LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 4
Jun. 13th, 2007 12:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 4
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 4649
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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25-28 September 2996; Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith
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Mellawen remembered pitching through the water, her wet dress becoming heavier and heavier. Suddenly something heavier than her dress kept her down, and fight as she might she could not break through. Then something--she knew not what--pulled her up and kept her there. The world spun around her. Everything was hidden in the muddy water--then a blinding yellow--then muddy brown again. And she was thirsty, horribly thirsty, and she could not breathe.
She lay there for a long time, fading in and out of the light. How long, she could not say, though it seemed quite some time. "You lost her"; "Keep her warm"; "What a loss"; "He is coming." Finally a cold white light penetrated her dark shroud. Not the soft warm light of summers in the country but the harsh, piercing light of a near-summer sun reflected off the gleaming white marble of Minas Tirith.
"Is anyone there?" Mellawen asked drowsily. "Where am I?"
"You are in the Houses of Healing, and someone is indeed here."
Mellawen forced her eyes open; too quickly, it seemed. "Ai, the light!" she exclaimed. Someone walked over to the window and pulled a sheer red curtain closed. With the once-severe light now tinted, Mellawen could now see her room. She lay in a poster bed, propped up on goose down pillows under a silk sheet and a thick velvet blanket. The blanket consisted of black and purple squares decorated in silver thread with scenes from Gondor's history: the arrival of her people from Númenor, the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the fall of the Dark Lord, and Isildur's ill-fated ride away to the North.
An ash table sat in the corner, upon it a clay bowl full of water. Heat from a fireplace nearby warmed her stiffened limbs, and the fragrance of freshly cut flowers wafted from a nearby vase. A lush, neatly pruned garden was still visible through the curtained window.
Minas Tirith used to have many beautiful public gardens, but now most of them had either died off or been replaced by buildings, with two exceptions: the Pavilion of the White Tree and this garden between the Houses of Healing. The White Tree was very important, of course, a gift from the Elves, but the only White Tree Mellawen had ever known was old and thin, a mere phantom of its glorious ancestors. But this garden! The trees seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, and their leaves--red, gold, orange, and silver--decorated the garden floor. The sages say that this garden still had the power to heal the soul as well as the body, and Mellawen believed it.
At last Mellawen turned from the beautiful garden to look at her visitor, now staring into the fireplace. She thought him a stranger, some page of the city or a knight still in training; at least he wore the mail, black tunic, and grey trousers that marked them. But as he turned to face her Mellawen recognised the dark hair, the proud eyes, the strong shoulders.
"Borlin!" she cried. "Where did you get those queer clothes?"
"Well, doesn't that smart," her cousin retorted, but his eyes were gentle, and a soft smile played at his lips. "I saved your life not once but twice, and then I brought you all the way to Minas Tirith, to these Houses of Healing, and all you can say is, 'Where did you get the funny clothes?' No 'Thank you,' no 'I'm glad to see you, Borlin'... "
"But I am glad to see you," Mellawen replied, "and no one has told me what happened, so I did not know to thank you. Won't you? Tell me, I mean. You said you saved me from the river. What happened?"
"Well, you know that," Borlin answered, smiling weakly. "That dam broke, and somehow--I am not really sure, it all happened so quickly--my father and your mother both were in the river, and then that branch knocked you in, and so I ran downriver and pulled you out. Farlin ran home and got Galahir. We took you back to the house, but Galahir said your only chance was to go back to Minas Tirith, where the healers could help you. So he brought you; Farlin and I came later, when your father sent a guard for us. The healers, they said lung fever again, and they were not sure if you would ever wake up. But it looks like they were wrong. I guess Gandalf showed them!"
"Gandalf? He was here?"
"Yes," Borlin nodded. "He has been here for three days now, watching over you and saying all sorts of strange things in a language I could not understand, nor could any of the healers." Looking closely at his cousin he smiled with relief. "Whatever he said, it worked."
After a long pause Mellawen asked the question Borlin had been waiting for. "Mother, and Uncle Arabôr, they are ..."
"They stayed underwater much longer than you, and I tried, but--" He looked down at Mellawen, and his forced smile melted away. "I--I could not save them," he said, brushing the tears from his eyes. "I am so sorry, Mellawen; I failed you."
The colour drained from her face, and Mellawen sat there in shock for a moment. She shook her head, muttering to herself. "No, no..." Borlin looked over at her nervously, not sure what to do, when suddenly she sat up. "Mama, Mama," she whispered, then took in a sharp breath of air.
Borlin ran over and sat behind her on the bed. He pulled her into his lap and rocked her back and forth, rubbing her shoulders. "It is all right, Mellawen, I am here," he whispered into her ear.
"W-w-where's--where's Papa?" she whimpered.
"He will be here, soon," Borlin said soothingly. "Soon, Mellawen." At last he calmed her enough that she stopped crying, save the occasional teary hiccough. He laid her back down in bed and re-tucked her in.
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Several days later Mellawen and Borlin were sitting in the garden. She was wrapped in a warm mantle, and Borlin wore another uniform. Mellawen asked Borlin question after question, about life growing up away from Minas Tirith and how he liked the city so far, carefully steering the conversation away from any mention of her mother. She is afraid of the silence, Borlin mused. At last she said, "I am a little confused about one thing. Back at the farm Arabôr said he could not come into Minas Tirith, but here you are, not just in the city but in the tunic of the Guard. And I know that, if a father is banished, so is his first son. So how are you here?"
