Though Faramir indeed went to the tavern the next day, he was unable to discover any more information except that the two men Myrhil claimed to have overheard had made no impression on others. One serving maid said that she remembered two men sitting in a back corner, but then there had been so many others at back corner tables that night it was impossible to remember anything specific about them. When he returned to Myrhil with the news, or lack of it, she shrugged in resignation and said she expected as much, although her frustration was barely concealed.
For her part, Myrhil remained near the cottage all day. Upon returning to the Citadel in Faramir’s company the night of the tavern brawl, she was embarrassed to discover that her mother had roused the guards to search for her, although she could understand Laenilas’ concern even if it made her conspicuous. Struck by a sense of dutifulness, she decided to forego her normal routine and stay by her mother’s side.
This unusual desire to be an attentive daughter was sparked by Laenilas’ uncustomary quiet mood. When she had entered the Citadel, safe though a bit battered, Laenilas’ joy was perfunctory. Her lack of enthusiasm stung Myrhil not at all, for she would not have liked her mother indulging in effusive relief. Laenilas seemed subdued not because of her brief disappearance, but something else. She sensed it when they passed by the Tower on the return to their cottage. As they skirted it, the stone gleaming dimly in the darkness, Laenilas’ eyes rarely left it and Myrhil heard a barely audible moan strangled deep within her mother’s throat. The excitement of the evening had wearied her to the extent that she could not summon the curiosity to ask what troubled her, but this reaction to the Tower, along with her former refusal to go there not long after their arrival, spoke of things mysterious. In the meantime, she would not pry and her mother could brood as she liked, though Myrhil would be watchful.
Her split lip and facial bruises demanded immediate explanation, however, and this Myrhil gave, though she kept silent about Belaród. Everything she had told Faramir, she repeated to Laenilas. Her mother trembled as she listened to Myrhil recount the words of the disappeared men, discussing the destruction of all that she had held dear in such brutal, uncaring terms. With some shame, Myrhil confessed they had seemingly slipped through the gate or were hiding themselves deep within the city. Laenilas remained rigid in her chair until she slumped backwards with a wearied sigh. “Others will suffer as we have if they are not found,” she said quietly.
“I know. It matters not that it will be people we do not know. Faramir is having the gate watched. That is all he can do for now. That, and continuing the patrols as planned. He says it is entirely possible that their next attack may be thwarted by mere chance.” She spoke these hopeful words without conviction.
“And you say that there have been attacks near the Gap as well?” Laenilas asked. Her voice was becoming softer and more resigned.
Myrhil nodded reluctantly, eyes fixed on the floor. “That is what Boromir has told me. Mother, I know that no place is completely safe, but please do not let that dissuade you from anything.”
Laenilas shook her head. “It does not. It is my will to journey to Rohan. That was my original plan and so it continues to be.” She stood and clapped her hands in finality. “Then let us prepare to lay the path to that end. We must ready ourselves for the Rohirrim.”
* * *
“Come, Myrhil. Assist me with this.”
Myrhil turned from her mirror and tried to make her way over to Laenilas, but stumbled after two steps without stumbling. “Udûn’s depths!” she cursed, kicking at the folds about her feet. “How can something like this be worn without breaking a leg or neck?”
Laenilas laughed. “Just think how lovely you will look,” she said. “It is worth making some small sacrifice of comfort.”
“You, of all people, say that?” Myrhil demanded. “I have never heard you say kindly things about women who favor a pleasing picture over all else.” She grabbed the skirt in two angry fistfuls and completed the journey to her mother with greater ease.
“One cannot very well appear in court garbed in kitchen rags. A sad truth, to be sure.” Laenilas held out the laces of her bodice and turned her back to Myrhil. “Do not vent your frustration on me and seal me up tight,” she said warningly. “At the first pinch, I will strike out with my hoof.”
“Why not simply puff yourself up and let the saddle roll when I am finished?” Myrhil suggested, dropping her skirt and taking the silk ribbons. She took great care that when she pulled them through the eyelets, the strain would not be felt overly much. “If the guests were anyone but them, we should not be compelled to undergo this ritual,” she muttered.
