They remained together on the stone until dawn, the horizon tinged with a fiery aura. They had said nothing else for the remainder of the night and, when they rose to return to the camp, words still did not pass their lips. There was no discomfort between them about the previous night for, just as they were about to leave their stony watch post, Boromir took her face between his hands and placed another kiss upon her lips.
Myrhil did not tense or turn away, instead letting him take this small pleasure from her with willing heart. Thoughts of Belaród naturally intruded, but the pain was less than before. Perhaps the blame lay in the darkness, when the mind could conjure up memories more easily when the eyes were robbed of their powers and the hurt and fear those memories contained could twist everything into a mire of uncertainty and pain. In the light, early though it was, the kiss Boromir now gave her was only from him, not a caress from the past. Now she even felt the beard that lightly scraped against her lips and chin. In the darkness, she had not even felt it until her hand reached up to touch what she thought was Belaród's cheek. Such were the powers a black night and memories could wield.
When Boromir parted from her, she placed her hands over his and drew them away from her face, taking them within hers and clasping them together. She squeezed them and wondered if she should say anything, but nothing came readily to her tongue. Instead, she bent her head and kissed the heavy ring on his finger, the silver and black emblem of his rank. With that, she declared her loyalty while the other kiss spoke of a different bond.
Boromir watched her perform this gesture of homage and saw Myrhil passing over an invisible line into the realm of loyal subject, one who would raise her sword to defend him, but would most likely never share his bed. This chaste display was an action that he himself had encouraged and he tried not to regret the selfless behavior the night before which now brought it about. She had not flinched from his second kiss, an encouraging sign for the future, but he would content himself with moments such as these. The love of his people or love from a woman. He weighed the two in his mind and found himself anticipating the affection and fealty of tens of thousands more eagerly. Such love ran deeper. . .and more true.
Yet now was not the time to contemplate such things. The White City awaited and the day was already on its fast flight. He began to walk and Myrhil silently fell into step beside him, the swishing of the dead pine needles beneath their feet the only sounds they made.
Laenilas was surprised to see both of them return from the same direction and her suspicions from the night before resurfaced upon seeing the same frank ease and comfortable closeness between them. She sighed. What was to be done, if anything? Her daughter had already set upon that path with Belaród and it seemed that it might now continue with Boromir. She had never dictated terms to her children, neither of them. Both Myrhil and Larhend had been given ample freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. One of Larhend's had cost him his life, which was to be regretted, but she had never coddled her children. She had not had overprotective parents, and she thought no differently in terms of raising her own offspring. Riding horses, hot tempers, impulses about love and whom to find it with -- all of these matters contained many pitfalls and had to be learned through difficult means, if necessary. Her own father could have forcibly prevented her from marrying the rough-mannered soldier of Gondor, but he had not interfered with her determination to bind herself to him. It would have been a futile endeavor to turn her mind from her purpose. Was such a scenario to be repeated with her own daughter?
No, marriage in this instance was out of the question, and did not even warrant a moment's thought for it was impossible, despite Gorhend's periodic mad musings at such a union. It was a foolish wish of her husband's that friendship would surmount matters of blood and suitability. The few times he had mentioned such an arrangement, she had said nothing, her silence a loud declaration of her skepticism. With that, Gorhend had kept any further thoughts about the matter to himself. She sensed that Myrhil had known of her father's ambitions and looked upon them as a hopeless fancy, just as she had. Of course, Laenilas thought, her daughter had been more captivated by Belaród than anyone else, no matter how noble the blood. But now that the unfortunate boy was dead, it was not unreasonable to assume that another would take his place. Laenilas felt that her daughter, for all her headstrong blindness about Belaród, would not repeat such foolishness with Boromir. She was a clever girl who rarely had to learn a lesson twice. Once had usually be sufficient. Still. . .
