LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 12
Jun. 13th, 2007 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 12
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3746
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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3008; Edoras
Hundreds of miles away, Éomer stood on a turret high above Meduseld, the golden palace of his uncle Théoden. Under the ancient kings of Gondor and the first of the stewards, Rohan had been a region of Gondor and the people who lived there had answered to the king. Centuries ago, however, Éorl the Young had fought at the Battle of the Fields of Celebrant and, as thanks for his service, the Steward gave him this entire area as an independent kingdom, from the river Isen to the Anduin. The Rohirrim had lived there since that day, a free and proud people; they were known throughout Middle-earth for their courage and their skill in handling horses.
Théoden, the current king of Rohan, was sixty years old and had sat on the throne for the last twenty-nine years. He was still strong enough to rule, hearty and of sound judgment and strength, but recently he had begun relying a little too heavily on the advice of others: his son Théodred, his nephew Éomer, and his many advisors. Yet Théoden still met with the nobles and made sure things within the city ran smoothly and fairly. If Éomer sometimes wished his uncle would push himself to do more, he reminded himself that many other sixty-year-olds did far less.
That morning Théoden ordered Éomer to watch for a traveller from Fangorn forest, far to the north. Strange orders, Éomer thought: few went into Fangorn, and almost none returned. He wasn't looking for a man of Rohan, though, but instead someone out of Gondor. Stranger still, for shorter, and certainly safer, roads connected the two kingdoms; but those were the king's orders. Théoden had received a letter from Gandalf asking him to look for Mellamir, daughter of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. So Éomer watched.
Slowly a tan dot on a brown splotch appeared on the horizon. As it approached, Éomer recognized that the brown splotch was in fact a horse, certainly not as well bred as his own but a noble beast nonetheless.
Éomer raised his hand as a summons and a page, not yet eight years old, came running up. When at first Éomer didn't speak the boy looked to where his lord had been gazing, out across the field. "Who is she?" he wondered aloud.
"Why, I never imagined -- she is surpassingly fair. The Lady of Gondor, who can match her . . . ?"
The page looked at his lord questioningly. "Sir?"
"Run and tell Théoden, and hurry. Our guest approaches. No, wait. I will go myself." With that, Éomer ran, climbing down the tower quickly and racing into Meduseld in search of his uncle.
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Éowyn had been walking along the path below and happened to overhear her brother's comments to the page. If the truth was told, she was more than a little jealous. Since her childhood the people of Rohan had always told her how beautiful she was. She had long blonde hair, smooth as silk and bright as moonbeams, and a fire in her eyes that hinted at the fire in her soul.
She had only recently begun to leave childhood behind. Just a few years ago, she had often fought with sword and lance with the boys of her uncle's court, but just in the last year her chest had begun to mature so she couldn't move a sword as effectively. What's more, the boys' mothers began to complain that, while swordplay with a girl had never been exactly proper, swordplay with a young woman was simply immodest. Suffice it to say that Éowyn's hair was no longer her most fetching feature. Éowyn joined the other girls training to be shieldmaidens, an elite corps of women who would remain unmarried and defend their people if the men had to ride to war. While she enjoyed her new training, Éowyn missed the time training with her brother Éomer and begrudged the inevitable march of time that now separated them.
If that was the price of beauty, then Éowyn wanted no part of it. This Lady of Gondor could have it! What was it Théoden had called her? Mellamir? Now that was something to envy. Having a boy's name, perhaps she could still act like a boy. Éowyn decided to climb a tree for a better look.
Indeed, she had remained in the world of men, at least if her arrival was any indication. From the looks of it she was several years older than Éowyn, yet she didn't wear a corset -- in fact she didn't wear much of anything. She had an animal skin draped around her, just covering her knees with the part below her waist cut into wide strips so they did not ride up as she rode; under that she wore britches, also made from animal skin. She rode barefoot, and her hair was tied back into a loose pony tail, bound by a vine.
Mellamir rode bareback, not in the sidesaddle fashion so popular with the women of Rohan but with her legs apart astride the horse's back just as a man might ride. There was no chaperone, no guard to protect this wild thing from the dangers of the road; apparently the bow she hung across her back was protection enough. Yet these days if Éowyn wanted to ride she had to take her brother Éomer or some other man of Rohan with her: Théoden refused to let her ride alone. And Mellamir had just come from Fangorn, well outside her own country. Alone! Éowyn was a little irked at the freedoms Mellamir of Gondor seemed to enjoy, but more than that she was curious; just who was this girl, and why did she get to do these things? Suddenly Éowyn wanted to meet her.