“If there is a way to smooth the path to our arrival in Edoras, it is to impress upon these men that we are not going to be a burden.” The laces were tied and Laenilas looked over her shoulder at Myrhil reprovingly. “So be a lady.”
Myrhil gave a crooked smile. “Ah, that I’ll certainly try. I cannot let that challenge pass.”
“Another challenge for you,” Laenilas said. “You have met the first one by remaining here instead of running down to the gate.”
Not that I wanted to remain here, Myrhil thought. Earlier that morning, Boromir had passed through the gates with the men from Rohan in tow. Myrhil had wanted to be there when he entered the city, but the bustle and rush before the reception in the White Tower had forced her to remain on the Citadel and ready herself for the event. She wished to hear of his mission and what he had encountered, desired to have him greet her as he had promised on the day he left. Four long days she had hungered for it.
“This will be a far more dignified setting to present our plight,” Laenilas went on, gathering her unbound hair and beginning to plait it in simple fashion. “It will have the charm of distance, rather than kneeling before the King’s throne and forcing a hand he might not be willing to extend. I will not travel there, only to be resented for bald presumption.” Her fingers continued to weave the hair into a pleasing and modest design. “Had they not arrived, we should have been forced to trust to his good will, but our way will hopefully be smoothed by sympathetic envoys.”
Laenilas leaned towards the small looking glass mounted on the wall and flinched in memory of her exchange with Denethor. But what he had said was indeed true. She was wrinkled, but that was the only thing she felt had altered her. Underneath was the same heart and mind.
Pushing those thoughts away, she scrutinized her features and wondered if she had the appropriately wearied expression of the truly pitiable. Only yesterday, she had noticed slight shadows under her eyes and she felt that they would speak well for themselves. She ran a thoughtful finger under one eye, contemplating the hue.
Myrhil watched her mother and crossed her arms. “And to think that I felt you would be unsuited to life in such a sophisticated city,” she mused, a sly smile on her lips. “You have adapted much better than I. No one could mistake me for one born to the court, but you. . .”
Laenilas did not turn as she continued assessing her features. “I may have spent most of my years surrounded by beasts and roughened men, but my mother was a lady of the highest order, in bearing and blood, and I am no stranger to Minas Tirith. I have learned well. My knowledge has simply lain dormant and come to the fore when I need it.” She patted her thin cheeks. “When Mother wished something from my father, she was not averse to playing on his sympathies. Her childhood was spent in Lossarnach and here, as was mine. One cannot be surrounded by devious people and not learn something of their trade.” She turned from the mirror and rested her critical eye on Myrhil. “Your face is a horror.”
Myrhil peered over her mother’s shoulder into the mirror. “There is naught that can be done about it,” she said, bringing a finger to her lip and rubbing lightly at the cut. Then she prodded the bruise on her cheek, the coloring mingling oddly with the tiny bubbles of white scar tissue that was an eternal reminder of the orc’s gauntlet. “It is a horror,” she agreed. “As is this.” Her hand slid to her shoulder where the wound was partially obscured by the neckline of her gown.
“Here,” Laenilas said, rifling through the contents of a small leather bag and producing a dented tin.
“What is that? Salve?” Myrhil held out her hand.
“No. Paint for--.” Laenilas sighed in impatience when Myrhil’s hand snapped back to her side. “Come, it is not permanent!” She removed the lid, swept her finger over the contents, and paused. Then she tapped it with her fingernail and silently replaced the lid. At Myrhil’s elated smile, she tossed it onto the bed. “Granted, it has been some time since I last used it myself,” she allowed. “I will not try to paint you, but be warned that you may earn yourself some unwanted attention. But not only on account of your face.” She shook her head. “That gown still looks ghastly on you.”
“That is not of my doing,” Myrhil replied testily, tiring of the criticism. Her mother’s concern about the Rohirrim dwarfed that held by any ten thousand citizens of Minas Tirith. “No one can say that I did not cooperate with those cursed women and their pins and needles. I will say honestly that if I had had my sword, they would all be headless and, for my part, unmourned.”
