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LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 2
Title: The Lady of Gondor Ch 2
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 4056
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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April, TA 2996; South of the Rammas Echor
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Mellawen looked out across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath. She was only seven so she'd never seen it, but she had heard her father Denethor describe it often enough. He talked about Osgiliath's beautiful buildings and wide streets, once greater than Minas Tirith's. Now, though, Osgiliath's impressive edifices were reduced to ruins. Part of that was Sauron's doing. When the ancient Númenóreans first built the city they thought that the Dark Lord Sauron was gone forever, but they were wrong. He had concealed himself in Mirkwood, and after the Elves and Wizards drove him off he returned to Barad-dûr, in Mordor.
Mellawen had never seen Mordor, but if it was anything like the descriptions of Osgiliath she had heard from the soldiers, she didn't want to. Their talk of the way Osgiliath was today was very different from the way her father had described it to her: great piles of rubble everywhere you looked, deserted houses, and nothing but silence. No children running in the streets. No merchants shouting, "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!" No iron-toed boots scraping the stone walkways as the guards marched by.
Yet she wasn't going toward Osgiliath. Mellawen rode with her mother Finduilas and her father Denethor across the Pelennor, to the south. Her uncle had a farm there, just outside the Rammas Echor. The people here had suffered from Sauron, Mellawen's uncle not least of all, but somehow the land seemed untainted. The early Víressë sun shone down on the endless fields. The occasional farmer ploughed his land, but they were few and far between.
"What lies across the river?" Mellawen asked.
"Mordor," her father said.
Is that what lay across the river? she wondered. Mellawen could envision it. A dark land of smouldering volcanoes, rocky wastelands, and burned plains, full of orcs and other hideous creatures. But she couldn't imagine that place being so close by. Here, the sun shone down across the fields and farms, the occasional tree dotting the horizon, perfect for climbing. Birds flew in the sky, squirrels looked down from the trees, and rabbits stopped to watch the strange party ride by. Twelve horses: Mellawen and her mother on one, Denethor on another, and ten guards, their mail glistening in the morning sun.
Mellawen noticed that her mother had a far-off look in her eyes, and the little girl didn't wonder at it; she had heard the story once or twice. Finduilas' sister Ivriniel had married Arabôr, and they had moved out to a farm. He didn't want to raise his family in the city, and Ivriniel agreed. At first Finduilas visited them often, maybe twice a year, helping with her sister's new baby boy. Finduilas liked life at the farm and enjoyed helping with the cooking and cleaning, as she had sometimes been allowed to do growing up in Dol Amroth. But then, not long after Ivriniel's second son Farlin was born, orcs had attacked and killed Ivriniel.
Mellawen shivered to think about that: orcs, that close to the City! Denethor refused to let his wife travel outside the Rammas after that, and Arabôr had to agree. Times were just too dangerous. Mellawen looked up at her mother, almost giggling at her goofy smile. Maybe her mother understood not being able to visit for so long, but she sure seemed excited to be coming now!
Times were safer, yes, but that wasn't the real reason they were coming. This was no mere pleasure ride through the country; the healers themselves had ordered it.
The whole trouble had started last autumn around the harvest time. Gandalf had arrived from the west and introduced himself at court. Of course, Denethor already knew him. Mellawen hadn't been there when he arrived, of course, but later at dinner her father had told her all about the strange visitor. "You will hear about him soon enough," she remembered him saying, "and I would rather you hear the truth from me than some half-true story elsewhere."
Years before, Mellawen's grandfather Ecthelion had allowed Gandalf to roam the city freely, but Denethor had put an end to that foolishness. The wizard insisted on sticking his nose in everyone else's business, always getting in the way. Gandalf realized he was not wanted and had left Minas Tirith for several years. And now the wizard wanted to study Gondor's books; Denethor still didn't like him, he had graciously allowed him to return. He had even given the old fool a room in the City and the keys to the libraries, on the single condition that he stay there. A very generous man, her father.
Gandalf had gone down to the libraries, followed by many of the city's children. They had heard the stories from their parents, about how the wizard produced marvellous fireworks displays and told the most wonderful stories. Yet Gandalf did neither, and most soon lost interest. Mellawen, however, was fascinated by him.
Mellawen knew her father would never approve, so she went to the libraries secretly. It was forbidden, and thus irresistible. She had spent most of the winter in those dank archives with the wizard. By late Narvinyë [December] she'd developed a slight cough, and by mid-Nénimë [January] the healers were starting to whisper pleursy. "Too much book dust," they said. "Send her out of the city. This Gandalf will be the death of her."
So they went. Denethor would escort his wife and only daughter to the farm south of the Pelennor, where Mellawen could recuperate and grow strong. Then Finduilas and Mellawen would come back to the City, and they would be a family again. Denethor had duties in the City, of course, but even if he had been free to join his family, he would never stay at such a house.
"Ruddy troublemaker, that brother-in-law of yours," he said at last, the edge in his voice revealing how much he hated the man. "We shouldn't even be coming out here. He's the one who decided to leave."