That, unfortunately, would have to wait. By the king's decree, none of the royal court were to meet Mellamir until her brothers arrived and the three were officially welcomed to Edoras.
-------
Théoden sat in his golden hall, alone with chiefs from three villages on the western borders near Isengard and his chief advisor, Gríma Wormtongue.
"My lord," the first chief said, "many of our men have gone out to hunt game and have not returned. This has been happening for months."
"Have your hunters never died in the fields before?" Théoden asked, furrowing his brow. "Hunting is a dangerous task, or it was when I was young."
"Yes, of course," he answered, "but never in these numbers. We usually send out groups of five hunters, and occasionally one will fall to a beast. Never more than ten in a given season. But in the last month alone, fifteen have not returned -- three entire companies, not individual hunters. That has never happened before."
"It is as if," the second chief suggested, "they were being attacked, not by animals but by men."
The third chief reached into his bag and pulled out a short sword and a helmet and set them before the king. The sword was unlike any that Théoden had ever seen; the grip was painted white and the blade had a serrated edge. The helmet was much too small to fit any of Théoden's men.
Before the king could react Gríma stepped forward, faced Théoden, and bowed. "My lord," he said, "if I may. If these men are suggesting that an Orc attacked their hunters, they are living in the wrong part of Rohan. Even a child knows that Orcs come from Mordor, in the east. And our western border is well guarded. Saruman has ever been our friend and ally."
"I had not said that," the third chief responded, "but I do now. There are rumours --"
Théoden held up his hand to silence the chief. They all listened closely and heard the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps, running down a hall somewhere in the palace.
"Éomer," he muttered. One of his men standing at the back door quickly slipped out, and a moment later the running steps slowed to a sombre but hurried walk. Théoden addressed the chiefs. "I am afraid we will have to continue this later."
The doors burst open and Éomer rushed into the hall. "Uncle!" he cried, but as he approached he noticed the strangers in the hall and bowed hastily. "Pardon me, sirs, but I must speak to my lord on a matter of some urgency. If I may . . . King Théoden, you asked to be informed when the traveler from Fangorn approached. I have spied her riding toward Edoras. She should arrive within the hour." He walked up to Théoden and leaned over so that only the king could hear what he said next. "I understand, Uncle, your reasons for not welcoming her yourself until her brothers arrive, but is it really necessary for her first view of Edoras to be the common gate guard? Let me --"
"No, Éomer. My mind is made up. Háma will escort her to the guest quarters where she can rest until the feast to welcome the children of the Steward to Rohan. All of them. And need I remind you that Háma is merely a 'common gate guard,' as you put it, but one of my most trusted servants? He is more than worthy. You will meet her this afternoon."
"But, Uncle -- she is more fair that -- than these great walls. Of gold she seems, shining like the sun, with a fire I cannot fathom."
"All that glitters is not gold, Éomer," Théoden replied, a stern look in his eyes. "My mind is set."
-------
As Mellamir approached the city, she found a path that led to a great gate. Just before she reached the gate it opened slowly, revealing a lone man. Robust with blond hair, he sat on a impressive, jet black horse and was dressed as if for war: his great chest was covered with mail, his quiver hung on his back, and his long spear rested against his shoulder.
"My lady," he said. "If you will follow me I will show you to your quarters."
He dismounted and looked to the side, beckoning the two boys standing behind the wall to come forward. He helped Mellamir down from her horse, and the boys took the two horses to the city stables.
Mellamir made a polite, formal bow. "My lord Théoden --" she began but was interrupted by the guard's chortle.
"I am sorry to disappoint you my lady, but I am Háma, Warden of the Gate. King Théoden is indisposed this morning. You will meet him at the festivities."
"Festivities . . . ?" Mellamir asked, slightly confused. "But why the delay?"
"Surely you do not wish to meet him before your brothers arrive?" Háma asked.
"My brothers?" she asked, no less befuddled.
"Why, yes of course," he answered, suppressing a laugh of surprise with some difficulty. "Our outer scouts saw them not more than an hour ago. They should arrive this afternoon."