“Very well,” Laenilas sighed in resignation. “We have little time left, but I will see what I can do. I have paid for this, but it seems I must do the finishing work!” She hooked her fingers into the neckline of Myrhil’s gown and lifted it from her shoulders. “Udûn’s depths, indeed! What a catastrophe you are in a dress!”
* * *
“These court occasions,” Boromir muttered. “It does one no good to wear fine clothes when what one needs is a good piece of armor to protect the back from well-aimed daggers.”
A servant stood before him, holding a silver-embroidered tunic of velvet in a rich and head-turning shade of indigo. Another held one of fair forest green. They looked at him expectantly for his decision.
Boromir’s mind was not on fashion or what color was suitable for the occasion. He had returned scant hours earlier, bedraggled and weary from a harsh pace along the West Road to meet the men they needed to escort, coupled with the slower return home with a watchful eye ever scanning the horizon for threats. The Rohirrim were no less tired, the early summer in the south far more intense than anything they had experienced during the summer season in their northern home. Boromir was no stranger to Edoras and he recalled the glacial mountains to the southwest of Théoden’s city kept its folk amply cool throughout the warm months. He wished that a chill breeze would now fly through his window and calm him. A bath had provided a cooling effect, but the annoyance at the impending ritual was stoking another flame and he had yet to see Myrhil, which only irritated him further.
Boromir stared at the two garments, his expression not one of indecision but genuine apathy. “I care not which one I wear,” he said, curtly waving a hand in dismissal. “Fight it out amongst yourselves.”
The men looked perplexed at this command and ventured wary glances at each other. “Sire,” the one holding the green tunic murmured timidly, “we would not presume to make such a decision.”
“The blue one,” came a voice from the door.
Boromir looked up to see his brother already garbed in his tunic. It was of a fine brown, the color of tanned deer hide, the hue of a hunter wishing to disappear into the forest rather than the gaudy garden of court gadabouts and politicians. Even the embroidery of the White Tree of Gondor on the breast was done in a darker shade of tan. It was of such bland decoration that none would take notice of him within that crowded hall.
“I see your mind. So you would have me be the conspicuous one of the two of us?” the elder brother accused. “I think not.” He advanced to the man holding the green and snatched the tunic from his hands. “Get out,” he said irritably. “The hard work is done. Now no one need fear I will appear in my broken leathers or naked out of sheer spite.”
“Naked? And you deemed the blue conspicuous?” Faramir laughed.
The servants retreated and Boromir gave the tunic a derisive look. “I would much prefer to meet with Théoden’s men around a table and begin our business there instead of indulging in these ridiculous pleasantries and rituals.”
“And so we shall, eventually,” his brother said. “Unfortunately, I am afraid that should such conferences occur without the proper greetings, rumors will rise.”
“They already have,” Boromir grunted as he tugged the tunic over his head. He had not worn it for some time and found it to be a tighter fit than was comfortable. “I have heard it from some of the men this morning. Around the city, people fear Rohan is seeking to coerce us into fighting their battles or other selfish motives. Blasted rumors! They are more deadly and damaging than any orc. Our fair neighbors to the north provoke suspicion as much as they do admiration. Even friends have to prove their good intentions, sometimes quite often. This city is changing, brother.”
Faramir nodded sadly in agreement. “The duty to look to Gondor’s safety first and foremost can be damaging in itself should alliances be strained in the process.”
As he watched Boromir impatiently pull the tunic over his broad, muscular frame, he wondered if his brother’s short temper would cause such strain when he became Steward. Though their father was not a warm and welcoming figure for foreign emissaries to greet, his very coldness and ability to seem unreadable to most eyes served him well in masking his true feelings. He met friend and foe alike with the same gruffness, so both could take comfort in mutual uncertainty. Boromir, however, found it difficult to mask his dislike for someone, or to restrain from speaking his mind when of firm opinion or impassioned. It had always been taken for granted that Boromir was the wiser and would always tend his younger brother, keeping him on the path and guiding his steps. In moments like this, Faramir thought, I am not so certain that I shall always be the one with the hand on my back.
“There is another rumor,” Faramir began softly and gently, seeking to lift his brother’s spirits as well as his own. He was unable to suppress a smile as he said it.
“And what might that be?” Boromir replied with thick sarcasm. He jerked his arms through the sleeves. “I await this revelation with bated breath.”