Laenilas observed Boromir with a sharpened eye. Tall of stature, possessing broad shoulders and a fair face, wielding all the weaponry he carried with graceful ease. He was a handsome man who no doubt created a competitive turmoil whenever he appeared in a brothel, which, if her experience as a soldier's wife was of any worth, was often. Such a fellow would have captured her own fancy thirty years ago, and she had indeed married that man.
She turned away before her close scrutiny was noticed. The fire had been stoked to life once more and she busied herself with the hash that sizzled merrily and tastily in the iron skillet.
They had not been on the road for more than two hours when suddenly Myrhil felt a hand on her shoulder. "Look there, to the north!" came Boromir's excited whisper. "Do you see it?"
Myrhil was poised to ask him to point out the object to her for she could not see it when her breath caught in her throat. The morning sun was still in hues of read and orange rather than the brilliant yellow of day's peak and its beams were not blinding, but rich and solid. In the distance, the surrounding aura of light making it seem as high as the mountain looming behind, stood a great shaft that seemed wrought of the finest silver and pearl, the pinnacle glittering like the water of a shallow brook breaking over pebbles on a warm spring day. Often had she scooped up the water like jewels from a corsair's hoard and as she looked upon the dazzling peak with its fluttering banner of white, her fingers desired to do the same again.
Laenilas brought her horse along Boromir, her eyes riveted to the sight before them. "It appears they have seen us before we saw them," she commented. "The banner already flies to greet the returning Captain." She paused and tilted her head slightly. "I hear the trumpets calling, unless the wind has acquired such a talent." She leaned forward and turned to her daughter, looking past Boromir. "Do you hear them, Myrhil? They are as clear as I remember them from my youth!" Sighing, she returned her gaze to the glimmering vision crafted against the mountain. "It only requires a body to see it once, and it remains ever etched in eye, mind and heart, no matter where one hails from."
Myrhil heard her mother's breathless admiration and could not add to it with her own words. She could find one that would adequately describe what her eyes beheld.
"A welcome will be waiting for us all," Boromir said. "My return is two days later than what I had planned. I am certain there has been a diligent watch to the south with expectations of an imminent arrival."
"I should not be surprised if there was momentary confusion at the company you keep," Myrhil smiled. "I shall not speak for Mother, but my appearance resembles that of a dirty bandit."
"As soon as we reach the citadel, I shall have lodgings made ready for you and hot, steaming baths will await."
Laenilas could not disguise her joy. "At this moment, that, my lord, is a greater song to my heart than even looking upon Meduseld!"
The Tower of Ecthelion, that gleaming shaft of pearl and silver, was the first thing one noticed upon Minas Tirith, but the rest of this famed city of Men was no less a feast to the eyes, even from a sizeable distance. Myrhil found herself staring in amazement from tier to tier of the immense city, each one smaller than the last and ending at the citadel with the Tower, the effect looking much like an inverted funnel.
The years it must have taken to create such a city, the countless number of people who lived behind those walls, unbeaten by any foe. . . "Father often described the city to me," Myrhil breathed, "but even my most fervent imaginings could never have created such a thing as this." She turned to Boromir. "You were right. Pelargir will never leave me speechless again."
They approached the tall the sturdy walls that encircled the Pelennor Fields and Boromir heartily greeted the sentries who guarded the South gate. "All is well in my absence?" Boromir asked them.
"Very well," one replied. "Several days ago, the lord Faramir led an expedition into the north upon word that there was an attack by the Enemy on Ithilien. He returned the day before yesterday."
"Success?"
"I deem so, sir, for no man was lost."
Boromir did not hide his pleasure at the news. "A finer brother none could hope for!" he declared to no one in particular. "I am glad that he is here for there are matters to the west in Lebennin that will need counsel."
"Sir?" the guard asked.
"Be vigilant," Boromir told him. "Look to the south. There may be orcs roaming the mountains behind us for I have seen evidence of such. They will only be in small bands, but they have already inflicted casualties." He gestured to the two mounted women behind him. "I bring the survivors of Gorhend, fine soldier of Gondor. His wife, Laenilas, daughter of Thédor, close kin of Théoden King of Rohan, and his daughter, Myrhil."