Borlin's sad face contorted with a look of anger, almost quiet rage, but then it passed. Your father never told you, he thought to himself. He should have, long ago. But I can see why he would not. Borlin looked down and saw Mellawen's questioning look. "This is not my story to tell," he said at last. "I do not know all that happened, only what Father told me, but I can see Denethor probably will not tell you, not for a long time yet at least. And with Farlin and I in the city, people will begin to talk." He sighed. "Father was not banished from the city; he was exiled--self-exiled."
But then he hesitated. "It is a sad story, Mellawen, and a long one. You are tired, I do not doubt, and should be resting. Why, if the Master Healer finds out, he will have my head... But if you are sure..." His cousin nodded her head anxiously. "Mellawen, did you know we are cousins?"
She thought about that for a second. "Of course, my mother is your mother's sister. Or was--"
"Yes, yes," he replied, annoyed with himself for not thinking of that obvious answer. "Yet we are cousins again. Denethor was Father's brother."
Mellawen sat very still, considering the meaning behind Borlin's words as the white light of the City died slowly to a glowing red. "Brothers?" she said softly to herself. "Father hardly ever mentioned him. If he said that name more than once--Mother's brother-in-law, yes, but...?"
Borlin sighed. How you can have lived your whole life in this city, and this still come as a surprise... "Yes, they were brothers. They grew up together here in Minas Tirith. Father was not known as Arabôr then; no, as Grandfather said, 'A son of Gondor needs a proper Gondorian name; I will have no elf for a son.' He was called Calithor. Denethor and Father studied under the same tutor growing up, and of course they both learned to wield a blade and draw a bow. It was expected. When Father turned thirty Grandfather made him Captain of the Tower Guard.
"Now, by rights that title should have gone to your father. He was, after all, the older son. Yet there was a fire in his blood, and he refused to remain safe while others fought and died. He took command of a corps of rangers and led them across the Anduin. Those days, though, are a matter of history. Father was named Captain of the Tower Guard, and that suited him fine; he would defend as best he could, but he would never kill, if he could help it.
"Denethor found his adventure in the east, killing Orcs and storming Haradric strongholds, but Father turned west. He had always loved Elves--though I am not sure where he first learned of them--and he desired more than anything to meet them. Elves used to visit Gondor, you know, but they had stopped coming long before Father and Denethor were born. Grandfather of course refused to let Arabôr visit them, but then a curious thing happened. Denethor needed to choose a wife." Borlin chuckled to himself. That should not have been a problem, not if what Father has told me is true. He grew silent as his thoughts moved back in time.
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2951 (45 years prior); Minas Tirith
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The doors burst open, allowing the brilliant spring sunlight to stream into the dark, musty library. Denethor stood on the step, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Then he saw her: Lindala, a Southron girl who, at fifteen, was two years older than him. Her family had taken refuge in Minas Tirith the winter before when their tribe was attacked by Sauron's armies. Denethor marched down the steps to the plaza beyond, toward her.
Calithor, hearing his brother's determined footsteps, stepped out from behind the heavy oak door and let it slam shut. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the bright light, Denethor was a third of the way across the square; Calithor ran to catch up. They were both in such a hurry, Denethor to reach Lindala and Calithor to reach Denethor, that neither looked where they were going.
At last Calithor reached Denethor and matched his stride, trying to discern where they were going. Then he saw Lindala and the glazed look in Denethor's eyes, and he grabbed his brother's arm. Denethor looked down at Calithor, noticing him for the first time, then he saw where they were standing: in the Pavilion of the White Tree, where everyone avoided, right under the Tree itself. It was dead, died waiting for the kings, like the rest of Gondor; its white bark was falling off, and the dead branches hung around the brothers, isolating them from the bustle of the city.
Denethor and Calithor stood there on its roots for what seemed like quite some time, surrounded by the ghosts of ages long past, both of them afraid to move. At last Denethor whispered hastily to Arabôr, "Let us leave this place," and they ran through the dead branches. In their haste to leave behind that ghoulish tree they ran into the guard walking toward them.
"Your father wishes to speak with you," he sternly informed them, and Denethor and Calithor followed him wordlessly into the White Tower. Just before they left the courtyard Denethor turned back and looked for Lindala, but she was gone. The brothers marched past the throne room with its black marble pillars and white marble floor, narrow windows letting in sharp shafts of white light, the long-empty throne of the king, and the Steward's Chair where their father usually sat. That chair, though, was also empty, and the guard led them down the corridor.
At last he opened a heavy oak door and marched up the winding marble stairs leading high into the tower. The steps were cold and unforgiving beneath their boots, and the stairway, lit only by the occasional torch, felt foreign to boys used to study and play in the bright city below. At last the guard opened another oak door. He motioned for the boys to enter, then pulled it shut.
As the door clicked resolutely behind them, Denethor and Calithor looked around. The floors, ceiling, and walls were all cold marble, and the room was dark except for the dying fire on the hearth. On the walls hung battle standards and portraits of the kings and stewards, imposing men all of them. Ecthelion sat at a table in front of a faded map, his back to the boys as he stared into the fire. At last he demanded, "What were you thinking?"