“That Rohan seeks a union between their House and ours.”
“You never tire of that threat, do you?” Boromir rejoined. “I can set guard duty by that rumor alone, it is so regular, no thanks to you. If it is not Rohan, it is Dol Amroth. And if not Dol Amroth, it is Harad or even Dunland if a perverse mood grips you. Or perhaps news of some orc nobility has reached your ears?”
Faramir spread his hands helplessly. “When you speak kinder words about your sword or your horse than about wives and marriage, then it is a fertile ground for rumors and fun at your expense.” He picked up Boromir’s sword belt from where it had been draped over the back of a chair and handed it to the Captain. “Théoden still has his sister’s children in his house and he would see them well-matched. Éowyn is but a child--”
“A slip of a thing,” Boromir put in. “I have seen her, once or twice.”
“--yet it would be prudent for him to seek a troth between her and you.”
Boromir buckled the belt around his waist and glanced up at the younger man as he knotted the leather. His eyes were sharp. “You are on dangerous ground, my brother. Best to retreat before you meet with harm.”
Faramir’s gaze did not waver. “It is the only dangerous ground where you will be defeated,” he replied. “For you must tread it sometime and the outcome will not be that which you prefer.” He reached out a hand and placed it on his brother’s wrist. “I know what you would choose if matters of state did not have to be considered, and it would be a fine choice, for other men. But you must needs be more. . .constant.”
Boromir affected a careless shrug. “It is not a matter of marriage itself. I am certain I could tolerate it quite well, but this is a matter where delaying the inevitable is not dangerous. There are more urgent inevitabilities that I must meet head-on, and swiftly. I will tend to those first. Mordor, for one, should they attack in force.” He grinned. “Besides, should I die without an heir, I need not fear that you would shun the vaunted bliss of marriage and children. You are a fitter man for that task than I.” His eyes brightened. “I have a fine proposal. You marry Éowyn.”
Faramir did not allow his brother a moment of pleasure at this jab. “I would not balk if I had to take her to wife when she comes of age,” Faramir replied honestly. “I have heard that she is fair and kind.”
Boromir cocked an eyebrow. “I have not prattled on about her to you,” he began, visibly amused. “So is that what our riders have noticed during their scouting missions along the West Road? They obtain a new horse at Edoras and peek at Théoden’s young charge?” He laughed to himself as he continued to tug the tunic around his shoulders.
His brother did not immediately respond and Boromir turned to him questioningly. His eyes grew light at the prospect of some retribution for Faramir’s earlier mischief. He leaned close and his voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “Ah, so my little brother makes a point of learning the latest gossip from Edoras?” When Faramir’s face flushed slightly, Boromir straightened, chuckling. “I will say it again. You marry this fair Éowyn.” He retreated to the chair that held a fine cloak bearing an elaborate embossed design. He tossed it over his shoulders and fastened the clasp at his throat. “No, little brother, a wife would have to be given to me, for I could not court her in the manner she would demand. I have not time for it.”
“You have courted Myrhil easily enough,” Faramir ventured.
Boromir turned and studied his brother silently. “Well said,” he replied finally. “I should have expected that you would not let me have final advantage. Your quick mind would never allow that. Must I worry that my brother has found all my actions of interest?”
“I have only seen that which there was to see,” Faramir replied. “There was no need to pry and she has offered nothing. I have seen it through honest means.”
“We have courted each other,” Boromir said, voicing his thoughts from days earlier. “She has done it as much as I. You do not think it foolish, do you?” He seemed genuinely abashed at his words, even as he spoke them.
Faramir was slightly startled at Boromir’s bewildered expression, realizing his brother was truly confused. He did not know intimate details of Boromir’s past and various conquests, but he did know that this could indeed be a new experience for him. His brother had always portrayed himself as the pursuer, whether a true claim or not. That he was admitting such was not the case now was an interesting revelation.
“No, I do not think it foolish,” Faramir replied, smiling.
“Then you think it charming?”
“No.”
“Then why the charming smile?”
