Myrhil was the first to waken. Boromir’s rooms faced eastward and the sunrise, such as it was through Mordor’s haze, shone directly into her eyes. She flinched at the sudden, unwelcome light and shifted slightly to turn her head from it. As she did so, she became aware of Boromir’s strong form pressed against her. The back of her neck was warm and moist from his breath and the curve of her waist seemed like his arm had always been draped around it. His hand was curled against her stomach and she laid her own over it, the tips of her fingers running lightly over the skin. For such a strong hand, she could feel the narrow bones so finely.
Since the dawn was not as brilliant a sight here as in Lebennin, after the initial discomfort she looked long at it before she felt Boromir stir beside her. Her hand stopped its idle motions as he came awake beside her. A slight move of the legs at first, followed by a lazy twisting of the hips, and then punctuated by a grunt as, apparently, the sun met his eyes as well. She lay still throughout this ritual, curious as to what he usually did with his bedmates once he woke. A wry smile formed on her lips when she soon learned it was as she thought with this soldier.
The hand she had been caressing slipped out from her loose hold and began to slowly massage her left breast. He drew her against him tightly and she felt the prick of his beard against her neck and shoulder as he placed several long kisses against the flushed skin. “Wake up, Myrhil,” he sang softly in her ear.
“How could I sleep?” she replied, still not moving. “It is difficult when something hard is poking my backside.”
“Your tongue has loosened since I left those scant days ago,” he observed. His hand now slid from her breast to her stomach, and his fingers clasped her waist in an insistent pull to prompt her over onto her back. “I do not remember giving you leave to speak to Gondor’s Captain thusly.”
She did not answer and rolled against him willingly, but when he moved to straddle her, she began to laugh. “What is so amusing?” he asked, pausing.
“If you lay on me before I meet with a piss pot, there will be little to laugh at.”
Boromir gave her thigh a light slap and returned to where he had previously lain. “Under the bed, on your side.”
Myrhil crawled off the bed and fumbled under it until her fingers retrieved a large porcelain bowl. Crouching over it, she crossed her arms on the edge of the mattress and rested her chin on them. Boromir watched her, a smile on his lips.
“You see me at my most vulnerable, I fear,” she said.
“I think not. Should we ever need to flood the Pelennor--” he paused and cocked an ear towards the continuing sound “--I now know one who could do it.” His smile widened. “A mighty gift, that. One to make the storm clouds weep in envy.”
Finished, Myrhil rose slowly and leaned towards him. “And I hear that piss pots make perfect helms for impossible captains,” she retorted, shoving the bowl under the bed with a foot, “and I am not particular about them being empty.” She crawled back onto the bed and slipped under the bedclothes.
“You have your father’s manner without his colorful choice of words,” he said.
“Oh, but I know those as well, if you would care to hear me say them.” She turned onto her side and propped herself up on an elbow. “Do you wish for me to wait for a proper occasion, or recite them as Faramir has me do with more innocent things?”
Boromir assumed the same pose as she so that he faced her. “I would have you recite them to Faramir.”
Myrhil shook her head ruefully. “You are a wicked brother, Boromir.” She paused and stared at him shrewdly. “There is a bit of the dirty little brat in you as well, if I may say so. ‘Tis not just me.”
A large, rough hand settled on her hip and stroked upwards, the fingers running over her waist and along the swell of her breast to her shoulder. Boromir leaned forward until his nose brushed hers. “It is not my habit to bed ‘dirty little brats,’” he whispered. “I have not seen that in you for countless weeks,” he kissed her softly, “and I am glad of it. Else we would not be enjoying ourselves like this on so fine a morning.”
“Staring at sunrises and pissing in pots is enjoyable?” she asked.
The glint in Boromir’s eyes was unmistakable, as was his meaning when his fingers trailed down between her breasts and over her stomach to the juncture between her thighs. “Aye, among other things.”
* * *
It was not until after this third and final coupling that the sated occupants of Boromir’s bed set foot on the floor with intent to go forth into the day. Myrhil noted that Boromir bounded out in visible high spirits, while she found herself less energetic. She ventured a glance at Boromir, but he had not noticed her weakened state. Instead, he was gathering up his tunic and shirt from the pile in the middle of the floor.
