LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 8
Jun. 13th, 2007 12:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 8
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3140
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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3002; Anórien
-------
Fifteen minutes later Mellamir ran into the stables. Gandalf held the bridles of two horses, groomed, fed, saddled, and ready to go. "Up you go," he said. "We need to hurry now." Gandalf helped her into her saddle, then mounted his own horse and with one "Hyah!" the two rode out of the stable and out into the city.
They soon reached Minas Tirith's main thoroughfare, the only way from the Citadel to the Great Gate down below. The city was built against a mountain and divided into seven circles by walls. No one could travel far, certainly not from one circle to the next, without the guards knowing about it, not to mention the citizens who lived along the road.
They rode past the boarded up and sleeping houses, following the road as it snaked through the seven gates. So that is it, Mellamir thought as she passed the sleeping and boarded up houses. I'm really leaving, and who knows when I will come back. She knew the road well enough, where it went in the city, but after it passed the gates...where then? She thought back to her geography lessons with Faramir: Anórien, Druadan, Edoras, then where? Did it ever stop, or go on forever? She didn't know, and that scared her.
"Where are you going, and on whose authority do you take the lady Mellamir?" Mellamir looked up, startled, and realised she and Gandalf had now reached the Great Gate. The voice belonged to a guard, a young recruit named Ingold.
"Your lord's," Gandalf replied as he handed Ingold a letter. Ingold read it over, then scowled at the wizard. "How do I know this is not some forgery?"
"You do not," Gandalf replied, "which leaves you three choices. You may go and wake the steward and ask him yourself, but if you value your position I would advise against that; Denethor will not look highly on such foolishness. You may detain us here, though again, I would not advise it: the steward has trusted me for these two years with his children, and he is a better judge of character in this matter than you." Gandalf took back the letter and placed it in his robes, then turned his gaze to Ingold. "Or you can do your duty as a guard of the gate and speed us on our way without detaining us any longer."
Ingold turned away quickly, eager to avoid the wizard's gaze. Something about those piercing eyes made him think Gandalf could see into his very soul. He knew he should probably ask the gate-warden what to do, but he didn't want to tell Gandalf that, for some reason. And the letter did look legitimate. At last he waved his hand toward the wall, the gates slowly opened, and Gandalf and Mellamir rode out of Minas Tirith.
They rode along the Great West Road for several hours, and at first Mellamir was content to let the hills roll by. Gandalf rode a fine horse, a gift from King Théoden of Rohan several years earlier when Gandalf was still welcome in his court. The wizard had not yet been banned, but many were less friendly to him than they had been of old. So Gandalf rode through Gondor and toward Rohan on one of the king's horses, not hiding but not calling attention to himself.
Mellamir's horse was no match for Gandalf's, but the child was an able rider and for some time she kept up with Gandalf. After a while, though, she felt her horse tiring under her, his hooves stumbling ever so slightly and his strides a little forced. At last Mellamir said, "Gandalf, we have to either rest or slow down. If we don't, my horse might fall from the heat, and wouldn't that slow us down even more?"
Gandalf nodded. "You are right, of course. Let us make for that grove of trees--slowly, your horse really is overworked--and we will rest and have breakfast. Soon your city's bells will be announcing the third hour. Breakfast is overdue, especially for two travellers such as us. We have put in more leagues this morning than most men of Gondor do in a week."
Gandalf opened his saddlebag and produced fresh baked brown bread, a pat of butter, and fresh fruit, the best of early summer. He walked down to a nearby stream and filled their water flasks. When he returned Mellamir had sliced some of the bread and buttered it and was waiting on him to start. He handed her a flask and nodded for her to begin, and they were quiet while they ate. When finally they had eaten their fill Gandalf packed their leftovers into his saddlebag, then returned with two pipes. "I can see you have questions on your mind," he observed.
She took her time responding. Mellamir stuffed her pipe full of weed and lit it. She blew several smoke-rings and gazed at the western horizon where she imagined great forests loomed, though she couldn't see them yet.
"Yes, actually," Mellamir said. "Quite a few, but two for the moment. One important, one not."
"All questions are important," Gandalf replied.