"I..." Denethor began.
"You have your pick of any girl in the city," his father said coolly, "and you must choose her?"
"It is not like she is an elf, Father--" Denethor began, but his father silenced him.
"She is not like us. She is a Southron. You see how many of them fall to the Shadow! And their customs are not like ours. They treat their women much more strictly than we do." Then he turned to Calithor. "And you, where were you in all this?"
Calithor turned away; he did not trust himself to look at his father. For the first time in his life he hated Ecthelion, loathed him. Suddenly Calithor was to blame for Denethor's impulsive behaviour, something that was just not Calithor's fault. Yet Denethor always had been the favourite, that was only too plain.
Even then the brothers had a strong sense of honour. Calithor never confronted his father and continued to play the part of the good son as best he could, yet he never forgot that conversation. Denethor, for his part, never talked to, smiled at, or looked for Lindala again. There were other maids to choose from.
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28 September 2996; the gardens of the Houses of Healing
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Mellawen looked over at her cousin. "Yes?" she asked. "Father had to choose a wife--what then?"
Borlin looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "Denethor was very popular, to hear Father tell it. One day he was always surrounded by a crowd of the most eligible young noblewomen. But your mother made quite an impression on him, I suppose. She must have had some of Uncle Imrahil's Elvish looks, and I am sure she had other charms as well, but what set her so far above the other maidens in your father's eyes--he idolised her. Unfortunately, her father saw the way Denethor looked at her, and he knew he could demand any brideprice he wanted. And a high price he named: Denethor could marry Finduilas if Father agreed to marry her sister Ivriniel."
Borlin tried to fight the tears welling in his eyes, but Mellawen noticed them. She retrieved a kerchief from a pocket in her dress, but Borlin shook his head. "Finally," he forced himself to continue, "Father had the bargaining power he needed. He and Denethor went to Grandfather. Denethor wanted their father to force Arabôr to marry Ivriniel, but Father refused--unless he was allowed to visit the Elves." Borlin paused, his brow furrowed. "You know, I think he really loved her; he just wanted to see the Elves so badly, he would use anything he could to secure Grandfather's permission. Ecthelion let him go--he had to, he never could deny Denethor anything--and so Father met his Elves at last.
"He never would say what he saw there, but he came back changed. He walked with an inner grace and talked in a calming tone. And his skin--it glowed, somehow: a soft blue, not cold and sickly, just other-worldly. That summer he married Mother, and Denethor of course married Finduilas. Not long after I was born, but you were a while in coming. Your father always saw it as a shortfall on his part, his inability to produce a son. He loved you, but he needed an heir. So he threw himself into his work with amazing vigour. I think he felt a need to prove something.
"That is when the real trouble began," Borlin continued, "when Father returned from Lórien. You know the saying, 'Go not to the Elves, for none meet the Eldar and return unscathed.' Father refused to answer to Calithor but would only respond to the name the Elves had given him: Arabôr. And he begged his father to let him leave Minas Tirith. He said he could not tolerate the harsh glare of the city, that he did not know how he had ever stood it. That next summer, three days after I was born, Ecthelion gave him a mighty gift: an estate south of the Pelennor Fields and a reprieve--but not a release--from duty in the guard. We left Minas Tirith not long after that, Father, Mother, and I; of course, I was only a babe at the time--"
"Away from the City?" Mellawen interrupted.
"Yes, yes, away, out into the country," Borlin replied. "This last week has been the first time I have spent in Minas Tirith, at least since I have been old enough to remember it, and I must say, your city is--it is different. But yes, we all moved out to that farm, not long after I was born. If things would have stayed that way, everything might have been different."
He stared lovingly out at the garden around him, but then his eyes caught the glimmer of the buildings beyond, tall and so serious. He sighed. "This is a beautiful city, Mellawen," he said at last, "yet it is still a city. You were at the farm a few short months, and think how much good it did you. I have lived there my entire life. Your city takes my breath away. Yes, it is impressive, but it is more than that. Minas Tirith is too bright, too impressive; it burns the eye."
He paused, tears in his eyes. "Mellawen, you must understand. Denethor did not intend Father any harm, but times were hard. The Shadow was growing, much as it is now, and forces were moving. Denethor needed to marshal an army, and he needed a lieutenant. So he summoned Arabôr. Father did not want to go, but he had little choice; he was still a captain, at least on paper."
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September 2984 (12 years prior); south of the Pelennor Fields
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It was late at night, and the house south of the Pelennor slept quietly. Arabôr's family lay sound asleep, baby Farlin in his crib and six-year-old Borlin and his mother Ivriniel in the bed she usually shared with her husband. Two orcs plodded down the hill towards the house.
One of the Orcs crept quietly into the silent house, leaving the other to keep watch on the door lest the lord of this manor should return. He reached the top of the stair and looked out the window into the night, as black as a sea of ink. Good; that would make their hurried escape all the easier. And hurry they would--no time for play on this trip, the Boss had made that clear enough.
He made his way down the hall to the slightly ajar door. The fire was not for him; it was a greeting for the lord when he returned. But Roglak would see what other welcome he could leave. He slowly pushed the door open. The fire crackled all the louder for being disturbed, but still they slept on.