“Father has not sent a servant to wake me,” he said, “so it would seem the Rohirrim need no attention as yet. Will you eat with me this morning?”
Myrhil fidgeted. “Do you think that wise?”
“Wise?” He straightened, his arms full of clothes. “It is not a public matter, if that is what you fear. There will be none of that multitude we suffered last night.”
“Your father is public enough,” she blurted. “I am sorry,” she hastily added upon seeing Boromir’s startled expression. “I did not mean-- Your father is a fine man and--and--”
Boromir rounded the bed and stood before her. “There is naught to fear, Myrhil.” His hand went to her shoulder, gripping it and giving her an encouraging shake. “Certainly not this.”
This what? she thought. Simply eating with Denethor or the strange new position last night had now placed her? In the light of day, both filled her with apprehension. What did Boromir’s lovers do when not in his bed? She did not think they attached themselves to his house as temporary wives. Or did they?
“What have your past women done?” she asked.
Boromir’s ministrations stopped, her question -- and the bluntness with which she spoke it -- taking him aback. “What?”
“Did they live here? Were they embraced by your father and brother?”
“Hardly.” The amusement was clearly apparent on his face. “I would go to see them, not the other way around. At least, not usually. There was never a reason or need for any one to meet the other.”
“I do not speak of whores you pay after a good ride,” she replied, “but those you do not, like me.”
Boromir’s shoulders set and he looked down at her sternly. “I am torn between wondering why any of it should matter and calculating how to answer. What does it matter? Do you want to eat the bloody food or not?”
“If it comes with a heavy silence and piercing glances, then no. I shall take my meal with Mother. She knows where I am and has nothing ill to say of it.”
“Of course you will be scrutinized,” Boromir said, as though wondering why he had to state a plain fact. “And perhaps a nasty word or more will be sent your way. It will make the morning damned unpleasant and we will all wish we were elsewhere.”
Myrhil was incredulous. “By the Gods, Boromir, that is an enticing invitation.”
“Ah, I see you have not the stomach for conflict of this sort,” he said, his voice an audible taunt. “I thought you would have been blooded in that yesterday.”
She did not miss his meaning. “And so I was. I did not like it. Words are not my weapons.”
“Neither are they mine, but I fight as best I can.” He spread out his arms. “And here I still stand.”
“He does not like me, your father,” she said flatly. “I have felt it.”
“It is Gorhend he did not like, Myrhil.” Boromir watched her expression twist in discomfort at this revelation. “But it is because of Faramir and I, not you. But--”
“But there is no reason for him to embrace me. Blood is blood.”
Boromir shrugged in apparent agreement. “Possibly. Father is not without his peculiarities.” He grasped her chin and tilted it upwards, scrutinizing her himself. “Nor are you, it seems.” He let his hand fall, only to give her rump a cajoling slap. “Enough of this. I want some of that bloody food. Come with me, if you like. But I will understand if you refuse.”
Put in those terms, a challenge to show her face, she could not refuse. Yes, she would come. She indicated as much with a resigned yet wary smile.
Boromir seemed satisfied at her silent response and turned his attention to the clothes he held in his arms. He shook out the tunic and studied it briefly before throwing it onto the bed without further scrutiny. “I am glad to be rid of that rag. I shall not wear it again.”
“I though you were a fine figure in it,” Myrhil commented, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed.
“I see. So you would avoid those silk and velvet constraints if you could, but have me suffer them to please your eyes?” he asked, walking to a chair over which more familiar garments were draped. She watched as he picked them up one by one and muttered something to himself before vanishing into another part of the room that was separated from where she sat by a heavy curtain.
Now that the room was bathed in light, Myrhil felt as though she was seeing it for the first time. Her hand was still wrapped around the post at the foot of the bed and she felt the intricate and expertly turned carving beneath her fingers. It was a strong and solid bed, one that had no doubt provided many nights of peaceful sleep and heated passion to generations of the Steward’s line. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished with like pieces of sturdy craft, reflecting the man who inhabited it. The walls sported several pieces of weaponry that bore marks of use and were of a design she decided were the most ancient things she had ever seen. What figure from the past had wielded them? Two shields were propped up in one corner and the leather covering of one was ripped. In front of them lay a pair of boots and several sets of gauntlets. All seemed to need some form of repair, but everything was arranged in an orderly fashion. The final thing that caught her eye was the bear pelt hanging from the wall over the small stone fireplace. Most likely a trophy from the north, she thought. She had never seen bears in her region of Gondor. Mountain goats, certainly, and also several large cats, but no bears. It seemed entirely fitting that the pelt hung beside a tapestry depicting the hunting of another of those large and ferocious beasts.
