LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 5
Jun. 13th, 2007 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 5
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 2722
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
-------
29 September 2996; the Pavilion of the White Tree
-------
Mellawen shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and pulled her cloak more tightly around her to ward off the chilly late September wind. The healers had declared her healthy enough to attend the public funeral, but only if she was kept suitably warm. Denethor had certainly not meant any harm by ordering a warg fur be made into a cloak, but he was newly widowed and unaccustomed to raising a girl. He little guessed how sensitive their skins could be. The warg's coat was warm and thick, a suitable choice for a cloak, but its bristly hair rubbed Mellawen's cheeks raw.
She reached over and touched the fine ash table to one side, inching her hand toward the shrouded body she knew to be her mother. Denethor took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze, then brought it back to her side and released it. "She is gone," he whispered into her ear, "gone beyond the circles of this world, and she will wait for us there. But now, we must be still. Mama would want the people to see us strong, wouldn't she?"
Mellawen smiled up at her father. Today was not for her, she knew, but for all the others who wanted to say goodbye to her mother and uncle. Yes, she would be strong, as strong as she could be. Her eyes drifted to her cousins standing off to the side, dressed richly in silver and sable like the princes of old. Then she looked out at the crowd beyond, all in their finest clothes, and she spotted Gandalf surrounded by a group of dour-faced women. She started to wave but at a disapproving look from her father resumed a more decorous pose.
After a respectful moment of silence Falastur stepped forward. He was short for a Gondorian at just over five feet with deep, jet black hair slicked back with bear oil. He looked directly at Denethor, then lowered his head and said, "With your leave, my lord." Denethor nodded, and the man stepped inside the circle and faced the crowd.
"In the years of Ondoher, descendant of Elendil," he began, "the king's party was attacked by wild men, and the king and his two sons died in the ensuing struggle. The crown then passed to Eärnil, captain of the Southern Army, and on his death to his son Eärnur. Eärnur, if not for the interference of the Elf-lord Glorfindel, would have smote--"
"Now the right high Falastur will tell us of the death of Eärnur, cousin, and the rise of the Stewards, of which Master Denethor is a descendant, and Miss Mellawen as well." The voice echoed from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned around to see Ioreth, an old maid who helped the healers at the Houses of Healing, talking to some woman they did not recognise as a native of Minas Tirith. Reluctantly they turned around to face Falastur, though they kept their ears trained on Ioreth.
"Mercy, but he likes to talk, don't he, cousin?" she observed. "I don't think those men he's naming took half as long to live as he does to talk of them. Well, you see that girl up there? Her name is Mellawen, and she's Denethor's daughter. And you see those boys there? Well, their blood's good enough, I reckon, but their manners--did you know that until this very week, they'd never stepped foot inside this city? Of all the--and they get to stand right up front in that High Circle and me, who's worked her whole life in the city, I'm stuck back here!"
The people, knowing Ioreth would be ranting for quite some time, turned their attention back to Falastur. Borlin watched Falastur attentively, but Farlin dragged his boot through the dirt where he stood, spelling out his name, and Mellawen stifled a yawn. "For we are gathered here today," Falastur droned on, "to honour the memory of two of the House of Húrin, and to mourn their passing. For Finduilas, wife of the Steward, has left our lord Denethor. And though fate took her before she could complete her great task of giving our lord the steward a son--"
"Well, I never! Cousin, don't you go thinking that all of us in the city are so uncouth as all that! Now this man is talking nothing but falsehoods ... who's he talked to that gives him the right to say such things?"
"The lord Denethor, I suppose," Ioreth's cousin answered.
"And as if one untimely death was not enough of a tragedy," Falastur continued, "the lord's brother died as well. Alas, he did not die defending, but in a river, far from all help and honour. Yet Calithor--"
"Arabôr," someone muttered under his breath. It was Farlin. He had stopped drawing in the dirt and was looking straight at Falastur, a look of determination on his face. Denethor looked at him in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"
Farlin met his uncle's eyes. "My father's name was Arabôr." Mellawen looked up at that; she was surprised that Borlin would allow her cousin to speak out of turn, but Borlin was not making any effort to constrain his brother's tongue.