The guards bowed their heads to widow and daughter. "Gorhend's death is sorrowful news, indeed," one said, an old man who would certainly have known the fallen soldier in earlier days. "I fought gladly beside him."
Laenilas swallowed painfully. "My eternal gratitude for your kind words," she said. "He is now beneath the ground he always fought so valiantly to protect. He died protecting it."
"No greater honor," the guard replied, heartfelt. "We welcome you, my lady."
Laenilas nodded, unwilling to trust herself to speak without weeping. No matter how often she had cursed the men whom her husband kept company with -- the men who willingly marched into danger beside him, and the men who ordered him to march -- no matter how many angry tears she had shed over the years at her inability to keep her husband safe from harm, this simple soldier before her did not deserve such scorn. None of them did. They were caring men in an uncaring business, with kin of their own who wished them safety. Why had she wasted so many tears and spoken foul curses against those who warranted them not? She felt the last vestige of her wife's wrath absorbed by a widow's wisdom and quiet grief, and the transformation settled peaceably upon her.
The gates parted before them and as Laenilas passed the elderly soldier, she lifted her hand in farewell. The first and only time this man looked upon Gorhend's bride, he was struck by the sight of her reddish-gold hair and the brightness of her blue eyes shining through unshed tears.
Progress across the Pelennor Fields was swift. The road was passable for it had been several days since Minas Tirith had last seen rainfall and the number of travelers had not been so many as to create a dried, rutted obstacle. Myrhil looked about her as they went, her attention fully absorbed by the cultivated townlands about her and so she had not noticed the emotions displayed so openly on her mother's face. She and Laenilas rode on either side of Boromir and surveyed the sights on their open flanks.
Myrhil felt the gradual incline of the land in her horse's gait as they pressed on, the slopes and terraces of the immense walled enclosure descending to the Anduin in the east. It was odd; her father had somehow given her the impression that the Pelennor was a vast exercise arena, an expanse of flat land. Perhaps her mind had been unable to comprehend land that she had never seen before. All that she knew was flat and open, and thus was the rest of the world until she saw to the contrary. Farmland was not unknown to her, but never situated such as this, with property lines abutting snugly and homes within slingshot range of each other.
"Did these farmers benefit from your scourge of the rats?" she asked Boromir.
"Certainly," he said offhandedly. "Faramir and I easily saved the grain harvest year after year."
"And created a rat corpse pile the height of the Rammas Echor," Myrhil finished. "I think I understand. So, did my father bestow upon you his tendency to exaggerate, or is it a natural gift?"
"All soldiers exaggerate if the vanquished enemy was small, and become modest if it was the opposite. Immense adversaries are dispatched with a shrug of the shoulders, a day's duty done."
Myrhil smiled. "Yet another note in my book of knowledge. I shall have to remember that when I next find myself pressed to relate my single act of valor."
"Should you do that within certain court circles, I think any size of orc will impress them." He paused, then grinned. "But it cannot hurt to make him as fearsome as you like."
"I will begin to craft my tale immediately."
Another set of gates lay before them, much larger than the ones to the south, for they were set within the outermost wall of the city proper, providing what would hopefully be the strongest defense should attack ever break upon the walls like waves on a shore. The walls on either side of the gate, curving back into the vanishing distance, were of the blackest stone. They looked more formidable than anything Myrhil had ever seen. The sturdy fieldstone that her father had used in the construction of barn and house seemed paltry in comparison. Whereas those stone sat upon the familiar plains like silent beasts of burden, supporting timber and thatch, these walls loomed black and forbidding, encircling the city in a protective embrace of dark surrounding light. Black around white, like a lone traveler bearing a lantern at midnight, or Mordor overcoming this first defense of Middle Earth.