Her eyes turned to her crumpled gown on the floor and she tapped her fingers absently against the fluted wood as she contemplated it. She despised the idea of putting it back on, much like Boromir, but unlike him, she had no alternative. Sighing in resignation, she stood up and made her way over to it. She could see Boromir now, standing half-naked in front of a large oaken wardrobe, the doors flung open and the contents under his perusal.
“Have you anything in there for me?” she called out, bending down to retrieve her gown. “I cannot bear the thought--” She was interrupted by the sound of something hard falling from the folds of her gown and striking the floor, an odd sound of metal and wood. Looking about her feet, Myrhil saw a small, framed picture on a heavy chain and she grasped it in eager curiosity.
The portrait had obviously endured many hardships. The paint was cracked and chipped in several places and a few smudges marred the image on the wood. The image was of a woman, from what Myrhil could discern; a winsome beauty possessing large eyes, long pale neck, and hair dark in the manner of Gondor’s people. On her lips was a contented smile.
“What is this?” she asked, turning to Boromir and holding up her find.
Boromir finished tying the laces at the throat of his shirt and quickly approached her, taking the miniature from her. “I had forgotten I wore it last night,” he said.
“Who is she?” She peered at the portrait again where it was now held safely in Boromir’s hands. “I fancy I see a trace of Faramir in those features. Your mother?”
Boromir nodded and put the chain around his neck. “Yes. This is one of my unchanging remembrances of her.”
“Did the painter capture her well?” She inspected it again as it hung from his neck. “She is indeed lovely.”
“She was,” he began, and Myrhil’s eyes flitted to his face as his voice held the same loving emotion she had heard that night when he spoke to her of his mother’s death and his pain. “She was indeed, though I never remember her so cheerful. But Father does and that is why she is painted so. They were a gift to us five years after she died. Father commissioned two of them and gave one to Faramir and one to me. He said--”
Boromir’s voice caught and Myrhil put a hand on his arm. “Do not speak. I need not know any of this.”
It was as though he had not heard her. “He had not spoken of her with anything but grief in his heart and countenance until that day. But as he put these in our hands, he spoke of her with joy. It was only a brief respite from the sorrow he bore, but I shall never forget it.” He gazed down at it for a while longer and his fingers curled around its fading gilded edges. Then he picked it up by the chain and secreted it in his shirt. “And there it has rested during many sorties and the occasional battle. Battles on the field and in the court, such as yesterday.” He grinned, but Myrhil sensed that his former mood still lingered greatly. “I needed her patience and wisdom while seated at a negotiation table.”
Myrhil held up her gown and retrieved the thread that still clung to the inside of her sleeve. “I could have sorely used a talisman like yours as well, though no portrait of my mother would give me patience. Wisdom, perhaps; but I needed patience last night like the air to breathe.” And what, she thought, will I need in only a few minutes’ time?
* * *
The dining hall in the Steward’s house was more inviting than the large one for more grand occasions. A long table that could seat perhaps a dozen people was positioned in the middle of the room and clustered towards one end were several boards and bowls, each one bearing something to eat. Myrhil smelled the ever-present fresh bread and the aroma set her stomach to growling painfully. What an appetite last night created, she thought.
Also at the table sat Denethor and Faramir. Denethor was placed at the head, as was natural, while Faramir sat to his right on the side. Faramir’s head was bent towards his father as he spoke of some matter, but Myrhil did not know what it was for she noticed that the Steward’s gaze had fixed upon her as soon as she entered the room. Faramir, following his gaze, fell silent upon seeing her and his brother.