-------
Mellamir lay on the large bed in the room Háma had shown her to, looking out the window at the trees on the horizon, wondering what Treebeard must be doing just now. Suddenly the horn call of Rohan sounded from somewhere in the city, a reminder that her brothers were on their way and would probably be arriving within the hour. She sat up, slid off the bed, and walked over to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. Her dress was still presentable. One of the noblewomen in Théoden's court had graciously lent it to her since she didn't have anything fittingly formal to welcome her brothers and wouldn't have time to have a new dress made. This dress was a golden yellow silk with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt landing just above her ankles, with simple bell sleeves just covering her shoulders: perfect for an almost-summer late afternoon, and suitably fancy, with the rose-coloured lace that decorated the hem and neckline.
Her hair, however, was another story. Mussed from lying in bed, it stuck out every which way. But then, Boromir and Faramir were used to seeing her that way -- they were her brothers, after all. She took a fine-toothed comb from the bureau and ran it through her hair several times, then shook her hair out so that her long auburn locks fell freely down her back. She laced up the light brown sandals, also lent from a noblewoman -- she hadn't worn shoes since she'd outgrown her old ones many years ago, wandering the inhospitable terrain of Fangorn -- and ran out the door.
She promptly ran into Háma. He had been coming to get her and frowned disapprovingly at the state of her hair and her lack of decorum. "Your brothers are arriving," he informed her. "We must hurry."
Mellamir rushed with Háma through the crowd and, for the first time in six years, she saw her brothers. Boromir, now twenty-nine, was turning into quite an attractive young man, wearing the cloak of a soldier of Gondor and what looked like the beginnings of a shaggy beard. Faramir rode a little behind on an eight-year-old stallion gelding Mellamir had never seen before. (Boromir was riding the same steed he had owned when she left Minas Tirith, or at least one remarkably similar.) Faramir wore a wool-and-mithril tunic, the uniform of one apprenticed to the Tower Guard. Mellamir almost missed him, though, in the huge crowd of people around him, minstrels, soldiers, courtiers, and sages, but neither her father nor Gandalf could she see. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment but hardly had time to notice it, for Boromir had dismounted and was approaching the king.
"My lord Théoden," he said, "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. His lordship regrets that he could not come himself to offer you Gondor's fairest jewel; I am sure you understand, with the current situation in the east, that it is not safe for him personally nor for Gondor for him to travel."
"Of course, of course," Théoden answered, though he looked surprised at Denethor's absence. "We have prepared a feast, if you, your brother, and your company would join us?"
"That would be excellent," Boromir replied. "You have stable enough?"
"Of course."
-------
For the three days since Théoden had received Gandalf's letter announcing Mellamir's arrival, his servants had been cooking around the clock preparing fresh breads, all manner of roasted and fried meats, fresh vegetables and casseroles, early summer fruit, and sweets -- cakes, pies, puddings, candies, that sort of thing. Since early that morning stable boys, innkeepers' staff, blacksmiths' sons, and all the other lads from around the city had set tables and decorated the square. It seemed that the whole city had turned out for the celebration. Théoden, Théodred, Éomer, Éowyn, Boromir, Faramir, and Mellamir climbed onto the wooden stage that had been built the day before. Théoden turned to address the crowd
"People of Rohan, rejoice! Years ago, in the days of Éorl and the Steward Cirion, son of Boromir I, Cirion gave Rohan a precious gift: our freedom. Now his father's namesake, Boromir II, son of Denethor, the current Steward of Gondor, comes to offer us another precious gift, his sister. For Lord Denethor has asked that the lady Mellamir stay here as a companion to the lady Éowyn. And a treasure she is, if appearances are any indication, for I have never seen one so beautiful who still lives, save of course my own niece.
Boromir stepped forward and looked over at Théoden. "May I?" he asked. Théoden nodded, so Boromir continued. "People of Rohan, I thank you. You are a proud people, and with good reason. You are men, and warriors, descendants of an ancient and noble race. Now you offer my sister a safe place within your walls, safe from the approaching war." Théoden looked a little worried at this talk but let Boromir continue. "For this, I thank you. My greatest hope is that we may one day draw our swords together protecting all that is fair, and that some day I may come and claim precious Mellamir from your hands."
The people applauded politely, not sure what to make of these words. Éomer stepped forward quickly, produced a horn, and blew a quick call. He then hung the horn on his belt and said to the crowd, "That is the signal for supper!"* The crowd cheered wildly and made for the tables; those words at least they understood and knew how to react to. Faramir looked at the table hungrily (Mellamir noticed he looked rather famished), but Éowyn put his fears to rest.