Myrhil shivered and turned her attention from the silent obsidian guardian to the rumbling city within while Boromir carried out the formalities of his arrival with the guards. Nearly at the same time, Myrhil and Laenilas craned their necks back, agape at the curved spine of stone that jutted out from the mountainside, slicing the walled tiers of the city in half from top to bottom. The summit arched out over its innermost point like the keel of a ship, providing any observer with a view of the surrounding land only surpassed by the peak of the White Tower itself.
"Should anyone ever despair, they need only to jump from that embrasure to end all sorrows," Laenilas murmured.
Myrhil turned to her mother. "I hope you do not observe that with dark thoughts," she said pointedly.
Laenilas smiled. "There is naught of that in my heart," she said. "Do not trouble yourself that there ever could be." She returned her gaze to the keel of rock. "I have never been to the Citadel, though your father could claim several journeys. I wonder if I have the strength to make it to the summit. Weariness is pulling at my bones."
"I will not let fatigue ruin this moment's excitement!" Myrhil stated tirelessly. "Soon we shall be on our way."
The trumpets continued to sound far above them and Laenilas silently wished they would refrain from further announcing that which was obvious by now to everyone with the city and instead ready a steaming bath for her, but she maintained a pleasant smile on her lips and said nothing.
As though attuned to her quickly vanishing patience, the guards and Boromir concluded their business and the small entourage passed through the Great Gate and began the long, winding path upward. She was also pleased to note that the trumpets ended their stirringly ebullient but monotonous song and the natural sounds of the city could now be heard unimpeded.
Myrhil and Laenilas soon found themselves an entity apart from the man who had led them through plain, city and river. They watched as citizens on the street and soldiers on their way to one duty or another did what the people in Pelargir had done: pause and greet or watch the Captain of the White Tower with unconcealed admiration and affection. Whereas in Pelargir his companions had been ignored, here in Minas Tirith there were many curious glances cast in the direction of the two mounted women who traveled in the commander's wake. In the company of soldiers, yes; but Boromir of Gondor had never been renowned as an escort of women, particularly two such provincial figures as these.
Under such scrutiny, Laenilas felt her face flush hot. She had never received attention such as this, and the press of it all around her was a distinctly uncomfortable sensation. Out in her small corner of Gondor for so many years, surrounded by a mere handful of souls, she had forgotten that within a city of such size, one could always feel several pairs of eyes upon him.
I will have to reconcile myself to curious stares, at least for a short time, she thought grimly. I am certain I shall encounter the same in Edoras. At least there will be fewer of them and I will then possess the luxury of kinship rather than the status of transient guest on sufferance.
She looked over at Myrhil and saw that her daughter was looking down at her garments self-consciously. They were streaked with grime. The unplanned dousing in the river with Boromir had done little to clean them and their age was emphasized when they acquired more than a week's wear. They hung limp and dejected on Myrhil's frame and were not suitable beyond farm work and travel. Laenilas felt her purse and deemed there were enough coins to spare for the purchase of a new shirt and pair of breeches. She would not have her daughter enter Edoras in the unwitting disguise of a beggar.
Onward they went, snaking back and forth through gates and the spine of stone, the walls lined with torches to illuminate the way through the darkness. The second tier was left behind, then the third. The fourth fell away, followed by the fifth.
Upon entering the sixth circle, Myrhil looked to her left and saw an immense collection of structures nestled up against the wall. From everywhere came the scent of herbs and oils, both sweet and foul. The entirety of their journey through the city thus far had been noisy as the people of Minas Tirith had gone about their daily tasks and business, but the air around these buildings was not so boisterous, but rather a solemn hush was decidedly settled over its tiled roofs.
"The Houses of Healing," Myrhil heard a voice say and she turned to see Boromir looking at her from over his shoulder. "You asked me about them the morning after you received your wounds. Should you care to have your shoulder examined again, I will gladly have you brought here."