“Good morning, Father,” Boromir said, advancing to the table. Myrhil followed him as though they were one and she drew on Boromir’s display of unconcern to steady her nerves. Denethor’s bearing had seemed stern, and his eyes probing, the night Faramir had taken her to the Tower, but in the brightness of day it seemed even more so and the light of his gaze was scorching and inhospitable. She tried to remember the man Boromir had only just spoken of, the loving and grieving husband who had gone to great lengths to give his sons an image of their mother that had only been his to treasure. Yet it was hard to find tenderness in the stony visage that now held her under such merciless regard.
“Good morning, my lord,” she managed. “I beg favor to join you.”
Denethor’s eyes went to his elder son and his thumbs slowly rubbed against his fingers in thought. Myrhil sensed that he had shrewdly surmised all in one glance, knew everything that had passed between her and Boromir. Only a fool would have come to a different conclusion upon seeing his heir approach the morning table with a woman unseen in the Steward’s House until then.
“Think you I needed testing today, Boromir?” the Steward said, gaze unwavering. “I was taxed yesterday, as were you.” His eyes returned to consider Myrhil, albeit briefly, followed by soft insinuation stiffened with ice. “You apparently thrive on reaching your limits of endurance.”
“The sure way to learn my full measure,” Boromir replied smoothly. “I feel not the worse for it, Father. Rejoice in that.”
Denethor’s expression did not crack. Instead, he turned to Faramir. “What say you?” he asked. “Will our table bear another?”
When Myrhil saw the misery brewing behind Faramir’s eyes, she regretted that she had let Boromir’s taunts push her into coming with him. Whether these small family dinners tended to be tense affairs, she did not know, but this one promised everything Boromir had said it might be. I certainly wish I were elsewhere, she thought. Faramir, in that we are in total agreement.
But Faramir’s mouth set, his eyes steely. Myrhil could not tell if this look of reproach was directed at her, his brother, his father, or all three, for his voice was impenetrably neutral, though his words were short. “Yes, Father. I have no objection.”
Denethor pursed his lips and looked down at his plate in silence, his thumbs still scraping against his fingers in an unnerving monotony like the clack of her mother’s old loom or the hollow chatter of Cardhel’s hand running a shirt over a washboard. Only a few seconds passed, of that Myrhil was certain, but when the Steward finally raised his eyes, she felt she had been waiting the wait of the condemned.
“Sit,” he said. “Eat.”
Myrhil grasped the back of the chair and pulled it out from the table. She tried not to sink into it with the heavy relief that threatened to overwhelm her at completing this first step. Not that the unpleasantness was past. It threatened to be wholly present and enduring, if Denethor’s mien was any indication. He was not pleased, and she could not blame him for feeling so.
Boromir took his seat in the chair beside her and filled his plate in sure, measured gestures. He showed no sign of regret or discomfort, but Myrhil could not help but think that he was masking his true mood. She was nervous, terribly so, but Boromir broke his bread and began to eat with a contented air. Did he take pleasure in flaunting undesirable behavior before his father in the same manner she had done with her own? Boromir was a dutiful son of Gondor, heir to the Stewardship, but he was not wholly that. There was something of the plain son within him as well, or so she deemed. Yet she was not sure which one she had lain with last night. She had felt both the power and force he possessed, the might he had at his command to bring down at his whim, but she had not been afraid, for he was -- truly -- only a man.
Her thoughts were turned when she heard Denethor’s deep and dry tones from the head of the table. “So, you go to Rohan,” he said, more as a statement than a question. “A lengthy journey.”
“Yes,” she replied, uncertain whether he wanted to embark upon a conversation.
“I suspect that it shall become a permanent arrangement.” Again, a statement.
Myrhil was in the process of reaching for something to settle her unsettled stomach. She paused briefly and looked across the table at Faramir. His expression now matched the earlier neutrality of his voice, but his posture in the large high-backed chair indicated resignation at the present happenings and a wish to distance himself from them until all was over and the way clear. She wished she knew what Boromir’s face held, now that the confrontation was engaged, but she did not want to lower her guard by looking at him. That would only reveal her uncertainty to Denethor’s avid senses and she felt vulnerable as it was.
“Permanent? Perhaps,” she allowed. “That seems to be my mother’s intent, and I am content to remain with her for some time yet.”