"My lords," she said, "I have prepared a private meal at Meduseld." They left the crowd and walked up the hill towards the golden hall.
The meal was a fine one of broiled chicken and herbs, roasted potatoes, green beans cooked with salt pork, fresh bread, and a fine white cake with bits of early summer fruit cooked in. Éowyn poured all of them a glass of wine (the best in all Edoras, though of course she did not mention that) and took her seat beside her brother.
The meal was delicious, and for a while no one spoke as they all savoured it. At last Théoden observed between bites of chicken, "I was surprised that your father did not come himself. He has not seen his daughter in six years. I would certainly wish to see Éowyn if the choice had been mine."
Boromir and Faramir looked at each other nervously. "Things are not going too well in Gondor, to be completely honest," Faramir admitted at last. "Where I am stationed, in Ithilien, it is becoming increasingly obvious -- and I say this in the strictest confidence, mind -- it's becoming all too clear that war is coming. Orodruin belches great clouds of smoke. I have seen Orcs all along the Anduin, and so have the farmers and traders that live in that area. People are frightened, and Father did not want to leave them without their leader."
"And what's more," Boromir began," Denethor himself --"
"Boromir, don't," Faramir interrupted, grabbing his brother's arm.
"She has a right to know, Faramir." Boromir turned to Théoden and Mellamir. "Denethor is not well." Mellamir and Théoden both looked genuinely shocked, so Boromir hurried to quell their fears. "No, no, his body is fine." He sighed. "I wish it were something as simply cured as a physical ailment. No, a grave danger sleeps high in the White Tower."
Théoden looked up from his meal at that, a look of recognition in his eyes. "The palantír."
Boromir, clearly surprised that Théoden had guessed the truth, nodded. "But how did you know --"
"I lived in Minas Tirith long years before you were born," Théoden laughed. "There were rumours that your grandfather Ecthelion still had one of the ancient seeing-stones, but he at least would not touch the thing. So your father has braved it?"
Boromir nodded. "I believe so, at least; I daren't ask him, of course." He frowned. "I fear there is something wrong with his mind. Most of the time he appears well; you couldn't tell the difference being around him from day to day, but I was away for some time and was not there to become accustomed to the changes in Father's behaviour. I first noticed it myself six months ago. I had been out campaigning away in the south and returned home to serve my time in the Tower Guard, let Faramir stretch his legs. Father -- well, he'd changed."
He closed his eyes like he was gathering up his strength. At last he continued. "I've seen some change in him, like I said. Father spends too much of his time alone. And as dangerous as the stones were of old, now they are even more perilous, for Sauron has one."
"Sauron?" Théodred querried. "Where did he . . ."
"There were seven stones," Boromir explained. "Three far in the north; they were scattered and lost long ago. Osgiliath also had one, the greatest of them all, but it was destroyed in the Kinstrife. Another was housed at Orthanc, in Isengard --" As he mentioned that name Éomer and Théodred looked up, and Boromir stopped short.
"What happened to it?" Théodred asked warily as Théoden shot a warning glance at him.
"It was lost, as far as I know. Perhaps Saruman still has it. What of it?"
Éomer glanced at his uncle, then answered, "Nothing," and Boromir proceeded. "That leaves two. The sixth is kept safe in Minas Tirith, well-guarded in the White Tower; and Minas Morgul also had one. But that city of course fell to Sauron long ago, and I'm sure he seized its palantír. And that's no good, no good at all." At that Boromir fell silent and refused to say anything more on the subject.
"If it is uncovered," Faramir continued at last, "Denethor can see out, but others can also see in, whoever has the other stones." He sighed. "But it's more than that. I remember what Gandalf once told me. "No man should see too much, more than he can handle. But to see too little, that also is pure folly." I think Father might do both at the same time. He knows too little to judge what might be shown him, particularly through Sauron's palantír. Father admires too much the world of Men, thinks they are stronger and more capable than other races, so he underestimates others, such as Sauron. The thought that one who is not a Man could control what a lord of Men sees -- and I am certain Sauron is capable of this -- is completely foreign to his thinking. The weight of what Sauron could do to him might crush him. Seeing that would drive him insane." He rested his head on the palm of his hand and smiled grimly across the table at Mellawen.
"Personally," Faramir finished, "I think he is well on the way." Everyone was silent for a long time, until Boromir spoke again, saying, "But that is sad news, and I did not ride all the way from Gondor to depress you. Mellamir, tell us about Fangorn, Is it truly as fearsome as the old tales make it out to be?"