Roglak crept over to the bed and looked down at the sleeping lady. Aye, she was beautiful and would make fine sport. Curse the orders! Curse them all! But it was more than his life was worth to play now. He grasped her fine white neck, savouring its smooth touch, then with a crack released it.
He looked at the crib. The babe would wait; kill the boy first, and his brother would provide no trouble. But now at least he could have a little fun. Roglak unsheathed his orc-blade and poised it over the child, ready for the downward plunge.
Outside Arabôr trudged over the hill, weary from the weeks pursuing orcs. He stopped at the hill's summit and looked across the darkness to the window of his chambers, where he knew Ivriniel and their sons slept. He spied in the fiery glow an outline of someone leaning over the bed. And a blade! With all the skill he had learned in Lothlórien Arabôr notched an arrow and let it fly.
A blood-curdling cry pierced the night, and the orc-sentry fled. Arabôr loosed two arrows after him but then made for the house, letting the orc escape. He bounded up the stairs and down the hall toward his chambers.
Slamming the door open, he ran to Borlin, hurling the orc-carcass off his son. He slapped Borlin's face, waking him. Seeing the black stains on his son's tunic Arabôr dragged him out of bed, forcing him to stand up.
"Are you hurt?" Arabôr demanded, running a hand along Borlin's head.
"I'm all right, Papa--"
Arabôr turned him around, lifting up his shirt searching for wounds and probing his son's gut to make sure everything was as it should be.
"I'm not hurt!" Borlin protested, pushing his father away. He ran around the bed to see why Farlin was crying. Arabôr followed him, picking Farlin up and pacing in front of the fire. He would see to Borlin later; the child was clearly not injured too badly.
Galahir had slipped in unnoticed in the confusion. He stood in the doorway, trying to make sense of the chaos, then saw the blood on Borlin's shirt and rushed over.
"I'm fine!" Borlin insisted. "Help Papa, if you want--"
"No, you are not fine," Galahir insisted. "Just let me--" He fell silent as his gaze settled on Ivriniel. She seemed to be still asleep. Borlin rushed over and stood on his tiptoes, placing his small hand on her shoulder and shaking as hard as he could.
"Mama, wake up," he said, quietly at first, then more loudly. "Mama..." he began, but then he looked at his mother's face. Calm it seemed, almost as if she were dreaming. Her open eyes looked toward the fire, but they were blank, taking in nothing, and they had already started to glaze over.
Borlin shrieked. "Mommy, Mommy, wake up, Mommy... M-mommy, wake up!"
Galahir rushed over and knelt in front of Ivriniel, laying one hand on her forehead and the other in front of her mouth. He placed his forefinger to Ivriniel's temple, then ran it along the back of her neck. He reached through her hair, grasping the back of her neck and moving her head from side to side, carefully observing the motion.
Arabôr turned from the crib at the sound of Borlin's cry and stooped behind him. He pulled his son toward him, rocking back and forth. "It is all right, Borlin, she is..."
"My lord?" Galahir asked urgently. Arabôr looked over at his servant and friend. The look in Galahir's eyes told him all he needed to know, yet he refused to believe. His gaze drifted to his wife, and he saw her blank, glazed eyes. He fell silent, lowered his head and wept bitterly into his son's nightshirt.
At last he released Borlin, walked over, and stooped in front of the bed. He reached over and placed his fingers on his wife's eyelids, drawing them closed and saying, "Ilúvataro, Ilúvatarenna." ["From Ilúvatar, to Ilúvatar."]
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28 September 2996; the garden between the Houses of Healing
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"Father came home just in time--another few seconds, and I would have been dead. We never could figure out why that orc came, what he wanted. Or even how he..." Suddenly the tears Borlin had been holding back fell down his face and onto his hands and the grass below. He started to wipe his cheek with his shirtsleeve, only to remember--too late--that it was made of mail: after he cut himself. Mellawen handed him the kerchief she had produced earlier.
"You will want to get that looked at," she said wryly, "but at least you are in the right place."
Borlin laughed grimly. "My Mellawen. Of course you understand now--Father would not have anything to do with Minas Tirith or her wars, and least of all with his brother. Especially if it meant having to separate himself from his family; he was afraid to leave us alone at all, sure something would happen to one of us. Denethor tried to reward us for Father's service, but Father would not accept it. Blood money, he called it. And he was right, a bit.
"When Father resigned his commission Denethor severed all ties with him. He thought it some sort of Elvish sorcery. You see, Denethor and Arabôr had grown so different that they hardly recognised anything of themselves in each other. Gondor was the most important thing in the world to your father. It protected everything he held dear, and without Gondor he could never keep you or your mother safe from all the evil in the world. But Father, to him Gondor was a tool. When he rode off to war with Denethor, it was to protect us, his family. But then Mother died anyway. No, if fighting for Gondor meant leaving us unprotected, he would stay with us.
"Who was right? I am not sure. Maybe they both were. All I know is, if your father had been at the river when that flood happened, perhaps he could have helped save--"
"But it was not Father's fault," Mellawen interrupted.
"No, you are right," Borlin said gently. "It was not Denethor's fault. Men go to war, and sometimes they die--or suffer worse than death, in Father's case. But does that make it any better? I do not think so."
He sighed, and they were silent for a long time. What can you say? At last it was Borlin who broke the silence.
"I will be expected at the Tower." He embraced his cousin, rose, and walked out of the garden.