She nodded, although her mother's salve and Boromir's application of it the night before had done much to ease the pain and irritation. In fact, it had not bothered her even slightly today, nor had her other injuries. She brought a hand to her cheek and rubbed at the skin, then ran her fingers over her closed eye. She felt only the dull twinges and thuds that bruises produce when prodded. With no mirror to look upon, she had no idea how her face was mending. It had always hurt less than her shoulder and over the past few days, she had paid little heed to these minor injuries.
"The color looks healthy," Laenilas told her when she saw Myrhil tentatively take stock of her wounds. "Within two weeks' time, only the slightest traces will remain and none shall know you were even injured."
"But as for now?"
"For now I would wear those bruises with pride," Laenilas smiled. "There is little else you can do. They cannot be hidden, nor do I think you would desire to conceal them." Unspoken was her certainty that by the end of the evening, her daughter would have recounted her moment in battle at least three times, if given the opportunity, perhaps embellishing the details. Though Myrhil was different from her father in so many ways, there were others in which the two were remarkably similar.
Boromir continued to lead them on, but Laenilas took heart in the thought that the journey was nearly at an end. They passed the stables, positioned next to the final tunnel that led up to the citadel. The unmistakable scent of horse sweat and manure hung in the air and she wondered at the stench in the height of summer. Considering the length of the route thus far, she did not envy the servants whose duty it was to remove it from the city.
Entering the tunnel, they had only traveled briefly before a rumble of voices sounded ahead. Myrhil's horse pranced nervously at the strange echoes, its anxiety heightened by the flickering of torches and leaping shadows that it had not yet grown accustomed to. She said some calming words and managed to regain control over the beast while Laenilas soothed her more sedate mount by constantly stroking its neck.
"Is all well?" Boromir asked, turning his horse around at the sound of equine distress.
"As well as can be expected from animals who have never had such walls about them," Laenilas replied. "The sooner we leave here, the calmer they will be."
"I did not wish to force you to go afoot for this final trek," he said, "but it seems that we must. Let us return to the stables and turn them over to the grooms. It is naught but Faramir coming to greet me, but he will simply continue along until he finds us. Come, turn back."
They retraced their steps and Myrhil could feel her horse's muscles relax beneath her once open air again surrounded it. She dismounted and waited for Boromir to resume the lead and she followed behind them to the main gate of the stables.
It was an impressive fathering of fences and stalls that Myrhil found very familiar and she realized that her father had nearly duplicated the arrangement to the best of his ability and limited resources. "'Tis almost like home," she whispered to Laenilas as they advanced into the main yard with leads firmly in hand. "I nearly feel like I would be able to find my way around it without aid."
Boromir hailed a groom who was in the midst of oiling some tack and instructed him to unsaddle, clean and feed all three mounts. The lad nodded eagerly and called to another man to assist him and assured the two women that their horses would be well tended until they had need of them. While Myrhil and Laenilas gathered up their saddle bags and packs, Boromir gave the boy a copper coin. Now as loaded as their horses had been, left the stables and embarked on the final leg of the long, winding path.
They entered the tunnel once more and Myrhil's eyes again adjusted to the dimly lit interior, though her vision was still not clear. Their footfalls echoed around them, as did the voices they had heard earlier, now louder and more distinct. What had seemed like nearly a dozen men advancing upon them was now obviously only two, and fragments of their conversation could now be deciphered, all regarding Boromir's return. When two shadowy figures appeared, Boromir called out in greeting and one figure departed from the other in a series of rapid strides, making straight for the returning Captain and embracing him happily.
"Boromir! You return at last!"
Boromir laughed and clapped the man smartly on the back, continuing the embrace. "Fear that I had met an untimely end, little brother?" he asked.
"Never," came Faramir's instant reply, "though I had to waste words convincing Beregond otherwise."
"Ah, and how is our concerned watchman?" He parted from his brother and spoke to the other figure that quickly approached. "Should you not be spending your worries on that wife and child of yours rather than I?"
Beregond saluted his captain and struggled for a reply to such a question. Boromir laughed and struck him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "You will never rise in the ranks if you keep such a quiet manner about you and fail to speak up, my friend!"