Even the wind was still for what seemed like a very long time, and something glistened on the Steward's cheek. Was that a tear? The man who hadn't cried at the news of his own wife's passing, or of his brother's, was now crying at the mere mention of a name? But it appeared to be so.
"Now that boy," Ioreth said, "hain't got no manners what I can see. They should keep folks out of the circle that don't know when to be quiet." But Denethor looked at Farlin, walked over to him, bent down, and kissed his brow. Farlin looked up at his uncle, a grateful smile on his face. His uncle understood and could make everything right. Denethor turned to Falastur and affirmed, "My brother's name was Arabor."
Falastur didn't quite know how to handle this; he'd never heard the name before, since it hadn't been spoken in the city for years. He looked first to Farlin and Denethor, then to the steward's advisors just outside the circle. Perhaps this was some ill-timed joke? But the advisors seemed just as confused as Falastur, and Denethor just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to proceed. Falastur cast a last questioning glance to the minister of protocol, then moved ahead to the next part of his prepared speech.
"Yet regardless of how they fared in life, in death we remember them for who they were and are: members of an ancient house, last descendants of the noble men of Númenor. As such, we owe them all honour." Eight men, nobles from Denethor's court, stepped into the circle, and each stood at a corner of one of the two tables. They reached below the table surfaces and lifted the tops off the legs and carried the biers out of the Pavilion and down Rath Dínen, the silent street, toward the ancient vaults.
No one spoke a word, not the eight carrying the biers or the family walking solemnly in their wake, nor the rest of the procession. Each carried some offering, memorials to the fallen. The eight marched into the Steward's House, down the rows of enshrouded corpses from ancient years, to the tables beside Ecthelion and his wife. There they laid the bodies with their venerated family and solemnly came out again.
Denethor then went in with his daughter and nephews. They knelt in front of the bodies and laid boughs of evergreen at their sides. That tree came from Númenor, now under the sea but at one time the proud home of Men, and even in these failing days those who still remembered their ancient homeland often gave their deceased family boughs of the precious trees in memory of their heritage.
Denethor leaned toward his dead wife's ear and whispered, "Safe journey," then rose. Tears in his eyes, he stood by the door. At length Borlin also rose, his eyes downward-cast, and led Farlin over to the door. This was not the time for crying, but Farlin apparently could not hold back the single drop now rolling down his cheek. Mellawen kneeled in front of her mother for a long time, trying to think of how to say good-bye, but in the end she just kissed her mother's hand and exited the mausoleum with her family.
They stood together on one side of the entrance of the vault as the people entered solemnly, offered their memorials to the deceased, and left. Since this was their first visit to Rath Dínen, Mellawen, Borlin, and Farlin were fascinated by the monuments to great men now long dead. Most other people, though, had seen the street too many times and were anxious to leave. When everyone had presented their memorial they processed back to the Pavilion of the White Tree. After all had reassembled and observed a respectful moment of silence, Falastur spoke again.
"Yet when a family member is lost, a family member is gained, so our sages say. Many times we cannot see this right away; it takes years for a marriage or birth to replace the lost ones. Today, however, we have an immediate answer. In the circle here stand Borlin and Farlin, the two sons of Cal--Arabôr. They lost both their parents in service to Gondor, their mother dying as their father served the realm, and their father as he preserved the Steward's Line by saving Mellawen from certain death. As repayment in part the steward--"
Just then Denethor stepped forward, quite unexpectedly. The quiet conversations that had wafted through the crowd stopped. Denethor held up his right hand for Falastur to stop, then motioned with his left hand for Borlin and Farlin to join him under the White Tree. When they stood before him Denethor continued. "My boys, children of my brother--become my sons. Kneel."
He drew his sword and touched the broad side to Borlin's shoulder. Borlin recoiled slightly at the feel of the cold steel but quickly righted his posture. "You, Borlin, I re-name Boromir. According to the customs of Minas Tirith you are past the age of schooling, and it is time for you to answer the call to service. I commit you to the Tower Guard where you will learn the art of war and service to your country. Yet, you are also a man, and I wish you to learn the true meaning of that. Several hours each week, as many as your captain may spare you, you will spend with your brother studying the history of your people."