Faramir heard a note of defensiveness creeping into his brother’s voice and let the smile fall from his lips. Boromir had apparently recovered from his weak moment, his display of uncertainty, and sought to become brisk and soldierly once more. He found it somewhat ironic, for Myrhil was a steely sort and seemed to favor the rough tumble of the practice field. No doubt she softened under his brother’s touch but, from outward appearances, Faramir found it almost an impossibility to imagine two such people lowering their swords and dropping their shields to come together. Was talk of swords, battles and blood a prelude to a certain type of courtship that some women favored? Had he been in Boromir’s place, escorting them to Minas Tirith, no doubt he would know more about Myrhil than he did, but such knowledge was Boromir’s and Boromir’s alone. Yet his brother’s unguarded musing was interesting. Very interesting, indeed.
Boromir had returned to his irritation towards his garments and he shoved the cloak back over his shoulders. Finally achieving some semblance of calm within his velvet confines, he raked his dark locks with hurried fingers. By all outward appearances, their discussion had been forgotten. “Come, brother,” he said. “Let us be done with this, and when it is all over, if I have not taken a knife to it to free myself, you can have this smothering rag I wear!”
* * *
The great hall was less forbidding as a site for festivities than it had been the nights Myrhil and Laenilas has encountered Gondor’s ruler. The statues positioned between the black marble columns that lined the long procession to the King’s throne, empty these many centuries, and the Steward’s chair seemed like mere onlookers rather than watchful sentinels. Though surrounded by gay company, their stoic and stern expressions stood in stark relief. But few heeded these cold sculptures, so intent was everyone on the warm flesh and blood that swirled about the hall. The sun shone indirectly through the windows along the wall to the north and south, illuminating the fancy gilded threads that adorned the gowns and tunics of the gathered assembly, and the vaulted room crackled with curiosity, excitement and gossip.
Myrhil and Laenilas arrived early enough so as not to find themselves pushed to the outer reaches of the assembly, instead finding a suitably close position to where the reception would unfold. Laenilas wished to be within reach of the Rohirrim ambassadors when she deemed the time appropriate to approach them with her plea. Despite this precaution, heavily scented women, accompanied by their escorts, surrounded them within minutes and Laenilas’ stature was not adequate to see above the throng. A clear view of anything that transpired before the Steward’s chair was impossible.
“Were the King’s throne to be used, I would be able to see without trouble,” Laenilas muttered, “but practicality must bend to foolish tradition and lore. The Stewards are here; the Kings are not. So why not sit in their actual place?” She shook her head in incredulity. “Myrhil, you must be my eyes,” she insisted, unable to disguise her annoyance, “else I shall push my way to the fore and embarrass you horribly.”
“I can see no better,” Myrhil lamented. “You may have to slip through this breathing barricade in front of us, else we shall not be able to capture the attention of even the lowliest scribe. I shall remain here in case you need to return.”
Laenilas eased away from Myrhil and sought any opening she could find in the assembled company. With surprising dexterity, she soon vanished into the sea of bodies and Myrhil could no longer see her or evidence of her passage. Her mother seemed to have returned to her former temper, for she had shown little hesitancy to enter the tower. Myrhil wondered if needs had surmounted Laenilas’ aversion, or if it had all been imagined.
In front of her, a cluster of women swirled and chattered amongst themselves about their new gowns, the visiting guests, and their lovers. One seemed intent on displaying her new garment to her companions many times over, plying them for compliments on the unique color. Myrhil had to admit it was a brilliant red such as she had never seen.
Despite this entertainment, she regretted her decision to remain while her mother sought a better place. The Steward’s chair was positioned low enough on the dais, on the bottommost step in fact, so that only the inner circle and the tallest in a crowd of this size could see anything of importance. Her mother was right. Why was a perfectly good throne, practically placed, allowed to go unused? She realized why it remained vacant, but there had been no king for hundreds of years. The chances that the line would return were slim. Mention of it only existed in little rhymes like the one Faramir had shown her, something spoken but not truly believed. Boromir would succeed his father and after him, his son, and so on through the ages to come. Myrhil wished that she could see Boromir seated on the King’s throne for she had no doubt that he would present a more noble figure than a straggler from the weak line that had faded from the pages of Gondor’s history. She had always had a vague notion of how the Stewards achieved their present position, but Faramir’s stories and tales in the depths of the library had illustrated the empty canvas with names and pictures of deeds past. Though Faramir was not an engaging storyteller in the manner of her father, the tales she had learned in recent weeks had instilled in her a new fascination for her country and she did admit to feeling acute regret that she would be leaving it.