"All right, then," she responded, "one seems normal, the other random."
He pondered that for a second. "Ask me the random one first," he said at last.
"You remember when I first came back from Uncle Arabôr's farm," Mellamir continued, "and you gave me this pipe? I asked you then what 'mathom' meant, and you said that I would not understand, but that someday I might. But I still don't understand, and I have been curious about it ever since, and I would just like to know what the word means and why I wouldn't understand right away."
"Mellamir, I commend your memory." She smiled at that but said nothing, nodding for him to continue. "We had that conversation almost six years ago," Gandalf said. "It is better, though, that you hear the tale from me. If you asked a hobbit they would answer you as long as you sat still to listen."
"A hobbit?" Mellamir asked.
"Yes, a hobbit," Gandalf replied. "That is the crux of your question, though you do not realise it. Where to start?" He took a puff on his pipe. "You know, of course, that in the days of the kings Gondor was much larger than what your father governs today?" She nodded, settling herself in for what promised to be a long tale.
"Far to the north and to the west the kings used to claim allegiance. If you were to pass Edoras and go through Fangorn, you would at last come to the Elven woods of Lórien. And if the lady of those woods let you pass through her realm and you went over the Redhorn Pass, and on for many more miles, finally you would reach Rivendell, the Last Homely House."
That far! Mellamir thought to herself, gazing absent-mindedly across the field. "And if you kept going north and west," Gandalf continued, "you would come to another great wood, though less great than it used to be, and beyond that the Baranduin and the far-off land known as the Shire. And if they let you in--which they probably wouldn't they don't like outsiders--then you would meet the Hobbits." She mouthed the word to herself, as she often did when she came across strange names, then shrugged slightly and turned her attention back to Gandalf.
"No one knows exactly where they come from. They are not Elves, or Dwarves, or Men, though they are more like Men than anyone else. Much shorter, though; the tallest rarely pass four feet. They do not like machinery more advanced than a plough, though they can use tools, and they are skilled in most crafts save cobbling. Hobbits have extremely tough feet and they do not need shoes, even in the coldest of weather." Mellamir looked down at her own boots, then across the field. No shoes? She did not envy them walking across this rough land with nothing between the soles of their feet and the rocky soil.
"Not that the cold is much of a concern," Gandalf continued; "it has not snowed in the Shire for several years now, and they seldom leave it." Gandalf smiled at that. "The Shire is a beautiful land, and I can understand why they like it there. And I have not met anyone, in all my travels, better suited to it. Rolling fields and green valleys, well-ploughed farmlands and meandering creeks, a gentle land for a gentle people." His eyes shone with a love Mellamir had never before seen, and she wondered at that: who were these people, that they had so captured her wizard's heart?"
"They like regular meals, plenty of everything, and well-laid gardens. But do not be misled: I call them gentle, for they like peace and comfort, but they are tough as nails when cornered." He shook his head in amazement. "They still know how to fight, though few have ever made use of that skill.
"The first tales I know of them--and I have studied them for many years now--have them living along the upper Anduin, between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. I do not know what first prompted them to move, but move they did: across the mountains and Eriador." Mellamir leaned back against the tree and exhaled a puff of smoke. An anthill nearby caught her attention and she watched as the insects gathered the crumbs of their breakfast and toted it back to their home.
"There were three main types originally," Gandalf continued, "the Harfoots, the Stoors, and the Fallohides, but today few hobbits come purely from one branch. They name themselves by their family, for example the Bagginses or the Brandybucks. Somehow, they all came to the Shire at last and they have been living there for years. Forgotten by most, but some still watch over them, though the Hobbits themselves don't know anything about their guardians. I'm talking about the Dúnedain."
"Dúnedain?" Mellamir asked. That word sounded familiar, though she could not place it.
"Men of the West," Gandalf explained. "Back from when the king ruled there; they are rangers and scouts, and they watch over the Shire to make sure no evil thing gets in. Now, about your pipe." Mellamir turned her eyes from the ant hill, trying to look alert--as usual, Gandalf was taking entirely too long to answer the question--but he pressed on, seeming not to notice her waning interest.