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 4649
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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25-28 September 2996; Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith
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Mellawen remembered pitching through the water, her wet dress becoming heavier and heavier. Suddenly something heavier than her dress kept her down, and fight as she might she could not break through. Then something--she knew not what--pulled her up and kept her there. The world spun around her. Everything was hidden in the muddy water--then a blinding yellow--then muddy brown again. And she was thirsty, horribly thirsty, and she could not breathe.
She lay there for a long time, fading in and out of the light. How long, she could not say, though it seemed quite some time. "You lost her"; "Keep her warm"; "What a loss"; "He is coming." Finally a cold white light penetrated her dark shroud. Not the soft warm light of summers in the country but the harsh, piercing light of a near-summer sun reflected off the gleaming white marble of Minas Tirith.
"Is anyone there?" Mellawen asked drowsily. "Where am I?"
"You are in the Houses of Healing, and someone is indeed here."
Mellawen forced her eyes open; too quickly, it seemed. "Ai, the light!" she exclaimed. Someone walked over to the window and pulled a sheer red curtain closed. With the once-severe light now tinted, Mellawen could now see her room. She lay in a poster bed, propped up on goose down pillows under a silk sheet and a thick velvet blanket. The blanket consisted of black and purple squares decorated in silver thread with scenes from Gondor's history: the arrival of her people from Númenor, the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the fall of the Dark Lord, and Isildur's ill-fated ride away to the North.
An ash table sat in the corner, upon it a clay bowl full of water. Heat from a fireplace nearby warmed her stiffened limbs, and the fragrance of freshly cut flowers wafted from a nearby vase. A lush, neatly pruned garden was still visible through the curtained window.
Minas Tirith used to have many beautiful public gardens, but now most of them had either died off or been replaced by buildings, with two exceptions: the Pavilion of the White Tree and this garden between the Houses of Healing. The White Tree was very important, of course, a gift from the Elves, but the only White Tree Mellawen had ever known was old and thin, a mere phantom of its glorious ancestors. But this garden! The trees seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, and their leaves--red, gold, orange, and silver--decorated the garden floor. The sages say that this garden still had the power to heal the soul as well as the body, and Mellawen believed it.
At last Mellawen turned from the beautiful garden to look at her visitor, now staring into the fireplace. She thought him a stranger, some page of the city or a knight still in training; at least he wore the mail, black tunic, and grey trousers that marked them. But as he turned to face her Mellawen recognised the dark hair, the proud eyes, the strong shoulders.
"Borlin!" she cried. "Where did you get those queer clothes?"
"Well, doesn't that smart," her cousin retorted, but his eyes were gentle, and a soft smile played at his lips. "I saved your life not once but twice, and then I brought you all the way to Minas Tirith, to these Houses of Healing, and all you can say is, 'Where did you get the funny clothes?' No 'Thank you,' no 'I'm glad to see you, Borlin'... "
"But I am glad to see you," Mellawen replied, "and no one has told me what happened, so I did not know to thank you. Won't you? Tell me, I mean. You said you saved me from the river. What happened?"
"Well, you know that," Borlin answered, smiling weakly. "That dam broke, and somehow--I am not really sure, it all happened so quickly--my father and your mother both were in the river, and then that branch knocked you in, and so I ran downriver and pulled you out. Farlin ran home and got Galahir. We took you back to the house, but Galahir said your only chance was to go back to Minas Tirith, where the healers could help you. So he brought you; Farlin and I came later, when your father sent a guard for us. The healers, they said lung fever again, and they were not sure if you would ever wake up. But it looks like they were wrong. I guess Gandalf showed them!"
"Gandalf? He was here?"
"Yes," Borlin nodded. "He has been here for three days now, watching over you and saying all sorts of strange things in a language I could not understand, nor could any of the healers." Looking closely at his cousin he smiled with relief. "Whatever he said, it worked."
After a long pause Mellawen asked the question Borlin had been waiting for. "Mother, and Uncle Arabôr, they are ..."
"They stayed underwater much longer than you, and I tried, but--" He looked down at Mellawen, and his forced smile melted away. "I--I could not save them," he said, brushing the tears from his eyes. "I am so sorry, Mellawen; I failed you."
The colour drained from her face, and Mellawen sat there in shock for a moment. She shook her head, muttering to herself. "No, no..." Borlin looked over at her nervously, not sure what to do, when suddenly she sat up. "Mama, Mama," she whispered, then took in a sharp breath of air.
Borlin ran over and sat behind her on the bed. He pulled her into his lap and rocked her back and forth, rubbing her shoulders. "It is all right, Mellawen, I am here," he whispered into her ear.
"W-w-where's--where's Papa?" she whimpered.
"He will be here, soon," Borlin said soothingly. "Soon, Mellawen." At last he calmed her enough that she stopped crying, save the occasional teary hiccough. He laid her back down in bed and re-tucked her in.
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Several days later Mellawen and Borlin were sitting in the garden. She was wrapped in a warm mantle, and Borlin wore another uniform. Mellawen asked Borlin question after question, about life growing up away from Minas Tirith and how he liked the city so far, carefully steering the conversation away from any mention of her mother. She is afraid of the silence, Borlin mused. At last she said, "I am a little confused about one thing. Back at the farm Arabôr said he could not come into Minas Tirith, but here you are, not just in the city but in the tunic of the Guard. And I know that, if a father is banished, so is his first son. So how are you here?"