Those standing near pressed closer and her view narrowed. These cruel slippers do not help me see what I wish to, she thought, after straining her neck to see above those before her. She gave a small jump, hoping to gain a few more inches than what her slippers gave her, but when she landed, her foot twisted to the side and she grabbed the nearest person to steady herself.
A feminine wail of outrage sounded above the indistinct murmurs and chatter that filled the room. “What are you doing?” the furious woman in brilliant red demanded, whirling to face her attacker. Her eyes widened when she saw the offender and her contorted lips fashioned themselves into an amused smile. Far from pleasant, the smile spoke of an eagerness for blood sport. “Ah, the warrior of the plains!” she cried, a hand reaching out to gesture to Myrhil’s bruises. “And bearing a trophy or three from her latest battle!”
The noise in the hall had hushed only briefly after the woman’s angry cry, but when nothing else was forthcoming, the hum of conversation resumed and this event was left to continue in a more private manner.
As private as this close-pressed group of people can be, Myrhil thought glumly, sensing that eyes and ears around her were eagerly open. She did not know this woman, but she recognized the breed most surely. Boromir had spoken scornfully of it often enough for her to be able to identify the type after only a brief glance, though his derisive and vicious words had seemed so vehement as to make her doubt that such a creature existed. Nothing as grand as what was happening today had occurred in the city since her arrival, so the excitement and the different breeds of men and women she now saw were disconcertingly new to her and she could not say that she liked all of them.
“Excuse me,” she replied, unable to successfully blunt the edge of her tone.
The woman caught the underlying disgust and unrepentant expression in Myrhil’s eyes. She continued to smile. “I have seen you many times from the citadel, running about on the Pelennor and slashing your way through imaginary armies. Deigning to wear a skirt, are you?” she asked, her gaze surveying Myrhil’s figure. “Well, I think with a scrawny body like yours, you should content yourself with your breeches and men’s clothing. Anything that will disguise what you do not have.”
Myrhil’s first instinct was to grab the woman by the throat, but she fought down such an impulse, enticing though it was. She understood quite well what the woman implied and quickly tried to conjure a reply. She recalled Boromir’s words that he would be amused to set her among creatures such as these and watch the results, but she was certain he would prefer a less sensitive day than this. But she was also certain that if an arrogant fellow had derided the size of his manhood, time or place would have little importance. The hapless fool would be in an unconscious heap on the marble floor, state occasion or no. She would not be so violent, but she could not let this go unmet.
“So you have noticed that I lack what you have in abundance,” she retorted, her mind finally seizing upon words she thought were cutting. “I am quite flattered that you thought it important to look.”
“Is that designed to hurt me?” the woman replied, unfazed. “You talk like a common female of dull wit and broken claws. I expected your response to be more. . .martial.”
“Had I my sword, you would not say that, if you were still able to speak from a slit throat.” Pure anger fueled her, but she did not know if she could sustain this strange form of warfare for any length. She was parrying thus far, but she had no doubt her attacker would find an opening sometime, just as Boromir had always done. With Boromir, however, she had never feared he would deliberately wound her.
“Ah, that is more seemly for you,” came the pleased retort, “but if you will forgive me, I would prefer not to converse with the child of a sergeant who would shun her feminine gifts, such as they are, to wallow in the affairs of men.” With that, she turned her back.
Myrhil simmered with rage as she stared at the pale, graceful and unblemished neck and shoulders before her, as bloodless as her garment was bloody. She clenched her teeth, her face betraying the tension with a slight tremble. She wanted nothing more than to grasp the woman by the arm with one hand, spin her around, and shatter her jaw with the other.