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3746
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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3008; Edoras
Hundreds of miles away, Éomer stood on a turret high above Meduseld, the golden palace of his uncle Théoden. Under the ancient kings of Gondor and the first of the stewards, Rohan had been a region of Gondor and the people who lived there had answered to the king. Centuries ago, however, Éorl the Young had fought at the Battle of the Fields of Celebrant and, as thanks for his service, the Steward gave him this entire area as an independent kingdom, from the river Isen to the Anduin. The Rohirrim had lived there since that day, a free and proud people; they were known throughout Middle-earth for their courage and their skill in handling horses.
Théoden, the current king of Rohan, was sixty years old and had sat on the throne for the last twenty-nine years. He was still strong enough to rule, hearty and of sound judgment and strength, but recently he had begun relying a little too heavily on the advice of others: his son Théodred, his nephew Éomer, and his many advisors. Yet Théoden still met with the nobles and made sure things within the city ran smoothly and fairly. If Éomer sometimes wished his uncle would push himself to do more, he reminded himself that many other sixty-year-olds did far less.
That morning Théoden ordered Éomer to watch for a traveller from Fangorn forest, far to the north. Strange orders, Éomer thought: few went into Fangorn, and almost none returned. He wasn't looking for a man of Rohan, though, but instead someone out of Gondor. Stranger still, for shorter, and certainly safer, roads connected the two kingdoms; but those were the king's orders. Théoden had received a letter from Gandalf asking him to look for Mellamir, daughter of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. So Éomer watched.
Slowly a tan dot on a brown splotch appeared on the horizon. As it approached, Éomer recognized that the brown splotch was in fact a horse, certainly not as well bred as his own but a noble beast nonetheless.
Éomer raised his hand as a summons and a page, not yet eight years old, came running up. When at first Éomer didn't speak the boy looked to where his lord had been gazing, out across the field. "Who is she?" he wondered aloud.
"Why, I never imagined -- she is surpassingly fair. The Lady of Gondor, who can match her . . . ?"
The page looked at his lord questioningly. "Sir?"
"Run and tell Théoden, and hurry. Our guest approaches. No, wait. I will go myself." With that, Éomer ran, climbing down the tower quickly and racing into Meduseld in search of his uncle.
-------
Éowyn had been walking along the path below and happened to overhear her brother's comments to the page. If the truth was told, she was more than a little jealous. Since her childhood the people of Rohan had always told her how beautiful she was. She had long blonde hair, smooth as silk and bright as moonbeams, and a fire in her eyes that hinted at the fire in her soul.
She had only recently begun to leave childhood behind. Just a few years ago, she had often fought with sword and lance with the boys of her uncle's court, but just in the last year her chest had begun to mature so she couldn't move a sword as effectively. What's more, the boys' mothers began to complain that, while swordplay with a girl had never been exactly proper, swordplay with a young woman was simply immodest. Suffice it to say that Éowyn's hair was no longer her most fetching feature. Éowyn joined the other girls training to be shieldmaidens, an elite corps of women who would remain unmarried and defend their people if the men had to ride to war. While she enjoyed her new training, Éowyn missed the time training with her brother Éomer and begrudged the inevitable march of time that now separated them.
If that was the price of beauty, then Éowyn wanted no part of it. This Lady of Gondor could have it! What was it Théoden had called her? Mellamir? Now that was something to envy. Having a boy's name, perhaps she could still act like a boy. Éowyn decided to climb a tree for a better look.
Indeed, she had remained in the world of men, at least if her arrival was any indication. From the looks of it she was several years older than Éowyn, yet she didn't wear a corset -- in fact she didn't wear much of anything. She had an animal skin draped around her, just covering her knees with the part below her waist cut into wide strips so they did not ride up as she rode; under that she wore britches, also made from animal skin. She rode barefoot, and her hair was tied back into a loose pony tail, bound by a vine.
Mellamir rode bareback, not in the sidesaddle fashion so popular with the women of Rohan but with her legs apart astride the horse's back just as a man might ride. There was no chaperone, no guard to protect this wild thing from the dangers of the road; apparently the bow she hung across her back was protection enough. Yet these days if Éowyn wanted to ride she had to take her brother Éomer or some other man of Rohan with her: Théoden refused to let her ride alone. And Mellamir had just come from Fangorn, well outside her own country. Alone! Éowyn was a little irked at the freedoms Mellamir of Gondor seemed to enjoy, but more than that she was curious; just who was this girl, and why did she get to do these things? Suddenly Éowyn wanted to meet her.