Denethor then turned to Farlin. "But you, boys your age still study. One day you will help your brother in his task of preserving Gondor, and I wish you to learn such skills as you may some day find useful. Keeping accounts, languages spoke in far lands and the protocols of foreign courts. I name you Faramir."
Then a most unexpected thing happened. Borlin and Farlin rose Boromir and Faramir and stood behind their new father. Mellawen had been watching the ceremony and, as her new brothers rose, a curious look entered her eyes. She wanted to be like Boromir and Faramir. Before Denethor could turn to walk away Mellawen ran up and kneeled in front of him. "I too have a new name," she informed him. "I take the name Finduilas."
A hush swept over the crowd and the air seemed unbearably thick for the few seconds before everyone began talking at once. One voice was heard above the others: "Now don't that beat all! That pugnacious girl, she knows better than that. She knows her name, of all things, it's been told her oft enough, I reckon..."
Ignoring the crowd's protestations, Mellawen looked up at her father, longing for him to recognise that she too was stepping into a new role. "Mellawen," he said at last, "lone flesh of my flesh, I would give you anything you asked, if I could. But what you name is beyond even my power. The name Finduilas is--it is taken from us. But it is still taken." Mellawen's eyes fell. Denethor paused for an interminable moment before he continued, "But I do have a new name for you. I dub you Mellamir." A wave of dismayed whispers swept through the crowd. But Mellamir--that was a boy's name!
"Yes," Denethor continued, "I know of your desire to learn Elvish, and where in all Gondor would I find a tutor to teach a girl such things? For I have no female kin here in Minas Tirith, and I will not send you to Dol Amroth. I--I need you here. You and Faramir will learn together, just as Arabôr and I did. I hope it turns out significantly better." He then turned to address the crowd. "Now, if there is nothing else--"
"There is one thing more," Gandalf said, stepping forward. "This is truly a noteworthy day. The steward has always wanted a son, but never in anyone's wildest dreams, least of all his," and at this he chuckled, slightly amused, "never did he expect to find three sons in one day. Such an occasion deserves a fitting celebration. Your Lord Denethor has provided much of the harvest in a feast, so that all may join him in honouring his departed kin and welcoming these new sons to his house. For my part, I shall provide fireworks."
The crowd erupted into a stifled cheer; true, this was a funeral, but Gandalf's fireworks were legendary and had not been seen in Minas Tirith for many years. In that whole crowd only two people looked less than pleased. Falastur glanced quickly at the minister of protocol, his eyes begging for instructions on how to handle this intrusion, but the minister of protocol clearly did not know how to handle it any better himself and was countering with some difficulty his desire to cheer the fireworks himself. At last Falastur sighed and resigned himself to not being able to control this most unusual funeral.
Denethor also looked less than happy about the wizard's announcement; in fact, he looked livid. How dare Gandalf announce his feast? This had gone on long enough. If Gandalf would not recognise the steward's authority, he would just have to leave. Denethor was about to tell Gandalf so, but the wizard was already kneeling in front of Mellawen and removing a leather pouch from his girdle.
As the rest of the city made their way toward the tables laden with fruit, loaves of bread, pies, and roasted meats, Mellawen opened the pouch. She looked up at Gandalf, an excited and questioning look in her eyes, as she pulled out a pipe not unlike Boromir's but much finer. It was made from first-rate mahogany wood and had a silver mouthpiece. Its body was intricately carved with letters of the Common Tongue, though no man of the South would recognise the words.
"Gandalf," Mellawen asked, "what is a...mathom...?"
"Shhh. Now is not the time for questions," he replied, looking over to Denethor. "This pipe was given to me by an old friend from a land far away, but you would laugh to see him; he is shorter than your Falastur but twice as great, at least. And the leaf...well, that will take some explaining as well. Perhaps, some day. But before you are ready for that tale, you must learn many other things, if indeed you are ever ready.
"Yet I see a spark in your eyes, Mellamir--yes, though I laugh, that name suits you well, my lady--a spark that tells me someday you will know the truth. Hmmm, riddles and quandaries I never expected to find here. Puzzles best left for the light of day. Run along, my dear, and enjoy your feast." As Mellamir ran off to find her cousins, nay, her brothers, Gandalf faced Denethor. "Master Steward, a private word, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea," Denethor said through pressed lips, nodding furiously toward the gate.
