!”

Aragorn looked at the lad’s earnest, determined face and sighed, smiling. “I’ve heard that before. You may come, Bergil. And when this is all over, we are going to have a few words about employment opportunities for promising lads.”

Bergil beamed.

*****

They set off to the unused wing, a motley troop of nobles. Arwen, Faramir and Bergil carried candles in sconces, and the shadows glowed off the walls in strange patterns. The Citadel was strangely quiet, though perhaps, Eowyn thought that was due to the fact that it was the middle of the night and everyone sane was sound asleep.

As they walked, she dropped back until she was standing next to Faramir. Her fiancé’s face was pale in the shadowy light of his dancing flame.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She put a hand on his arm, stroking gently.

Faramir was silent for a moment. Then, “I always thought that she died of depression. That is what they told me. ‘The Shadow in the East filled her with horror.’ I didn’t even suspect that there was something else. Certainly not this.”

“She was a brave woman.”

“And good. You would have loved her. She was quite a bit like you, only…” He paused.

“Only what?” Eowyn prompted.

Faramir smiled. “Only she was more willing to put up with circumstances she did not like. Somehow I think that you are less likely to do so.”

“Would you have me be submissive?”

“No. Decidedly not. I love you the way you are, sword, unruliness and everything.”

Eowyn smiled. A wise answer.

They reached the so-called Alchemy Room without mishap. The door had been left open after that morning’s escapade; Eowyn saw Pippin touch his head ruefully in memory. She went towards the door and peered inside, and Faramir held up his lamp so that Eowyn could see well. Arwen crowded next to them, brightening the space further, and the room was illuminated.

The tables and tools did not attract Eowyn’s attention, as they did the others. She scanned the walls, looking for anything vaguely mirror-shaped. Finduilas, in the mirror, had explained that they were of different sizes, Alatarial’s being the smallest, and the main mirror being the largest. This was the middle mirror, the one hidden in the Alchemy Room. Where was it?

If I were to hide a mirror, where would I put it? Eowyn mused. Somewhere no one would think to look, but I would be able to use it at will.

And then she saw it. An object leaning against the wall in a far corner, covered with a shroud, and round in shape. Eowyn started towards it, and four pairs of hands reached out and pulled her back.

“Wait,” Aragorn said. “If what happened to Pippin today is any indication, than this room is dangerous. We must go carefully.”

Merry turned to Pippin conversationally. “They forget that you pulled that pipe down on yourself. Funny that, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Pippin agreed, nodding. “The oddness of the big people. Higher up, so I guess they’re afraid they’ll bash their heads like I did.”

“Quiet, you two,” Aragorn ordered, as the hobbits snickered. “Eowyn, the way looks clear, and if you do not wish one of us men to go first in order to protect you from getting your head bashed in, as the hobbits say, then you may proceed with caution.”

Eowyn smiled. “I don’t think your people would appreciate it if I let their king break his head. I’ll go.”

She moved forward cautiously, careful not to touch anything. It was not easy; Belecthor had filled his room with all sorts of odds and ends, some of which had no use, as far as Eowyn could tell. Murky potions in strange glasses and tools that looked like instruments of torture. She shuddered. What sort of man had this been?

She reached the shrouded object with no trouble, though, and reached her hand out to take the cloth. It was heavy with dust; she pulled it down carefully so as not to cause an explosion of dust into the air, which would doubtless leave them all coughing and choking. The dust cloth slip down to the floor, and Eowyn nodded in satisfaction.

A large mirror stood there, dull with age. As she watched, the tarnished silver stopped reflecting her own image and swam a bit, and figures began to appear before her eyes. A tall man with dark silver hair and thick black eyebrows set over piercing eyes looked out of the mirror intensely, as though he could actually see them. Eowyn involuntarily drew back from him and bumped into Faramir, who had come up behind her quietly. He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze and smiled at her.

“Where is she?” the man in the mirror said. “Does he have her? I will not let it be so! I must stop it. But how?”

He withdrew, and Eowyn let out the breath she had not known she had been holding. The image in the mirror changed, and showed the same man, whom Eowyn suspected was Belecthor, working at his table. It was the same room they were in now, although it was clean and lit with a myriad of candles. Eowyn glanced around and saw the same candles, now covered in ropes of dust. She turned her attention back to the mirror.

“Eowyn?” It was Arwen’s voice, close by her. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Eowyn swallowed. “I’m supposed to break it.”
They all turned to Eowyn, looking at her. “I do. I have to; it has to be a steward’s wife, or fiancée. That’s what Finduilas said.”

Aragorn nodded. “Well, I don’t think that should be as difficult as killing the Witch-King, should it?” he said lightly. He motioned for them to back up several feet. “When you’re ready, Eowyn.”

Eowyn drew her sword and took a deep breath. This was it. She raised the sword and rammed it, hard, against the tarnished silver glass.

It shattered.

TBC