That, unfortunately, would have to wait. By the king's decree, none of the royal court were to meet Mellamir until her brothers arrived and the three were officially welcomed to Edoras.
-------
Théoden sat in his golden hall, alone with chiefs from three villages on the western borders near Isengard and his chief advisor, Gríma Wormtongue.
"My lord," the first chief said, "many of our men have gone out to hunt game and have not returned. This has been happening for months."
"Have your hunters never died in the fields before?" Théoden asked, furrowing his brow. "Hunting is a dangerous task, or it was when I was young."
"Yes, of course," he answered, "but never in these numbers. We usually send out groups of five hunters, and occasionally one will fall to a beast. Never more than ten in a given season. But in the last month alone, fifteen have not returned -- three entire companies, not individual hunters. That has never happened before."
"It is as if," the second chief suggested, "they were being attacked, not by animals but by men."
The third chief reached into his bag and pulled out a short sword and a helmet and set them before the king. The sword was unlike any that Théoden had ever seen; the grip was painted white and the blade had a serrated edge. The helmet was much too small to fit any of Théoden's men.
Before the king could react Gríma stepped forward, faced Théoden, and bowed. "My lord," he said, "if I may. If these men are suggesting that an Orc attacked their hunters, they are living in the wrong part of Rohan. Even a child knows that Orcs come from Mordor, in the east. And our western border is well guarded. Saruman has ever been our friend and ally."
"I had not said that," the third chief responded, "but I do now. There are rumours --"
Théoden held up his hand to silence the chief. They all listened closely and heard the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps, running down a hall somewhere in the palace.
"Éomer," he muttered. One of his men standing at the back door quickly slipped out, and a moment later the running steps slowed to a sombre but hurried walk. Théoden addressed the chiefs. "I am afraid we will have to continue this later."
The doors burst open and Éomer rushed into the hall. "Uncle!" he cried, but as he approached he noticed the strangers in the hall and bowed hastily. "Pardon me, sirs, but I must speak to my lord on a matter of some urgency. If I may . . . King Théoden, you asked to be informed when the traveler from Fangorn approached. I have spied her riding toward Edoras. She should arrive within the hour." He walked up to Théoden and leaned over so that only the king could hear what he said next. "I understand, Uncle, your reasons for not welcoming her yourself until her brothers arrive, but is it really necessary for her first view of Edoras to be the common gate guard? Let me --"
"No, Éomer. My mind is made up. Háma will escort her to the guest quarters where she can rest until the feast to welcome the children of the Steward to Rohan. All of them. And need I remind you that Háma is merely a 'common gate guard,' as you put it, but one of my most trusted servants? He is more than worthy. You will meet her this afternoon."
"But, Uncle -- she is more fair that -- than these great walls. Of gold she seems, shining like the sun, with a fire I cannot fathom."
"All that glitters is not gold, Éomer," Théoden replied, a stern look in his eyes. "My mind is set."
-------
As Mellamir approached the city, she found a path that led to a great gate. Just before she reached the gate it opened slowly, revealing a lone man. Robust with blond hair, he sat on a impressive, jet black horse and was dressed as if for war: his great chest was covered with mail, his quiver hung on his back, and his long spear rested against his shoulder.
"My lady," he said. "If you will follow me I will show you to your quarters."
He dismounted and looked to the side, beckoning the two boys standing behind the wall to come forward. He helped Mellamir down from her horse, and the boys took the two horses to the city stables.
Mellamir made a polite, formal bow. "My lord Théoden --" she began but was interrupted by the guard's chortle.
"I am sorry to disappoint you my lady, but I am Háma, Warden of the Gate. King Théoden is indisposed this morning. You will meet him at the festivities."
"Festivities . . . ?" Mellamir asked, slightly confused. "But why the delay?"
"Surely you do not wish to meet him before your brothers arrive?" Háma asked.
"My brothers?" she asked, no less befuddled.
"Why, yes of course," he answered, suppressing a laugh of surprise with some difficulty. "Our outer scouts saw them not more than an hour ago. They should arrive this afternoon."