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 2722
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
-------
29 September 2996; the Pavilion of the White Tree
-------
Mellawen shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and pulled her cloak more tightly around her to ward off the chilly late September wind. The healers had declared her healthy enough to attend the public funeral, but only if she was kept suitably warm. Denethor had certainly not meant any harm by ordering a warg fur be made into a cloak, but he was newly widowed and unaccustomed to raising a girl. He little guessed how sensitive their skins could be. The warg's coat was warm and thick, a suitable choice for a cloak, but its bristly hair rubbed Mellawen's cheeks raw.
She reached over and touched the fine ash table to one side, inching her hand toward the shrouded body she knew to be her mother. Denethor took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze, then brought it back to her side and released it. "She is gone," he whispered into her ear, "gone beyond the circles of this world, and she will wait for us there. But now, we must be still. Mama would want the people to see us strong, wouldn't she?"
Mellawen smiled up at her father. Today was not for her, she knew, but for all the others who wanted to say goodbye to her mother and uncle. Yes, she would be strong, as strong as she could be. Her eyes drifted to her cousins standing off to the side, dressed richly in silver and sable like the princes of old. Then she looked out at the crowd beyond, all in their finest clothes, and she spotted Gandalf surrounded by a group of dour-faced women. She started to wave but at a disapproving look from her father resumed a more decorous pose.
After a respectful moment of silence Falastur stepped forward. He was short for a Gondorian at just over five feet with deep, jet black hair slicked back with bear oil. He looked directly at Denethor, then lowered his head and said, "With your leave, my lord." Denethor nodded, and the man stepped inside the circle and faced the crowd.
"In the years of Ondoher, descendant of Elendil," he began, "the king's party was attacked by wild men, and the king and his two sons died in the ensuing struggle. The crown then passed to Eärnil, captain of the Southern Army, and on his death to his son Eärnur. Eärnur, if not for the interference of the Elf-lord Glorfindel, would have smote--"
"Now the right high Falastur will tell us of the death of Eärnur, cousin, and the rise of the Stewards, of which Master Denethor is a descendant, and Miss Mellawen as well." The voice echoed from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned around to see Ioreth, an old maid who helped the healers at the Houses of Healing, talking to some woman they did not recognise as a native of Minas Tirith. Reluctantly they turned around to face Falastur, though they kept their ears trained on Ioreth.
"Mercy, but he likes to talk, don't he, cousin?" she observed. "I don't think those men he's naming took half as long to live as he does to talk of them. Well, you see that girl up there? Her name is Mellawen, and she's Denethor's daughter. And you see those boys there? Well, their blood's good enough, I reckon, but their manners--did you know that until this very week, they'd never stepped foot inside this city? Of all the--and they get to stand right up front in that High Circle and me, who's worked her whole life in the city, I'm stuck back here!"
The people, knowing Ioreth would be ranting for quite some time, turned their attention back to Falastur. Borlin watched Falastur attentively, but Farlin dragged his boot through the dirt where he stood, spelling out his name, and Mellawen stifled a yawn. "For we are gathered here today," Falastur droned on, "to honour the memory of two of the House of Húrin, and to mourn their passing. For Finduilas, wife of the Steward, has left our lord Denethor. And though fate took her before she could complete her great task of giving our lord the steward a son--"
"Well, I never! Cousin, don't you go thinking that all of us in the city are so uncouth as all that! Now this man is talking nothing but falsehoods ... who's he talked to that gives him the right to say such things?"
"The lord Denethor, I suppose," Ioreth's cousin answered.
"And as if one untimely death was not enough of a tragedy," Falastur continued, "the lord's brother died as well. Alas, he did not die defending, but in a river, far from all help and honour. Yet Calithor--"
"Arabôr," someone muttered under his breath. It was Farlin. He had stopped drawing in the dirt and was looking straight at Falastur, a look of determination on his face. Denethor looked at him in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"
Farlin met his uncle's eyes. "My father's name was Arabôr." Mellawen looked up at that; she was surprised that Borlin would allow her cousin to speak out of turn, but Borlin was not making any effort to constrain his brother's tongue.