Denethor nodded as he chewed, both motions slow and contemplative. “A subject of Théoden’s, then. Far from Gondor.” He turned to Boromir, who was drawing a long draught from his goblet. Denethor picked up his and brought it to his lips, but he did not drink. His grey eyes stared over the silver rim. “So, Boromir, shall I expect your thoughts to be divided between our two nations?”
Myrhil had refrained from following Denethor’s gaze, but this biting question caused her to turn as well. She was confused as to what intent lay behind the Steward’s words, but when she saw Boromir’s jaw tighten before casting a reluctant flickering glance at her out of the corner of his eye, she understood. Oh, how she understood! If Boromir showed regret at her parting and the distance that would lie between them, he was not the rock of strength this beleaguered nation needed, not the indomitable heir Denethor desired. Yet if Boromir indicated anything less in manner or response, whatever may have occurred in his bed the night before would be shown to have little importance to him.
And I will be here to see it, Myrhil thought. He knows the realization could never be more unmistakable. She worked her tongue for a reply, but her mind could supply nothing. She had to make plain that whatever he said, she realized he had to say it.
“My thoughts are already divided between the two nations, Father,” came the reply. “How could they not be?” Boromir set down his goblet and returned his father’s unwavering gaze with one of no less intensity. “The day we think not on our allies will be the moment we find ourselves alone, and I shall never let Gondor be rendered thus.”
Myrhil looked towards Faramir and found that he was as attentive as she. The dread was still in his eyes, but it was now mixed with curiosity and anticipation at what was transpiring. Their eyes met and between them passed words unspoken. Who shall be the victor of this?
Denethor’s goblet made a soft, yet firm, hollow sound as it was set down upon the polished wood. Over the table hung a silence palpable and tormenting. Then, pleased,
“Well answered.” The anticipated answer to a question planned and asked with iron control of the aftermath, however it unfolded.
The silence resumed.
No defeat for the Steward. And, from Faramir’s knowing expression, Myrhil concluded that confrontations rarely, if ever, ended in defeat for Denethor of Gondor.
* * *
In the library, a candle burned. Myrhil sat in the corner of a subterranean alcove, the retreat of many a scholar for centuries previous. Books and scrolls were nestled in their tidy pigeonholes and lined the shelves on the walls around her. She had not disturbed a one. In fact, she had done little but sit and think since she had entered the close and dusty room. A piece of cheap parchment lay on the table before her, scattered scribblings marking the coarse and mottled material. A quill slouched loosely in her fingers, the ink dry and flaking on the splintered tip.
She had been bemused at first to find herself here, of all places. The Library of Minas Tirith had rarely been a destination of choice for her unless forcibly steered by Faramir. But immediately after the tense and terse breakfast, Boromir’s manner had not invited her to follow him. Despite his calm and courageous reply to Denethor’s trying question, the ordeal had noticeably rattled him and turned his mood inward, erasing the light spirits in which he had woken. At the door of the hall, he bade Myrhil a brief farewell before departing for whatever duties called. Faramir had followed him and she had been left to her own devices. So here she was, enjoying some solitude after a gut-wrenching breakfast.
She dipped the quill into the inkpot, both items loaned to her by an attendant on duty. The ragged parchment had been a gift from that same person. It was already marked and of such poor quality that, from the attendant’s lofty observations, Myrhil sensed was only fit for latrines. But she was not of such a particular nature. Her unlearned scrawl would complement it nicely.
The quill scraped harshly over the surface as she wrote in slow strokes with great effort. It was nothing of import, only random thoughts she had felt confident of transcribing with any measure of skill. With Rohan looming ever closer, and her worth in doubt (in her own mind, if in no other’s), she hoped to acquire a veneer of learning that would not reflect poorly upon her. So she continued to scratch and scrawl until the parchment was filled on both sides. She sensed the hours were passing, but she took odd comfort in this silent sanctuary for the first time in her memory. Several times she raised her eyes to the ceiling above her, wondering if Boromir’s step had passed over her in the Citadel at all during the day and if its tread had lightened. If it had not, she would seek her own bed tonight. Any idle glance at the parchment reminded her of this, for her thought about it had joined the other disjointed phrases and sentences that her quill and the fleeting hours produced.