But no, she could not. She had to remain silent and allow this woman the final insult, much as it cut her. At the same time, she realized how foolish it was to expect she could drift between two such vastly different worlds as the practice field and the court and not expect incidents such as these. Even Boromir had said he experienced difficulty when he left one and entered another for short periods of time. If the Steward’s son could not be comfortable and avoid discord, then she certainly could not, especially with such creatures as the red-clad viper intent on reminding her what she was, what she was not, and what she could never be. She had neither blood nor title to protect her. She possessed nothing of use, and swords could not be wielded in every conflict.
Had the room not been so pressed it made exit impossible, Myrhil would have fled to the relief the outdoors provided and abandon gowns and civility forever. Civility! she thought. A dagger slipped between the ribs was civil. A broadsword to the neck was barbaric. What a strange and revolting world this is. Edoras cannot be so deceitful. It must not. And if it is? She did not wish to consider the question.
A ripple of commotion coursed through the crowd, beginning at the open doors that faced to the east and continuing onward to those nearest the dais, but Myrhil did not hear it. Her thoughts were all turned inward, taking no notice of what happened around her. Dread about Edoras was born and homesickness tugged at her for the first time in many, many days.
As the black-clad Steward walked up the aisle of the parted assembly, his two sons in their inconspicuous tunics of brown and green followed in his wake, the three of them presenting a muted portrait of command. Their bearing, however, was strong and bespoke the resolve that kept Gondor unconquered thus far. The father was kingly in figure, if not in name, and his heirs were fair to behold.
Heads bowed as they passed, but Myrhil did not react immediately, her mind still pondering its own troubles. When she realized those about her were gazing downward while her head remained erect, she looked about in alarm and saw that Boromir was watching her in open amusement, a grin having replaced his solemn expression of only moments before. From this distance, he did not seem to have noticed that she was not in exactly the same condition he had left her. Flustered, she cast her troubled gaze to the floor.
And it was then that she saw a straggling thread at the hem of a brilliant red dress. She brought the toe of her slipper firmly down upon it.
* * *
“It is a pleasure indeed to welcome you to our city, Elfleda of Rohan,” Denethor said, shifting in the black Steward’s chair and his voice betraying no such emotion. In his hands, he held the gold-knobbed white rod of his office, the only decoration allowed the Steward line, and tapped one end absently against his palm. “I trust that your soldiers have found their lodgings satisfactory?”
The leading Rohirrim ambassador Denethor had addressed remained proudly erect and thanked the Steward for the reception. “Yes, Denethor of Gondor. Your hospitality is quite generous, and I must thank you for the kind and able assistance lent us by your son.” He bowed his head in Boromir’s direction, as one soldier to another, a gesture that Boromir returned. “To the matter of our mission: this gathering between us has become a necessity in light of the dangers our countries face,” he began. “I think it is obvious that ties must be strengthened.”
“I should think so.” Denethor cast a brief glance towards his eldest son. Boromir did not appear to have heard the possible implications in Elfleda’s statement. Faramir, who stood on the right side of the Steward’s chair while Boromir remained on the left, allowed only a flicker of amusement to tug at the corner of his mouth. “The message from Théoden was not unexpected for we have kept ourselves apprised of the situation to the north and west as well,” Denethor continued, “but it raises questions nonetheless.”
“And we shall discuss them in as much depth as is mutually agreeable,” Elfleda continued, resolute. His appearance was that of the purest Rohirrim, though perhaps a little dulled with age. Even so, his hair was still golden as wheat before the harvest, his eyes a proud, piercing blue. Though he seemed to possess the traits of the Horse-lords as told in the old legends, he was garbed in a manner that seemed closer to the court he now attended than what was customary in Edoras. It was known among many that Théoden, born in Gondor to a father who had adopted many traits of the land of his self-chosen exile, did not look askance at foreigners, unlike many of his subjects. This Elfleda seemed to have acquired some habits during his travels while carrying out his duties, and it earned him the approval of many in that tight and curious gathering.