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Mellamir lay on the large bed in the room Háma had shown her to, looking out the window at the trees on the horizon, wondering what Treebeard must be doing just now. Suddenly the horn call of Rohan sounded from somewhere in the city, a reminder that her brothers were on their way and would probably be arriving within the hour. She sat up, slid off the bed, and walked over to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. Her dress was still presentable. One of the noblewomen in Théoden's court had graciously lent it to her since she didn't have anything fittingly formal to welcome her brothers and wouldn't have time to have a new dress made. This dress was a golden yellow silk with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt landing just above her ankles, with simple bell sleeves just covering her shoulders: perfect for an almost-summer late afternoon, and suitably fancy, with the rose-coloured lace that decorated the hem and neckline.
Her hair, however, was another story. Mussed from lying in bed, it stuck out every which way. But then, Boromir and Faramir were used to seeing her that way -- they were her brothers, after all. She took a fine-toothed comb from the bureau and ran it through her hair several times, then shook her hair out so that her long auburn locks fell freely down her back. She laced up the light brown sandals, also lent from a noblewoman -- she hadn't worn shoes since she'd outgrown her old ones many years ago, wandering the inhospitable terrain of Fangorn -- and ran out the door.
She promptly ran into Háma. He had been coming to get her and frowned disapprovingly at the state of her hair and her lack of decorum. "Your brothers are arriving," he informed her. "We must hurry."
Mellamir rushed with Háma through the crowd and, for the first time in six years, she saw her brothers. Boromir, now twenty-nine, was turning into quite an attractive young man, wearing the cloak of a soldier of Gondor and what looked like the beginnings of a shaggy beard. Faramir rode a little behind on an eight-year-old stallion gelding Mellamir had never seen before. (Boromir was riding the same steed he had owned when she left Minas Tirith, or at least one remarkably similar.) Faramir wore a wool-and-mithril tunic, the uniform of one apprenticed to the Tower Guard. Mellamir almost missed him, though, in the huge crowd of people around him, minstrels, soldiers, courtiers, and sages, but neither her father nor Gandalf could she see. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment but hardly had time to notice it, for Boromir had dismounted and was approaching the king.
"My lord Théoden," he said, "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. His lordship regrets that he could not come himself to offer you Gondor's fairest jewel; I am sure you understand, with the current situation in the east, that it is not safe for him personally nor for Gondor for him to travel."
"Of course, of course," Théoden answered, though he looked surprised at Denethor's absence. "We have prepared a feast, if you, your brother, and your company would join us?"
"That would be excellent," Boromir replied. "You have stable enough?"
"Of course."
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For the three days since Théoden had received Gandalf's letter announcing Mellamir's arrival, his servants had been cooking around the clock preparing fresh breads, all manner of roasted and fried meats, fresh vegetables and casseroles, early summer fruit, and sweets -- cakes, pies, puddings, candies, that sort of thing. Since early that morning stable boys, innkeepers' staff, blacksmiths' sons, and all the other lads from around the city had set tables and decorated the square. It seemed that the whole city had turned out for the celebration. Théoden, Théodred, Éomer, Éowyn, Boromir, Faramir, and Mellamir climbed onto the wooden stage that had been built the day before. Théoden turned to address the crowd
"People of Rohan, rejoice! Years ago, in the days of Éorl and the Steward Cirion, son of Boromir I, Cirion gave Rohan a precious gift: our freedom. Now his father's namesake, Boromir II, son of Denethor, the current Steward of Gondor, comes to offer us another precious gift, his sister. For Lord Denethor has asked that the lady Mellamir stay here as a companion to the lady Éowyn. And a treasure she is, if appearances are any indication, for I have never seen one so beautiful who still lives, save of course my own niece.
Boromir stepped forward and looked over at Théoden. "May I?" he asked. Théoden nodded, so Boromir continued. "People of Rohan, I thank you. You are a proud people, and with good reason. You are men, and warriors, descendants of an ancient and noble race. Now you offer my sister a safe place within your walls, safe from the approaching war." Théoden looked a little worried at this talk but let Boromir continue. "For this, I thank you. My greatest hope is that we may one day draw our swords together protecting all that is fair, and that some day I may come and claim precious Mellamir from your hands."
The people applauded politely, not sure what to make of these words. Éomer stepped forward quickly, produced a horn, and blew a quick call. He then hung the horn on his belt and said to the crowd, "That is the signal for supper!"* The crowd cheered wildly and made for the tables; those words at least they understood and knew how to react to. Faramir looked at the table hungrily (Mellamir noticed he looked rather famished), but Éowyn put his fears to rest.
"My lords," she said, "I have prepared a private meal at Meduseld." They left the crowd and walked up the hill towards the golden hall.