When the parchment could hold no more, she took up the piece and rolled it tightly, twisting it in the middle to secure it from unfurling. She also gathered up the quill and ink and grasped the candle in her free hand. It was no doubt past noon, or even later. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of neglect.
“Yes, yes,” she muttered impatiently, moving towards the open archway. As she was about to pass through it, her eyes idly noted the tall wooden case that was anchored to the wall next to the arch. On a shelf was a collection of slim volumes, pulled from their place and stacked up in a haphazard fashion near the edge. Their disorder made them conspicuous and she found her curiosity drawn. She returned to the table and unloaded herself of her burden before advancing to the bookcase. When she picked up the first book that met her hand, she noted its worn cover and when she let it fall open, the corners of the pages were frayed and ripped. She smiled. Of course, it was ragged and used. A book more worthy of attention she had never seen. The Principles and Techniques of Mastering Arms, Volume I.
Eagerly, she took the next volume and deciphered the title, then the next, and the next. Bow, spear, lance, pike, mace, swords short and long, siege weapons and ploys with which to succeed in their usage, shields of various designs to suit their bearer, knives, and several others. Each weapon had a volume dedicated to its mastery.
Myrhil did not know whether to laugh at her good fortune, or lament her lack of it that had led her to spend hours scribbling meaningless things while a treasure had lain near her hand the entire duration. She gathered the books to her chest greedily, uncaring that the dust smeared the front and sleeves of her gown in cloudy brown streaks, and deposited them in a scattered heap on the table.
A quick perusal of one revealed a problem. The author, one Orothil of Cormallen from the stewardship of Belecthor II (or so the first page proudly proclaimed), had been diligent and illustrated it copiously so that her rudimentary literacy posed no real obstruction, but she had no weapon to wield. Holding out her arm, she slashed it through the air as though a blade was actually in her hand. No, that will not work, she thought. Her eyes met the twisted piece of stiff parchment and, with a shrug of her shoulders, she grasped it and held it out before her like the most lethal blade. In her other hand was the volume on knives, open to what could be called the first lesson of many.
She set about copying the motions, using her makeshift weapon with determination and the little skill she had acquired from Faramir’s lessons. As in those sessions, Myrhil was finding that wielding the knife -- or twisted parchment -- required agility and a gentler style than what she was accustomed. Her tendency towards bold and arcing strokes had prompted criticism from Faramir when she had first picked up the weapon, and she could hear those words again as she sensed herself reverting to the techniques of swordplay.
A harsh sound of disgusted frustration escaped her throat and she snapped the book shut. Giving the parchment a similar appraisal, she tossed both back onto the table and eyed the rest of the volumes thoughtfully.
“Your form is imperfect, my lady, but the skill is there,” came a voice behind her.
Myrhil jumped in alarm and turned quickly towards the open door, the only place from which one could approach. At first, her eyes told her nothing was there, although her ears adamantly insisted something lurked. The candle had burned down, lengthening the shadows and dimming the light it had once provided. It would be an easy accomplishment for anyone to secrete himself in the murky shroud just outside the door.
She tilted her head and leaned forward in guarded curiosity, eyes searching for signs of movement. “Show yourself,” she demanded. As the words echoed and faded into mere shadows of their original tone, she could hear the tremor she had tried to mask.
When a figure did appear, Myrhil wondered if tricks such as this were his habit, for he emerged from the shadows silently and with practiced ease. Even so, as he lingered visible in the open doorway, he seemed not to relinquish them fully, for his garb was of a dark hue and his hair coal black. His face, in contrast, was pale, the features narrow and fine. Eyes of icy blue peered at her. She knew she had never seen him before, but at the same time remembrance pulled at her in eerie persistence.
“Who are you?”
The man entered the room and Myrhil saw further that he was of unimpressive build, very slender and untouched by the rigors of soldiery. He appeared to be a clerk or scholar of some sort. She straightened and felt the tension ease from her body.
“Is this your alcove?” she asked, her voice continuing her thoughts. “Faramir has told me some of the library’s visitors have become inhabitants in all but name.”
“No, I am a stranger here,” he replied. “I sought a peaceful place to do my work.” His hand went to a leather case that was slung across his chest, drawing Myrhil’s attention to it for the first time. His voice was soft and furthered Myrhil’s impression that he was of scholarly bent.