Even the wind was still for what seemed like a very long time, and something glistened on the Steward's cheek. Was that a tear? The man who hadn't cried at the news of his own wife's passing, or of his brother's, was now crying at the mere mention of a name? But it appeared to be so.
"Now that boy," Ioreth said, "hain't got no manners what I can see. They should keep folks out of the circle that don't know when to be quiet." But Denethor looked at Farlin, walked over to him, bent down, and kissed his brow. Farlin looked up at his uncle, a grateful smile on his face. His uncle understood and could make everything right. Denethor turned to Falastur and affirmed, "My brother's name was Arabor."
Falastur didn't quite know how to handle this; he'd never heard the name before, since it hadn't been spoken in the city for years. He looked first to Farlin and Denethor, then to the steward's advisors just outside the circle. Perhaps this was some ill-timed joke? But the advisors seemed just as confused as Falastur, and Denethor just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to proceed. Falastur cast a last questioning glance to the minister of protocol, then moved ahead to the next part of his prepared speech.
"Yet regardless of how they fared in life, in death we remember them for who they were and are: members of an ancient house, last descendants of the noble men of Númenor. As such, we owe them all honour." Eight men, nobles from Denethor's court, stepped into the circle, and each stood at a corner of one of the two tables. They reached below the table surfaces and lifted the tops off the legs and carried the biers out of the Pavilion and down Rath Dínen, the silent street, toward the ancient vaults.
No one spoke a word, not the eight carrying the biers or the family walking solemnly in their wake, nor the rest of the procession. Each carried some offering, memorials to the fallen. The eight marched into the Steward's House, down the rows of enshrouded corpses from ancient years, to the tables beside Ecthelion and his wife. There they laid the bodies with their venerated family and solemnly came out again.
Denethor then went in with his daughter and nephews. They knelt in front of the bodies and laid boughs of evergreen at their sides. That tree came from Númenor, now under the sea but at one time the proud home of Men, and even in these failing days those who still remembered their ancient homeland often gave their deceased family boughs of the precious trees in memory of their heritage.
Denethor leaned toward his dead wife's ear and whispered, "Safe journey," then rose. Tears in his eyes, he stood by the door. At length Borlin also rose, his eyes downward-cast, and led Farlin over to the door. This was not the time for crying, but Farlin apparently could not hold back the single drop now rolling down his cheek. Mellawen kneeled in front of her mother for a long time, trying to think of how to say good-bye, but in the end she just kissed her mother's hand and exited the mausoleum with her family.
They stood together on one side of the entrance of the vault as the people entered solemnly, offered their memorials to the deceased, and left. Since this was their first visit to Rath Dínen, Mellawen, Borlin, and Farlin were fascinated by the monuments to great men now long dead. Most other people, though, had seen the street too many times and were anxious to leave. When everyone had presented their memorial they processed back to the Pavilion of the White Tree. After all had reassembled and observed a respectful moment of silence, Falastur spoke again.
"Yet when a family member is lost, a family member is gained, so our sages say. Many times we cannot see this right away; it takes years for a marriage or birth to replace the lost ones. Today, however, we have an immediate answer. In the circle here stand Borlin and Farlin, the two sons of Cal--Arabôr. They lost both their parents in service to Gondor, their mother dying as their father served the realm, and their father as he preserved the Steward's Line by saving Mellawen from certain death. As repayment in part the steward--"
Just then Denethor stepped forward, quite unexpectedly. The quiet conversations that had wafted through the crowd stopped. Denethor held up his right hand for Falastur to stop, then motioned with his left hand for Borlin and Farlin to join him under the White Tree. When they stood before him Denethor continued. "My boys, children of my brother--become my sons. Kneel."
He drew his sword and touched the broad side to Borlin's shoulder. Borlin recoiled slightly at the feel of the cold steel but quickly righted his posture. "You, Borlin, I re-name Boromir. According to the customs of Minas Tirith you are past the age of schooling, and it is time for you to answer the call to service. I commit you to the Tower Guard where you will learn the art of war and service to your country. Yet, you are also a man, and I wish you to learn the true meaning of that. Several hours each week, as many as your captain may spare you, you will spend with your brother studying the history of your people."