The meal was a fine one of broiled chicken and herbs, roasted potatoes, green beans cooked with salt pork, fresh bread, and a fine white cake with bits of early summer fruit cooked in. Éowyn poured all of them a glass of wine (the best in all Edoras, though of course she did not mention that) and took her seat beside her brother.
The meal was delicious, and for a while no one spoke as they all savoured it. At last Théoden observed between bites of chicken, "I was surprised that your father did not come himself. He has not seen his daughter in six years. I would certainly wish to see Éowyn if the choice had been mine."
Boromir and Faramir looked at each other nervously. "Things are not going too well in Gondor, to be completely honest," Faramir admitted at last. "Where I am stationed, in Ithilien, it is becoming increasingly obvious -- and I say this in the strictest confidence, mind -- it's becoming all too clear that war is coming. Orodruin belches great clouds of smoke. I have seen Orcs all along the Anduin, and so have the farmers and traders that live in that area. People are frightened, and Father did not want to leave them without their leader."
"And what's more," Boromir began," Denethor himself --"
"Boromir, don't," Faramir interrupted, grabbing his brother's arm.
"She has a right to know, Faramir." Boromir turned to Théoden and Mellamir. "Denethor is not well." Mellamir and Théoden both looked genuinely shocked, so Boromir hurried to quell their fears. "No, no, his body is fine." He sighed. "I wish it were something as simply cured as a physical ailment. No, a grave danger sleeps high in the White Tower."
Théoden looked up from his meal at that, a look of recognition in his eyes. "The palantír."
Boromir, clearly surprised that Théoden had guessed the truth, nodded. "But how did you know --"
"I lived in Minas Tirith long years before you were born," Théoden laughed. "There were rumours that your grandfather Ecthelion still had one of the ancient seeing-stones, but he at least would not touch the thing. So your father has braved it?"
Boromir nodded. "I believe so, at least; I daren't ask him, of course." He frowned. "I fear there is something wrong with his mind. Most of the time he appears well; you couldn't tell the difference being around him from day to day, but I was away for some time and was not there to become accustomed to the changes in Father's behaviour. I first noticed it myself six months ago. I had been out campaigning away in the south and returned home to serve my time in the Tower Guard, let Faramir stretch his legs. Father -- well, he'd changed."
He closed his eyes like he was gathering up his strength. At last he continued. "I've seen some change in him, like I said. Father spends too much of his time alone. And as dangerous as the stones were of old, now they are even more perilous, for Sauron has one."
"Sauron?" Théodred querried. "Where did he . . ."
"There were seven stones," Boromir explained. "Three far in the north; they were scattered and lost long ago. Osgiliath also had one, the greatest of them all, but it was destroyed in the Kinstrife. Another was housed at Orthanc, in Isengard --" As he mentioned that name Éomer and Théodred looked up, and Boromir stopped short.
"What happened to it?" Théodred asked warily as Théoden shot a warning glance at him.
"It was lost, as far as I know. Perhaps Saruman still has it. What of it?"
Éomer glanced at his uncle, then answered, "Nothing," and Boromir proceeded. "That leaves two. The sixth is kept safe in Minas Tirith, well-guarded in the White Tower; and Minas Morgul also had one. But that city of course fell to Sauron long ago, and I'm sure he seized its palantír. And that's no good, no good at all." At that Boromir fell silent and refused to say anything more on the subject.
"If it is uncovered," Faramir continued at last, "Denethor can see out, but others can also see in, whoever has the other stones." He sighed. "But it's more than that. I remember what Gandalf once told me. "No man should see too much, more than he can handle. But to see too little, that also is pure folly." I think Father might do both at the same time. He knows too little to judge what might be shown him, particularly through Sauron's palantír. Father admires too much the world of Men, thinks they are stronger and more capable than other races, so he underestimates others, such as Sauron. The thought that one who is not a Man could control what a lord of Men sees -- and I am certain Sauron is capable of this -- is completely foreign to his thinking. The weight of what Sauron could do to him might crush him. Seeing that would drive him insane." He rested his head on the palm of his hand and smiled grimly across the table at Mellawen.
"Personally," Faramir finished, "I think he is well on the way." Everyone was silent for a long time, until Boromir spoke again, saying, "But that is sad news, and I did not ride all the way from Gondor to depress you. Mellamir, tell us about Fangorn, Is it truly as fearsome as the old tales make it out to be?"