“I was leaving, so you may remain here, if you like. It is very peaceful, since that is what you seek, and you will not find yourself disturbed.” She looked down at the pile of books on the table and set about collecting them into neat stacks. She would return later to give them further study, or ask Faramir if copies existed elsewhere, perhaps in the armory. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man draw up beside her and begin to assist her with her task.
“The fellow was long-winded,” she remarked. “He seemed to find every weapon worthy of lengthy discussion.” When she picked up the volume on the knife, she paused and turned to him. “You said my form was imperfect. Then you know something of knives?”
Almost immediately, a blade glinted before her eyes, held in a hand that had, not a moment before, been innocently arranging books. “Yes, I know something of them,” he added, tone wry.
Myrhil had nearly jumped at his lethal sleight-of-hand and the feelings of unease returned to nip at her. In a room where the brightest objects were a dagger blade and the pale face of a stranger, she wondered if unease was inadequate. Terror seemed more appropriate.
But he made no threatening move. Indeed, he continued to hold up the blade, as though for her inspection. “I prefer it to all other weapons,” he said, turning the knife this way and that.
“H--have you had cause to use it?” Myrhil asked.
His head turned and, from the slight upward tilt of the corner of his mouth, Myrhil sensed he was amused by her question. “Not in the manner that you suspect.”
Now that he had spoken more fully, the coarse edge of an accent -- reminiscent of choppy water passing over rocks in a swollen river -- was discernable. He was not native to Gondor. When he had declared himself a stranger, it was not only to Minas Tirith.
“You are of the Rohirrim.” She meant it as a question, but her voice formed it as confident fact.
The blade was lowered and suddenly disappeared, though Myrhil swore that her eyes had not left it. “Very astute observation, my lady,” he said, “considering that I ill resemble them.”
The words resounded in her ears as harsh; Myrhil thought that his accent was intruding over the Westron. “Minas Tirith’s visitors have been of great moment to my mother and, by extent, myself,” she explained. “Little else has troubled her mind for weeks past.”
“You must be the daughter of whom she spoke,” he said. “Laenilas, granddaughter of Théda, is your mother?”
“Yes. I am Myrhil. She is my mother, and my father was Gorhend, a sergeant who served both my lords Denethor and Boromir.”
“And from what I have seen, his profession is one you wish to pursue?”
“Yes. And foolishly, you think, no doubt.”
The raven locks swayed slightly against his pale face as he shook his head. “No endeavor is foolish. There is advantage in everything one undertakes. Whether one has the sense and opportunity to find and use those advantages, there lies the challenge.” The lips tugged upward once more.
“What amuses you?”
The slight smile did not fade. “I was only thinking that many in Rohan think of Gondor’s women as averse to anything rigorous.”
“Delicate creatures, you mean.”
“Something like that, though Morwen of Lossarnach, whom we named Steelsheen, was as strong and beloved as one of Rohan born. That she was from another land mattered not, after some years.”
“I am of like opinion concerning Gondor’s women,” Myrhil said, her meaning plain by the sarcasm she allowed to infest every word. “At least the ones here who skitter about and hug the walls, waiting for something to fall that they may take their pleasure of.” Silence settled about them and Myrhil was shaken from her thoughtful reverie when he spoke next.
“I have spoken of your mother to others, so her plea has been noted by one greater than myself,” he said. Again, Myrhil heard the accent turn harsh, though nothing else about him indicated displeasure. “You may convey that to her.”
“I will. Thank you.” Myrhil picked up the stacks of books and carried them slowly to the bookcase by the door. Once they were arranged in a conspicuous manner so that she would not overlook them a second time, she returned to gather the piece of parchment, ink and quill. The man had already opened his case and withdrawn several sheets of fine quality parchment, supple and unblemished. The inkpot was open and a quill was already gliding across the surface in a graceful script, led by a slender and pale hand. The words were totally unrecognizable; Rohirric, no doubt.
Because he seemed intent on his task, and she had nothing else to say, she turned and left the room without a word.
She did not sense the two pale eyes of steady gaze that stayed upon her back as she passed through the door and into the shadows beyond.