"The Hobbits have not done much that has carried over to the world beyond their borders, mainly because most people scarcely remember their existence, but pipe smoking may be the one exception. I know the art, as do many others, but precious few Gondorians do. Yet I remember a day when most of the people smoked. Kings, even.
"The question is, did it begin with the Hobbits and spread to Men, or with Men and spread to Hobbits? I do not know, but I think the Hobbits most likely came up with the idea: it is just such a hobbity notion. Only people who organise their day around meals would think to come up with sitting down and breathing in burned plants.' She chuckled at that, and Gandalf smiled down at her.
"But no matter. Your pipe is a gift to me from a great hobbit, a patriarch. He was known as the Old Took--the Tooks are one of the most important hobbit families--and most of the hobbits worth speaking of today are related to him by blood or marriage. He scored 130 years, and that is old, even for Hobbits, who often as not reach 100."
"Really?" Mellamir interrupted, a surprised look on her face. "That's rather old. They're not from Númenor?"
Gandalf chuckled. "No. They just live a long time. At any rate, the Old Took gave me your pipe after a particularly enjoyable party. Whenever I was in the Shire he would throw a party, and I would bring the fireworks. We would sit and smoke, eat and drink, until the early hours of the morning. Good times; but, yes, that is the pipe. I think it came down to him from Isengrim the Second, so you should be honoured."
"Isenbul--Isalin--what?" she asked. If he's a king, he's one I've never heard of.
"I should have known that name would not mean much to you. A giant among Hobbits. If you were a hobbit, having something that belonged to Isengrim would mean something." Mellamir shot him an annoyed glance. Do I look like a hobbit? Gandalf, however, did not seem to notice, and he continued his explanation.
"This particular party was for the Old Took's birthday; that is why he gave me the pipe. They have a custom--I wish more people would follow it, it would do them some good--of when they celebrate a birthday, instead of other people giving them gifts, they distribute the presents." Mellamir blew another smoke ring and returned her attention to the ants.
"Years later, when I learned what it was, I tried to give the pipe to another hobbit-friend of mine. There was a battle at the Green Fields long ago. It was neither great nor terrible by the accounting of Men, but it is the only one ever fought in the Shire. The Hobbits were threatened by Orcs, and the three Took brothers Bandobras, Isembras, and Ferumbras organised the Hobbit army.
"Now, you asked what the word 'mathom' meant." Gandalf pointed to the word on Mellamir's pipe. Ah, now he was finally coming to the point! "It is an old word," he said, "one I have never heard outside the Shire. A mathom is something you do not want to throw away but don't have a particular use for. Hobbits pass around mathoms, often for birthday presents. Estella would give it to her cousin Drogo on her birthday, and then two weeks later he would pass it along to his wife's sister's next-door-neighbour Primula, and so on."
Estella...Drogo...Primula... Mellawen tried each of these words, deciding them foreign names of some sort. Gandalf laughed at the look of concentration on her face. "Yes, they are names--hobbit-names, and yours would sound just as strange to them. Wonderful people. I hope you will meet them someday but, as I said, they live rather far away. Maybe someday." He blew a smoke ring that shaped itself into a giant eagle and flew away. At last Gandalf continued. "You had another question?"
Mellamir nodded. "Just one more, though. Why are we going?"
"I told you that already," Gandalf replied. "Your father and I agree it is time you journeyed out of the city and saw more of the world."
"Ha!" Mellamir cried. "You I believe, but Papa? For him the world ends at the ancient boundaries of Gondor, and he cares nothing for trees and distrusts your 'Elvish magic.' Talking trees, ha! I can hear him saying it. And why now?"
"My dear Mellamir," Gandalf replied, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, "your curiosity and frankness will get you in trouble some day. To answer your question, for myself at least, I need to see Treebeard. I have read all of the scrolls in your father's libraries that I think could likely be useful, but I have not found anything. I need direction and advice. Treebeard is a good help to an old wizard in these matters. He is wise beyond measure and, more importantly, he will give me the whole truth, not only what he wants me to hear. I need to see him, and this is a good opportunity for you to meet him as well. You will certainly never meet him through anyone else in Minas Tirith."
"And Father?"