Denethor then turned to Farlin. "But you, boys your age still study. One day you will help your brother in his task of preserving Gondor, and I wish you to learn such skills as you may some day find useful. Keeping accounts, languages spoke in far lands and the protocols of foreign courts. I name you Faramir."
Then a most unexpected thing happened. Borlin and Farlin rose Boromir and Faramir and stood behind their new father. Mellawen had been watching the ceremony and, as her new brothers rose, a curious look entered her eyes. She wanted to be like Boromir and Faramir. Before Denethor could turn to walk away Mellawen ran up and kneeled in front of him. "I too have a new name," she informed him. "I take the name Finduilas."
A hush swept over the crowd and the air seemed unbearably thick for the few seconds before everyone began talking at once. One voice was heard above the others: "Now don't that beat all! That pugnacious girl, she knows better than that. She knows her name, of all things, it's been told her oft enough, I reckon..."
Ignoring the crowd's protestations, Mellawen looked up at her father, longing for him to recognise that she too was stepping into a new role. "Mellawen," he said at last, "lone flesh of my flesh, I would give you anything you asked, if I could. But what you name is beyond even my power. The name Finduilas is--it is taken from us. But it is still taken." Mellawen's eyes fell. Denethor paused for an interminable moment before he continued, "But I do have a new name for you. I dub you Mellamir." A wave of dismayed whispers swept through the crowd. But Mellamir--that was a boy's name!
"Yes," Denethor continued, "I know of your desire to learn Elvish, and where in all Gondor would I find a tutor to teach a girl such things? For I have no female kin here in Minas Tirith, and I will not send you to Dol Amroth. I--I need you here. You and Faramir will learn together, just as Arabôr and I did. I hope it turns out significantly better." He then turned to address the crowd. "Now, if there is nothing else--"
"There is one thing more," Gandalf said, stepping forward. "This is truly a noteworthy day. The steward has always wanted a son, but never in anyone's wildest dreams, least of all his," and at this he chuckled, slightly amused, "never did he expect to find three sons in one day. Such an occasion deserves a fitting celebration. Your Lord Denethor has provided much of the harvest in a feast, so that all may join him in honouring his departed kin and welcoming these new sons to his house. For my part, I shall provide fireworks."
The crowd erupted into a stifled cheer; true, this was a funeral, but Gandalf's fireworks were legendary and had not been seen in Minas Tirith for many years. In that whole crowd only two people looked less than pleased. Falastur glanced quickly at the minister of protocol, his eyes begging for instructions on how to handle this intrusion, but the minister of protocol clearly did not know how to handle it any better himself and was countering with some difficulty his desire to cheer the fireworks himself. At last Falastur sighed and resigned himself to not being able to control this most unusual funeral.
Denethor also looked less than happy about the wizard's announcement; in fact, he looked livid. How dare Gandalf announce his feast? This had gone on long enough. If Gandalf would not recognise the steward's authority, he would just have to leave. Denethor was about to tell Gandalf so, but the wizard was already kneeling in front of Mellawen and removing a leather pouch from his girdle.
As the rest of the city made their way toward the tables laden with fruit, loaves of bread, pies, and roasted meats, Mellawen opened the pouch. She looked up at Gandalf, an excited and questioning look in her eyes, as she pulled out a pipe not unlike Boromir's but much finer. It was made from first-rate mahogany wood and had a silver mouthpiece. Its body was intricately carved with letters of the Common Tongue, though no man of the South would recognise the words.
"Gandalf," Mellawen asked, "what is a...mathom...?"
"Shhh. Now is not the time for questions," he replied, looking over to Denethor. "This pipe was given to me by an old friend from a land far away, but you would laugh to see him; he is shorter than your Falastur but twice as great, at least. And the leaf...well, that will take some explaining as well. Perhaps, some day. But before you are ready for that tale, you must learn many other things, if indeed you are ever ready.
"Yet I see a spark in your eyes, Mellamir--yes, though I laugh, that name suits you well, my lady--a spark that tells me someday you will know the truth. Hmmm, riddles and quandaries I never expected to find here. Puzzles best left for the light of day. Run along, my dear, and enjoy your feast." As Mellamir ran off to find her cousins, nay, her brothers, Gandalf faced Denethor. "Master Steward, a private word, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea," Denethor said through pressed lips, nodding furiously toward the gate.