"Beregond was on duty at the citadel and was dispatched to me to announce your return," Faramir put in.
"Three days I have been on watch," the soldier said, finding his voice. "I was not the only one of the men to wonder at the delay, sir."
"Yes, delay. . ." Boromir mused. "A necessary one, in fact. Honor and duty dictated it. But I have returned and the men can sleep easy tonight." He grinned.
"I shall relay your order," Beregond replied, smiling. With a departing salute to his superiors, he left them and hastened down the tunnel. As he passed Myrhil and Laenilas, standing some distance from Boromir and his brother, he paused and bowed his head in greeting, certain they were the reason for the stated "delay." However, he did not feel it necessary to report that piece of information to the other soldiers. Beregond was in the business of passing along orders, not gossip.
As the steady beat of Beregond's footsteps disappeared into the distance, Boromir motioned for Laenilas and Myrhil to come closer and he said to Faramir, "Rooms must be made immediately for them. They have traveled as far as I and are no less weary." He gestured to each one in turn and introduced them to Faramir, stating flatly that Gorhend had perished on the plains.
Faramir looked at his brother silently, and from her position Myrhil could see in the torchlight that his expression was disbelieving. After her brief conversation with the old man in Pelargir, and seeing the faces of the guard at the outer gate and now of Faramir upon receiving the news, she was again finding it impossible to believe it herself, despite having seen the bloody evidence with her own eyes. Yet she would not let that disbelief take hold.
"Dead? Surely not!" came Faramir's astonished reply.
"Please, my lord," came Laenilas' broken voice. "May we continue? I do not think that my feet can bear my weight any longer without some rest."
"I am sorry," Faramir said. "I hope my words did not distress you."
"Distress? No." Laenilas's tone was tired, but Faramir could detect the pain that lingered underneath. "Indeed, I tell myself that I expected that day for some time, but all the same, it is not something I wish to dwell upon."
"Then I shall say no more," replied Faramir, advancing to Laenilas and taking her by the hand.
Laenilas felt a gentle pressure around her fingers, a reassuring gesture from this young man and former pupil of her husband's. She tried to discern his features in the dim light and a favorable flicker from the torches revealed an expression of such kindness and understanding that she found herself wanting to avert her eyes lest she be overcome. Yet she could not find the will to turn from his gaze. The warmth from his hand -- combined with that from his eyes -- was a balm such as she had never known. She felt her spirit being soothed, when she did not even realize it was greatly troubled.
"Come," Faramir said, leading her onward. "You shall receive your well- earned rest this night, and for as many nights as you wish to remain here."
Myrhil fell in behind her mother, as did Boromir, who allowed his brother to lead them up the tunnel. All the while, Faramir continued to speak to Laenilas but Myrhil could not hear the words. Instead, the tone was more powerful than anything he said. His voice was so welcoming, like a featherbed at the end of a hard day's work. Or what she imagined the pleasures of a featherbed felt like. She had never slept on one, but perhaps that would be remedied tonight. She closed her eyes and let Faramir's soft and pleasant voice prime her for the comfort that would soon be hers.
She nearly jumped when she felt a set of rough knuckles graze her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she turned to see Boromir looking at her with no small degree of amusement flashing in his grey eyes. "If I did not know it to be unlikely, I would swear you were walking in your sleep," he said. His hand fell to her shoulder and rested there as they walked.
Myrhil made no move to shrug off his hand for it was not offending. "Your brother. . ." she began to explain. "His voice is so peaceful."
Boromir smiled. "Aye, he has always had that way about him, for those who notice such things. It does not make him any less a warrior, I am pleased to say." He gave a bemused grunt as he looked at his brother's back, and then returned his attention to her. "Do not let sleep claim you yet, for you need a proper wash, something that the duck hunting began but did not finish."
A laugh. "If you imply that I smell bad, I have not the strength to feel insulted!"