"He has his reasons," Gandalf said, "but to explain them I would have to tell you much about this Treebeard, things which you would do better to hear from him, in his own words." Mellamir looked at him sceptically. "You should give your father more credit," Gandalf continued. "He is a great man and has lived a hard life, lost everything he has ever cared for. His parents are long dead, he has lost his brother and his wife, and now he fears he might lose you and Faramir to my 'wizard's meddlings,' as he puts it--no, not to my face, but I have heard him say as much to other people." Mellamir's unconvinced look was replaced by one of shocked disbelief, but Gandalf apparently didn't notice. "He is a complicated man, your father, and he fears the unknown, that which he cannot see and understand."
"But why--" Mellamir began, but Gandalf held up his hand for silence.
"Lately, the unknown includes you and Faramir. He is a great man, Mellamir, but he thinks he is greater than he is, and that is dangerous. Yet he is not so simple as to be easily understood." He sighed. "Did you know he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth?"
"Dol Amroth?" Mellamir repeated, now confused. "Why?"
"Because," Gandalf answered gently, "you are a girl and he thinks it is time you acted like one. Try to see yourself through his eyes. You spend all day with your brothers, something the ladies of his court do not hesitate to point out to one another, and he hears their gossip. One day you must marry, but he cannot see any prince or lord marrying such an unruly lady as you have become."
Mellamir started to protest but stopped. She disagreed with this assessment of her personality, but she could at least see how her father could think such things. "So I am to go to Dol Amroth when I return?" she asked, a pained look on her face.
"No," Gandalf answered. "I said he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth; I did not say you were going. This Treebeard I am taking you to--I will let him tell you why, however he chooses to do so, but your father feels that he can help you learn to be a lady, however strange that might sound. And he did not want to send you away from your brothers, nor from himself, so when I suggested Fangorn he reluctantly agreed. As I told your father, Treebeard is very different from anything you--or any Gondorian--has ever seen. It is that difference that will help him help you become the lady your father expects, much more quickly than your uncle could."
With that, Gandalf blew his last smoke ring and snuffed out his pipe. "Now it really is time to go. We have miles to ride before the sun sleeps."
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3140
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
-------
3002; Anórien
-------
Fifteen minutes later Mellamir ran into the stables. Gandalf held the bridles of two horses, groomed, fed, saddled, and ready to go. "Up you go," he said. "We need to hurry now." Gandalf helped her into her saddle, then mounted his own horse and with one "Hyah!" the two rode out of the stable and out into the city.
They soon reached Minas Tirith's main thoroughfare, the only way from the Citadel to the Great Gate down below. The city was built against a mountain and divided into seven circles by walls. No one could travel far, certainly not from one circle to the next, without the guards knowing about it, not to mention the citizens who lived along the road.
They rode past the boarded up and sleeping houses, following the road as it snaked through the seven gates. So that is it, Mellamir thought as she passed the sleeping and boarded up houses. I'm really leaving, and who knows when I will come back. She knew the road well enough, where it went in the city, but after it passed the gates...where then? She thought back to her geography lessons with Faramir: Anórien, Druadan, Edoras, then where? Did it ever stop, or go on forever? She didn't know, and that scared her.
"Where are you going, and on whose authority do you take the lady Mellamir?" Mellamir looked up, startled, and realised she and Gandalf had now reached the Great Gate. The voice belonged to a guard, a young recruit named Ingold.
"Your lord's," Gandalf replied as he handed Ingold a letter. Ingold read it over, then scowled at the wizard. "How do I know this is not some forgery?"
"You do not," Gandalf replied, "which leaves you three choices. You may go and wake the steward and ask him yourself, but if you value your position I would advise against that; Denethor will not look highly on such foolishness. You may detain us here, though again, I would not advise it: the steward has trusted me for these two years with his children, and he is a better judge of character in this matter than you." Gandalf took back the letter and placed it in his robes, then turned his gaze to Ingold. "Or you can do your duty as a guard of the gate and speed us on our way without detaining us any longer."
Ingold turned away quickly, eager to avoid the wizard's gaze. Something about those piercing eyes made him think Gandalf could see into his very soul. He knew he should probably ask the gate-warden what to do, but he didn't want to tell Gandalf that, for some reason. And the letter did look legitimate. At last he waved his hand toward the wall, the gates slowly opened, and Gandalf and Mellamir rode out of Minas Tirith.