Borlin's sad face contorted with a look of anger, almost quiet rage, but then it passed. Your father never told you, he thought to himself. He should have, long ago. But I can see why he would not. Borlin looked down and saw Mellawen's questioning look. "This is not my story to tell," he said at last. "I do not know all that happened, only what Father told me, but I can see Denethor probably will not tell you, not for a long time yet at least. And with Farlin and I in the city, people will begin to talk." He sighed. "Father was not banished from the city; he was exiled--self-exiled."
But then he hesitated. "It is a sad story, Mellawen, and a long one. You are tired, I do not doubt, and should be resting. Why, if the Master Healer finds out, he will have my head... But if you are sure..." His cousin nodded her head anxiously. "Mellawen, did you know we are cousins?"
She thought about that for a second. "Of course, my mother is your mother's sister. Or was--"
"Yes, yes," he replied, annoyed with himself for not thinking of that obvious answer. "Yet we are cousins again. Denethor was Father's brother."
Mellawen sat very still, considering the meaning behind Borlin's words as the white light of the City died slowly to a glowing red. "Brothers?" she said softly to herself. "Father hardly ever mentioned him. If he said that name more than once--Mother's brother-in-law, yes, but...?"
Borlin sighed. How you can have lived your whole life in this city, and this still come as a surprise... "Yes, they were brothers. They grew up together here in Minas Tirith. Father was not known as Arabôr then; no, as Grandfather said, 'A son of Gondor needs a proper Gondorian name; I will have no elf for a son.' He was called Calithor. Denethor and Father studied under the same tutor growing up, and of course they both learned to wield a blade and draw a bow. It was expected. When Father turned thirty Grandfather made him Captain of the Tower Guard.
"Now, by rights that title should have gone to your father. He was, after all, the older son. Yet there was a fire in his blood, and he refused to remain safe while others fought and died. He took command of a corps of rangers and led them across the Anduin. Those days, though, are a matter of history. Father was named Captain of the Tower Guard, and that suited him fine; he would defend as best he could, but he would never kill, if he could help it.
"Denethor found his adventure in the east, killing Orcs and storming Haradric strongholds, but Father turned west. He had always loved Elves--though I am not sure where he first learned of them--and he desired more than anything to meet them. Elves used to visit Gondor, you know, but they had stopped coming long before Father and Denethor were born. Grandfather of course refused to let Arabôr visit them, but then a curious thing happened. Denethor needed to choose a wife." Borlin chuckled to himself. That should not have been a problem, not if what Father has told me is true. He grew silent as his thoughts moved back in time.
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2951 (45 years prior); Minas Tirith
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The doors burst open, allowing the brilliant spring sunlight to stream into the dark, musty library. Denethor stood on the step, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Then he saw her: Lindala, a Southron girl who, at fifteen, was two years older than him. Her family had taken refuge in Minas Tirith the winter before when their tribe was attacked by Sauron's armies. Denethor marched down the steps to the plaza beyond, toward her.
Calithor, hearing his brother's determined footsteps, stepped out from behind the heavy oak door and let it slam shut. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the bright light, Denethor was a third of the way across the square; Calithor ran to catch up. They were both in such a hurry, Denethor to reach Lindala and Calithor to reach Denethor, that neither looked where they were going.
At last Calithor reached Denethor and matched his stride, trying to discern where they were going. Then he saw Lindala and the glazed look in Denethor's eyes, and he grabbed his brother's arm. Denethor looked down at Calithor, noticing him for the first time, then he saw where they were standing: in the Pavilion of the White Tree, where everyone avoided, right under the Tree itself. It was dead, died waiting for the kings, like the rest of Gondor; its white bark was falling off, and the dead branches hung around the brothers, isolating them from the bustle of the city.
Denethor and Calithor stood there on its roots for what seemed like quite some time, surrounded by the ghosts of ages long past, both of them afraid to move. At last Denethor whispered hastily to Arabôr, "Let us leave this place," and they ran through the dead branches. In their haste to leave behind that ghoulish tree they ran into the guard walking toward them.
"Your father wishes to speak with you," he sternly informed them, and Denethor and Calithor followed him wordlessly into the White Tower. Just before they left the courtyard Denethor turned back and looked for Lindala, but she was gone. The brothers marched past the throne room with its black marble pillars and white marble floor, narrow windows letting in sharp shafts of white light, the long-empty throne of the king, and the Steward's Chair where their father usually sat. That chair, though, was also empty, and the guard led them down the corridor.
At last he opened a heavy oak door and marched up the winding marble stairs leading high into the tower. The steps were cold and unforgiving beneath their boots, and the stairway, lit only by the occasional torch, felt foreign to boys used to study and play in the bright city below. At last the guard opened another oak door. He motioned for the boys to enter, then pulled it shut.
As the door clicked resolutely behind them, Denethor and Calithor looked around. The floors, ceiling, and walls were all cold marble, and the room was dark except for the dying fire on the hearth. On the walls hung battle standards and portraits of the kings and stewards, imposing men all of them. Ecthelion sat at a table in front of a faded map, his back to the boys as he stared into the fire. At last he demanded, "What were you thinking?"