While Elfleda continued his exchange with Denethor, Laenilas observed the scene with eager eye, if not with attentive ear. She felt invigorated as she looked upon men from her ancestral lands. Only six attended the leading ambassador and, with one or two exceptions, they were all that she had been told of throughout her childhood. Tall and fair, they stood rigid and proud, dressed in a manner similar to the figures in the tapestries her grandmother Théda had woven after reaching Gondor in the wake of her brother. Of varying ages these men were, but vigor was not absent from the faces and bodies of the elder ones among them. Golden hair fell about broad shoulders and though they did not wear armor, their tunics seemed no less grand and impressive. The soldiers who had escorted them were not there, instead collecting a well-earned rest in their lodgings. The display of force they would have presented was not welcome in a diplomatic meeting. It is a shame, Laenilas thought. I should like to see them in all their proud finery.
She continued to observe the Rohirrim and was annoyed that the one nearest her was an unprepossessing figure. If there was one among them whose attention she could capture without making undue noise or gestures, he would be the easiest, yet his unimpressive stature and position at the rear of his compatriots bespoke of his inferior status. A short, slight man with hair as dark as the others’ were fair and dressed in a tunic of lesser ostentation, he stood with the patient, resigned air of the lowly and she noticed that his hand rested protectively on a leather case that was slung across his shoulder and chest. His fingers carried faint stains of ink and his pale face betrayed a shunning of the robust activities enjoyed by his fellow countrymen. She could not imagine this man thundering across the Mark on a charger with a spear or bow. No, the case and the inky fingers told her that he was the lowly scribe Myrhil had said would be beyond their ability to attract. But with a simple gesture, perhaps she could begin her effort to present her plea with this man and continue onward to Elfleda himself.
When she saw him look down at his case once more, apparently once again confirming its presence by his side, she darted her hand out quickly, just enough to create a flurry of movement that could be glimpsed from the corner of his eye. When he did not react, she did it again, hissing softly, “Eorling!”
Heavy-lidded eyes set on either side of a thin, aquiline nose turned from the object of their interest and lingered briefly at the cascade of pale blue silk that brushed the floor. The curious gaze continued its path upward, becoming no less questioning when he looked upon her face. He cocked his head, inviting her to repeat what it was she said but, at that moment, Elfleda and Denethor concluded their pleasantries and preliminary business. The assembly began to stir, the hall humming as it had before the meeting began.
Laenilas looked towards the other Rohirrim and saw that Denethor had risen from his chair and was gesturing Elfleda towards the door on the left. The others were falling into step behind the lead Rohirrim and one of them had turned around to see if the slight, pale man was following.
“Gríma!” he called.
The pale scribe bowed his head and made to move away from Laenilas, but she reached wildly for him and grasped his sleeve before he had taken a step. “Please, I ask but a moment,” she said haltingly in the speech of Rohan.
“I speak fluent Westron,” he replied with visible impatience, or perhaps it was fear that he would be delayed from joining those who needed his services.
“My kin were from Rohan,” she said, feeling the words rush to her lips. “I claim kinship with Théoden King, though I ask no special favors on that count. I only wish to present myself at his feet and ask for his kindness.”
Another call. “Gríma!”
When he tried to gently pull away from her, she only held tighter. “My husband was murdered by orcs and I have nothing to keep me here in Gondor. I wish to come to Rohan. My grandmother was Théda, daughter of Fengel. Can you please tell your lord of my plea?”
“Yes, yes!” he cried, wrenching himself free from her grasp and hastening after the disappearing Rohirrim. Despite this somewhat frantic exchange, they had not been too conspicuous beyond those in the immediate vicinity. Laenilas was satisfied that she had not made a spectacle of herself, although she wished she had been able to make her request with more dignity.
“Mother, were you able to do anything?” came Myrhil’s voice from behind her. She heard her daughter grunt as she pushed past those nearby to reach her. One of her hands was balled into a fist and she used it to push her way through. “I did not know they would be called away so quickly,” she said. “What a wasted effort! To stand here for hours and accomplish nothing.”
Laenilas watched the spare figure turn his head towards her as he continued to follow the others. From this distance, she could not be certain what emotion was in his dark eyes, but that he would consider another glance made her feel that she had not been immediately forgotten.
“Perhaps not much,” she replied. “But certainly not ‘nothing’.”
Myrhil looked down at her balled fist and smiled, biting her lip. “On second thought, even little victories can seem like the best of prizes.” At the same time, she told herself to believe that the cutting words about her father’s low rank, and hence her own worth, hurt her not at all.