They rode along the Great West Road for several hours, and at first Mellamir was content to let the hills roll by. Gandalf rode a fine horse, a gift from King Théoden of Rohan several years earlier when Gandalf was still welcome in his court. The wizard had not yet been banned, but many were less friendly to him than they had been of old. So Gandalf rode through Gondor and toward Rohan on one of the king's horses, not hiding but not calling attention to himself.
Mellamir's horse was no match for Gandalf's, but the child was an able rider and for some time she kept up with Gandalf. After a while, though, she felt her horse tiring under her, his hooves stumbling ever so slightly and his strides a little forced. At last Mellamir said, "Gandalf, we have to either rest or slow down. If we don't, my horse might fall from the heat, and wouldn't that slow us down even more?"
Gandalf nodded. "You are right, of course. Let us make for that grove of trees--slowly, your horse really is overworked--and we will rest and have breakfast. Soon your city's bells will be announcing the third hour. Breakfast is overdue, especially for two travellers such as us. We have put in more leagues this morning than most men of Gondor do in a week."
Gandalf opened his saddlebag and produced fresh baked brown bread, a pat of butter, and fresh fruit, the best of early summer. He walked down to a nearby stream and filled their water flasks. When he returned Mellamir had sliced some of the bread and buttered it and was waiting on him to start. He handed her a flask and nodded for her to begin, and they were quiet while they ate. When finally they had eaten their fill Gandalf packed their leftovers into his saddlebag, then returned with two pipes. "I can see you have questions on your mind," he observed.
She took her time responding. Mellamir stuffed her pipe full of weed and lit it. She blew several smoke-rings and gazed at the western horizon where she imagined great forests loomed, though she couldn't see them yet.
"Yes, actually," Mellamir said. "Quite a few, but two for the moment. One important, one not."
"All questions are important," Gandalf replied.
"All right, then," she responded, "one seems normal, the other random."
He pondered that for a second. "Ask me the random one first," he said at last.
"You remember when I first came back from Uncle Arabôr's farm," Mellamir continued, "and you gave me this pipe? I asked you then what 'mathom' meant, and you said that I would not understand, but that someday I might. But I still don't understand, and I have been curious about it ever since, and I would just like to know what the word means and why I wouldn't understand right away."
"Mellamir, I commend your memory." She smiled at that but said nothing, nodding for him to continue. "We had that conversation almost six years ago," Gandalf said. "It is better, though, that you hear the tale from me. If you asked a hobbit they would answer you as long as you sat still to listen."
"A hobbit?" Mellamir asked.
"Yes, a hobbit," Gandalf replied. "That is the crux of your question, though you do not realise it. Where to start?" He took a puff on his pipe. "You know, of course, that in the days of the kings Gondor was much larger than what your father governs today?" She nodded, settling herself in for what promised to be a long tale.
"Far to the north and to the west the kings used to claim allegiance. If you were to pass Edoras and go through Fangorn, you would at last come to the Elven woods of Lórien. And if the lady of those woods let you pass through her realm and you went over the Redhorn Pass, and on for many more miles, finally you would reach Rivendell, the Last Homely House."
That far! Mellamir thought to herself, gazing absent-mindedly across the field. "And if you kept going north and west," Gandalf continued, "you would come to another great wood, though less great than it used to be, and beyond that the Baranduin and the far-off land known as the Shire. And if they let you in--which they probably wouldn't they don't like outsiders--then you would meet the Hobbits." She mouthed the word to herself, as she often did when she came across strange names, then shrugged slightly and turned her attention back to Gandalf.
"No one knows exactly where they come from. They are not Elves, or Dwarves, or Men, though they are more like Men than anyone else. Much shorter, though; the tallest rarely pass four feet. They do not like machinery more advanced than a plough, though they can use tools, and they are skilled in most crafts save cobbling. Hobbits have extremely tough feet and they do not need shoes, even in the coldest of weather." Mellamir looked down at her own boots, then across the field. No shoes? She did not envy them walking across this rough land with nothing between the soles of their feet and the rocky soil.