"I..." Denethor began.
"You have your pick of any girl in the city," his father said coolly, "and you must choose her?"
"It is not like she is an elf, Father--" Denethor began, but his father silenced him.
"She is not like us. She is a Southron. You see how many of them fall to the Shadow! And their customs are not like ours. They treat their women much more strictly than we do." Then he turned to Calithor. "And you, where were you in all this?"
Calithor turned away; he did not trust himself to look at his father. For the first time in his life he hated Ecthelion, loathed him. Suddenly Calithor was to blame for Denethor's impulsive behaviour, something that was just not Calithor's fault. Yet Denethor always had been the favourite, that was only too plain.
Even then the brothers had a strong sense of honour. Calithor never confronted his father and continued to play the part of the good son as best he could, yet he never forgot that conversation. Denethor, for his part, never talked to, smiled at, or looked for Lindala again. There were other maids to choose from.
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28 September 2996; the gardens of the Houses of Healing
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Mellawen looked over at her cousin. "Yes?" she asked. "Father had to choose a wife--what then?"
Borlin looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "Denethor was very popular, to hear Father tell it. One day he was always surrounded by a crowd of the most eligible young noblewomen. But your mother made quite an impression on him, I suppose. She must have had some of Uncle Imrahil's Elvish looks, and I am sure she had other charms as well, but what set her so far above the other maidens in your father's eyes--he idolised her. Unfortunately, her father saw the way Denethor looked at her, and he knew he could demand any brideprice he wanted. And a high price he named: Denethor could marry Finduilas if Father agreed to marry her sister Ivriniel."
Borlin tried to fight the tears welling in his eyes, but Mellawen noticed them. She retrieved a kerchief from a pocket in her dress, but Borlin shook his head. "Finally," he forced himself to continue, "Father had the bargaining power he needed. He and Denethor went to Grandfather. Denethor wanted their father to force Arabôr to marry Ivriniel, but Father refused--unless he was allowed to visit the Elves." Borlin paused, his brow furrowed. "You know, I think he really loved her; he just wanted to see the Elves so badly, he would use anything he could to secure Grandfather's permission. Ecthelion let him go--he had to, he never could deny Denethor anything--and so Father met his Elves at last.
"He never would say what he saw there, but he came back changed. He walked with an inner grace and talked in a calming tone. And his skin--it glowed, somehow: a soft blue, not cold and sickly, just other-worldly. That summer he married Mother, and Denethor of course married Finduilas. Not long after I was born, but you were a while in coming. Your father always saw it as a shortfall on his part, his inability to produce a son. He loved you, but he needed an heir. So he threw himself into his work with amazing vigour. I think he felt a need to prove something.
"That is when the real trouble began," Borlin continued, "when Father returned from Lórien. You know the saying, 'Go not to the Elves, for none meet the Eldar and return unscathed.' Father refused to answer to Calithor but would only respond to the name the Elves had given him: Arabôr. And he begged his father to let him leave Minas Tirith. He said he could not tolerate the harsh glare of the city, that he did not know how he had ever stood it. That next summer, three days after I was born, Ecthelion gave him a mighty gift: an estate south of the Pelennor Fields and a reprieve--but not a release--from duty in the guard. We left Minas Tirith not long after that, Father, Mother, and I; of course, I was only a babe at the time--"
"Away from the City?" Mellawen interrupted.
"Yes, yes, away, out into the country," Borlin replied. "This last week has been the first time I have spent in Minas Tirith, at least since I have been old enough to remember it, and I must say, your city is--it is different. But yes, we all moved out to that farm, not long after I was born. If things would have stayed that way, everything might have been different."
He stared lovingly out at the garden around him, but then his eyes caught the glimmer of the buildings beyond, tall and so serious. He sighed. "This is a beautiful city, Mellawen," he said at last, "yet it is still a city. You were at the farm a few short months, and think how much good it did you. I have lived there my entire life. Your city takes my breath away. Yes, it is impressive, but it is more than that. Minas Tirith is too bright, too impressive; it burns the eye."
He paused, tears in his eyes. "Mellawen, you must understand. Denethor did not intend Father any harm, but times were hard. The Shadow was growing, much as it is now, and forces were moving. Denethor needed to marshal an army, and he needed a lieutenant. So he summoned Arabôr. Father did not want to go, but he had little choice; he was still a captain, at least on paper."
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September 2984 (12 years prior); south of the Pelennor Fields
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It was late at night, and the house south of the Pelennor slept quietly. Arabôr's family lay sound asleep, baby Farlin in his crib and six-year-old Borlin and his mother Ivriniel in the bed she usually shared with her husband. Two orcs plodded down the hill towards the house.
One of the Orcs crept quietly into the silent house, leaving the other to keep watch on the door lest the lord of this manor should return. He reached the top of the stair and looked out the window into the night, as black as a sea of ink. Good; that would make their hurried escape all the easier. And hurry they would--no time for play on this trip, the Boss had made that clear enough.
He made his way down the hall to the slightly ajar door. The fire was not for him; it was a greeting for the lord when he returned. But Roglak would see what other welcome he could leave. He slowly pushed the door open. The fire crackled all the louder for being disturbed, but still they slept on.