"Not that the cold is much of a concern," Gandalf continued; "it has not snowed in the Shire for several years now, and they seldom leave it." Gandalf smiled at that. "The Shire is a beautiful land, and I can understand why they like it there. And I have not met anyone, in all my travels, better suited to it. Rolling fields and green valleys, well-ploughed farmlands and meandering creeks, a gentle land for a gentle people." His eyes shone with a love Mellamir had never before seen, and she wondered at that: who were these people, that they had so captured her wizard's heart?"
"They like regular meals, plenty of everything, and well-laid gardens. But do not be misled: I call them gentle, for they like peace and comfort, but they are tough as nails when cornered." He shook his head in amazement. "They still know how to fight, though few have ever made use of that skill.
"The first tales I know of them--and I have studied them for many years now--have them living along the upper Anduin, between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. I do not know what first prompted them to move, but move they did: across the mountains and Eriador." Mellamir leaned back against the tree and exhaled a puff of smoke. An anthill nearby caught her attention and she watched as the insects gathered the crumbs of their breakfast and toted it back to their home.
"There were three main types originally," Gandalf continued, "the Harfoots, the Stoors, and the Fallohides, but today few hobbits come purely from one branch. They name themselves by their family, for example the Bagginses or the Brandybucks. Somehow, they all came to the Shire at last and they have been living there for years. Forgotten by most, but some still watch over them, though the Hobbits themselves don't know anything about their guardians. I'm talking about the Dúnedain."
"Dúnedain?" Mellamir asked. That word sounded familiar, though she could not place it.
"Men of the West," Gandalf explained. "Back from when the king ruled there; they are rangers and scouts, and they watch over the Shire to make sure no evil thing gets in. Now, about your pipe." Mellamir turned her eyes from the ant hill, trying to look alert--as usual, Gandalf was taking entirely too long to answer the question--but he pressed on, seeming not to notice her waning interest.
"The Hobbits have not done much that has carried over to the world beyond their borders, mainly because most people scarcely remember their existence, but pipe smoking may be the one exception. I know the art, as do many others, but precious few Gondorians do. Yet I remember a day when most of the people smoked. Kings, even.
"The question is, did it begin with the Hobbits and spread to Men, or with Men and spread to Hobbits? I do not know, but I think the Hobbits most likely came up with the idea: it is just such a hobbity notion. Only people who organise their day around meals would think to come up with sitting down and breathing in burned plants.' She chuckled at that, and Gandalf smiled down at her.
"But no matter. Your pipe is a gift to me from a great hobbit, a patriarch. He was known as the Old Took--the Tooks are one of the most important hobbit families--and most of the hobbits worth speaking of today are related to him by blood or marriage. He scored 130 years, and that is old, even for Hobbits, who often as not reach 100."
"Really?" Mellamir interrupted, a surprised look on her face. "That's rather old. They're not from Númenor?"
Gandalf chuckled. "No. They just live a long time. At any rate, the Old Took gave me your pipe after a particularly enjoyable party. Whenever I was in the Shire he would throw a party, and I would bring the fireworks. We would sit and smoke, eat and drink, until the early hours of the morning. Good times; but, yes, that is the pipe. I think it came down to him from Isengrim the Second, so you should be honoured."
"Isenbul--Isalin--what?" she asked. If he's a king, he's one I've never heard of.
"I should have known that name would not mean much to you. A giant among Hobbits. If you were a hobbit, having something that belonged to Isengrim would mean something." Mellamir shot him an annoyed glance. Do I look like a hobbit? Gandalf, however, did not seem to notice, and he continued his explanation.
"This particular party was for the Old Took's birthday; that is why he gave me the pipe. They have a custom--I wish more people would follow it, it would do them some good--of when they celebrate a birthday, instead of other people giving them gifts, they distribute the presents." Mellamir blew another smoke ring and returned her attention to the ants.
"Years later, when I learned what it was, I tried to give the pipe to another hobbit-friend of mine. There was a battle at the Green Fields long ago. It was neither great nor terrible by the accounting of Men, but it is the only one ever fought in the Shire. The Hobbits were threatened by Orcs, and the three Took brothers Bandobras, Isembras, and Ferumbras organised the Hobbit army.