Roglak crept over to the bed and looked down at the sleeping lady. Aye, she was beautiful and would make fine sport. Curse the orders! Curse them all! But it was more than his life was worth to play now. He grasped her fine white neck, savouring its smooth touch, then with a crack released it.
He looked at the crib. The babe would wait; kill the boy first, and his brother would provide no trouble. But now at least he could have a little fun. Roglak unsheathed his orc-blade and poised it over the child, ready for the downward plunge.
Outside Arabôr trudged over the hill, weary from the weeks pursuing orcs. He stopped at the hill's summit and looked across the darkness to the window of his chambers, where he knew Ivriniel and their sons slept. He spied in the fiery glow an outline of someone leaning over the bed. And a blade! With all the skill he had learned in Lothlórien Arabôr notched an arrow and let it fly.
A blood-curdling cry pierced the night, and the orc-sentry fled. Arabôr loosed two arrows after him but then made for the house, letting the orc escape. He bounded up the stairs and down the hall toward his chambers.
Slamming the door open, he ran to Borlin, hurling the orc-carcass off his son. He slapped Borlin's face, waking him. Seeing the black stains on his son's tunic Arabôr dragged him out of bed, forcing him to stand up.
"Are you hurt?" Arabôr demanded, running a hand along Borlin's head.
"I'm all right, Papa--"
Arabôr turned him around, lifting up his shirt searching for wounds and probing his son's gut to make sure everything was as it should be.
"I'm not hurt!" Borlin protested, pushing his father away. He ran around the bed to see why Farlin was crying. Arabôr followed him, picking Farlin up and pacing in front of the fire. He would see to Borlin later; the child was clearly not injured too badly.
Galahir had slipped in unnoticed in the confusion. He stood in the doorway, trying to make sense of the chaos, then saw the blood on Borlin's shirt and rushed over.
"I'm fine!" Borlin insisted. "Help Papa, if you want--"
"No, you are not fine," Galahir insisted. "Just let me--" He fell silent as his gaze settled on Ivriniel. She seemed to be still asleep. Borlin rushed over and stood on his tiptoes, placing his small hand on her shoulder and shaking as hard as he could.
"Mama, wake up," he said, quietly at first, then more loudly. "Mama..." he began, but then he looked at his mother's face. Calm it seemed, almost as if she were dreaming. Her open eyes looked toward the fire, but they were blank, taking in nothing, and they had already started to glaze over.
Borlin shrieked. "Mommy, Mommy, wake up, Mommy... M-mommy, wake up!"
Galahir rushed over and knelt in front of Ivriniel, laying one hand on her forehead and the other in front of her mouth. He placed his forefinger to Ivriniel's temple, then ran it along the back of her neck. He reached through her hair, grasping the back of her neck and moving her head from side to side, carefully observing the motion.
Arabôr turned from the crib at the sound of Borlin's cry and stooped behind him. He pulled his son toward him, rocking back and forth. "It is all right, Borlin, she is..."
"My lord?" Galahir asked urgently. Arabôr looked over at his servant and friend. The look in Galahir's eyes told him all he needed to know, yet he refused to believe. His gaze drifted to his wife, and he saw her blank, glazed eyes. He fell silent, lowered his head and wept bitterly into his son's nightshirt.
At last he released Borlin, walked over, and stooped in front of the bed. He reached over and placed his fingers on his wife's eyelids, drawing them closed and saying, "Ilúvataro, Ilúvatarenna." ["From Ilúvatar, to Ilúvatar."]
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28 September 2996; the garden between the Houses of Healing
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"Father came home just in time--another few seconds, and I would have been dead. We never could figure out why that orc came, what he wanted. Or even how he..." Suddenly the tears Borlin had been holding back fell down his face and onto his hands and the grass below. He started to wipe his cheek with his shirtsleeve, only to remember--too late--that it was made of mail: after he cut himself. Mellawen handed him the kerchief she had produced earlier.
"You will want to get that looked at," she said wryly, "but at least you are in the right place."
Borlin laughed grimly. "My Mellawen. Of course you understand now--Father would not have anything to do with Minas Tirith or her wars, and least of all with his brother. Especially if it meant having to separate himself from his family; he was afraid to leave us alone at all, sure something would happen to one of us. Denethor tried to reward us for Father's service, but Father would not accept it. Blood money, he called it. And he was right, a bit.
"When Father resigned his commission Denethor severed all ties with him. He thought it some sort of Elvish sorcery. You see, Denethor and Arabôr had grown so different that they hardly recognised anything of themselves in each other. Gondor was the most important thing in the world to your father. It protected everything he held dear, and without Gondor he could never keep you or your mother safe from all the evil in the world. But Father, to him Gondor was a tool. When he rode off to war with Denethor, it was to protect us, his family. But then Mother died anyway. No, if fighting for Gondor meant leaving us unprotected, he would stay with us.
"Who was right? I am not sure. Maybe they both were. All I know is, if your father had been at the river when that flood happened, perhaps he could have helped save--"
"But it was not Father's fault," Mellawen interrupted.
"No, you are right," Borlin said gently. "It was not Denethor's fault. Men go to war, and sometimes they die--or suffer worse than death, in Father's case. But does that make it any better? I do not think so."
He sighed, and they were silent for a long time. What can you say? At last it was Borlin who broke the silence.
"I will be expected at the Tower." He embraced his cousin, rose, and walked out of the garden.