"Now, you asked what the word 'mathom' meant." Gandalf pointed to the word on Mellamir's pipe. Ah, now he was finally coming to the point! "It is an old word," he said, "one I have never heard outside the Shire. A mathom is something you do not want to throw away but don't have a particular use for. Hobbits pass around mathoms, often for birthday presents. Estella would give it to her cousin Drogo on her birthday, and then two weeks later he would pass it along to his wife's sister's next-door-neighbour Primula, and so on."
Estella...Drogo...Primula... Mellawen tried each of these words, deciding them foreign names of some sort. Gandalf laughed at the look of concentration on her face. "Yes, they are names--hobbit-names, and yours would sound just as strange to them. Wonderful people. I hope you will meet them someday but, as I said, they live rather far away. Maybe someday." He blew a smoke ring that shaped itself into a giant eagle and flew away. At last Gandalf continued. "You had another question?"
Mellamir nodded. "Just one more, though. Why are we going?"
"I told you that already," Gandalf replied. "Your father and I agree it is time you journeyed out of the city and saw more of the world."
"Ha!" Mellamir cried. "You I believe, but Papa? For him the world ends at the ancient boundaries of Gondor, and he cares nothing for trees and distrusts your 'Elvish magic.' Talking trees, ha! I can hear him saying it. And why now?"
"My dear Mellamir," Gandalf replied, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, "your curiosity and frankness will get you in trouble some day. To answer your question, for myself at least, I need to see Treebeard. I have read all of the scrolls in your father's libraries that I think could likely be useful, but I have not found anything. I need direction and advice. Treebeard is a good help to an old wizard in these matters. He is wise beyond measure and, more importantly, he will give me the whole truth, not only what he wants me to hear. I need to see him, and this is a good opportunity for you to meet him as well. You will certainly never meet him through anyone else in Minas Tirith."
"And Father?"
"He has his reasons," Gandalf said, "but to explain them I would have to tell you much about this Treebeard, things which you would do better to hear from him, in his own words." Mellamir looked at him sceptically. "You should give your father more credit," Gandalf continued. "He is a great man and has lived a hard life, lost everything he has ever cared for. His parents are long dead, he has lost his brother and his wife, and now he fears he might lose you and Faramir to my 'wizard's meddlings,' as he puts it--no, not to my face, but I have heard him say as much to other people." Mellamir's unconvinced look was replaced by one of shocked disbelief, but Gandalf apparently didn't notice. "He is a complicated man, your father, and he fears the unknown, that which he cannot see and understand."
"But why--" Mellamir began, but Gandalf held up his hand for silence.
"Lately, the unknown includes you and Faramir. He is a great man, Mellamir, but he thinks he is greater than he is, and that is dangerous. Yet he is not so simple as to be easily understood." He sighed. "Did you know he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth?"
"Dol Amroth?" Mellamir repeated, now confused. "Why?"
"Because," Gandalf answered gently, "you are a girl and he thinks it is time you acted like one. Try to see yourself through his eyes. You spend all day with your brothers, something the ladies of his court do not hesitate to point out to one another, and he hears their gossip. One day you must marry, but he cannot see any prince or lord marrying such an unruly lady as you have become."
Mellamir started to protest but stopped. She disagreed with this assessment of her personality, but she could at least see how her father could think such things. "So I am to go to Dol Amroth when I return?" she asked, a pained look on her face.
"No," Gandalf answered. "I said he wanted to send you to Dol Amroth; I did not say you were going. This Treebeard I am taking you to--I will let him tell you why, however he chooses to do so, but your father feels that he can help you learn to be a lady, however strange that might sound. And he did not want to send you away from your brothers, nor from himself, so when I suggested Fangorn he reluctantly agreed. As I told your father, Treebeard is very different from anything you--or any Gondorian--has ever seen. It is that difference that will help him help you become the lady your father expects, much more quickly than your uncle could."
With that, Gandalf blew his last smoke ring and snuffed out his pipe. "Now it really is time to go. We have miles to ride before the sun sleeps."