"Denethor," Finduilas replied, "you agreed. Mellawen and I need some time away from court, and if you do not let us have it--"
"Peace, my lady," Denethor interrupted. "I gave my word, and that should be enough. Yet if you threaten me in front of my guards, we will return to Minas Tirith." He sighed, then looked over at Mellawen, who was entranced by the novel sight of a horse-drawn plough. She coughed gently. "He is family, after all, and Mellawen does need to get out of the City. If he and his fresh air can save her ... well, I might as well give him the chance. It cannot do much harm." Finduilas was right: Arabôr could very well save Mellawen's life, and Finduilas loved the country out here. But that did not change the simple fact that the man had hurt Denethor both as an officer and as a friend, and the old wound still burned.
"He lost his wife--" Finduilas began.
"And that's my fault how, exactly?" Denethor demanded. "Those were dangerous times, Finduilas. People die. If he was a true Gondorian he would have fought on, defended other men's wives."
"Be that as it may--"
"I am not having this conversation, Finduilas. It is his decision to stay out here. He could return any day; I would take him back."
Mellawen looked up from the swooping blue jay she had been watching, up at her mother and then over at her father. "Mama, what's wrong?" she asked.
"Sha, Mellawen," Finduilas calmed her. "Sha." She stroked Mellawen's hair and looked over at her husband, warning him not to continue the conversation.
"Whatever he has done," Denethor said at last, "he can help Mellawen. But that does not mean I must like him." He stopped his horse, then dismounted and walked over to Finduilas' and Mellawen's steed. Clapping his daughter's knee reassuringly, he said, "You must get well as best you can, Mellawen. Do whatever your mother and uncle tell you to do, and we will see each other soon. By the harvest at the latest." Mellawen leaned over and kissed the top of her father's head, and he smiled up at her. "That's my girl."
Then he looked up at his wife. "I am sorry," he said, "to speak like that in front of the child. You know my feelings toward Arabôr. But that does not mean I should speak ill to you in front of Mellawen. I beg your pardon."
Finduilas shook her head. "There is naught to pardon."
Denethor took his wife's hand and kissed it. "I love you, meleth." He squeezed Finduilas's forearm tenderly, then walked back to his own horse and remounted. "Take care of her, and return as soon as you are able," he added. Then, turning to one of the guards he said, "Lailagond--ride with them to Arabôr's house. We will wait for you here." When the guard returned some time later Denethor and his men turned and rode back toward the White City.
Finduilas and Mellawen stood outside of the house for a long time. Mellawen thought it fabulous. She had always heard that the truly fine people lived in the cities, especially Minas Tirith, where there were banquets, libraries, plays, and recitations. Yet Minas Tirith only had two public gardens: one in the Houses of Healing, where those who were not sick were chased off by the matrons; and the Pavilion of the White Tree, a series of statues, fountains, and flower bushes centred around a dried-up old phantom of a tree. The great families of the Seventh Circle sometimes had small private gardens, but they were nothing like this.
Here she saw rolling fields, tall stalks of wheat and ears of maize, cows and sheep grazing, and far in the distance the Anduin. A stone path led up to a great house on the hill, stretching out far to either side and with a great porch in front. Far in the distance Mellawen saw a carriage-house and the farmhands' quarters. Yet what struck her most was the sunlight: it wasn't the sharp glaring white she had seen in Minas Tirith where the light bounced off the marble buildings; instead here the warm yellow light settled lazily across the land.
They knocked on the front door and were soon greeted by a young woman in a simple brown dress. "May I help you, misses?" she asked.
"Yes," Finduilas replied. "I am Finduilas, Lady of Gondor, and this is my daughter Mellawen, your lord's niece. I believe you were expecting us?"
"Oh, begging your pardon, miss," the woman answered, curtsying quickly. "But we weren't expecting you for nigh on another week--"
"It is fine," Finduilas said, smiling to put the poor woman at ease. "My daughter's cough is worse, so we decided to come earlier than we had expected. I hope that is not a problem?"
"No, of course not." Mellawen peered around the maid into the great entranceway behind her, and the maid blushed. "And here I am, forgetting my manners. I'm so sorry." She took the saddlebags Finduilas had carried from the horses, then continued, "Come in, come in." She led them through the grand entranceway to a parlour and bade them sit. "You'll be wanting drinks, I don't doubt?" she asked.
"That would be wonderful," Finduilas replied, settling herself on the couch.
"Then I'll go see to it," the maid said, "and I'll find Galahir; he'll stable your horses for you."
Mellawen looked around the room, though she knew better than to leave her seat beside her mother. There were portraits on the wall; some she recognised as kings and stewards of ages long past, but one she could not place. "That is your uncle," Finduilas told her, "with his wife and your cousin Borlin. That portrait was made over seventeen years ago, before they left the City. You will find them much changed." Mellawen nodded, then looked at the rest of the room: there was a virginal in the corner, an instrument popular among well-bred Gondorians, and one wall was almost entirely taken up with a great brick fireplace.
Not long after that two women entered the room, dressed similarly to the maid that had admitted them to the house but much older. One carried a plate of biscuits and sliced bread and honey, and the second had a pot of tea and two porcelain cups. They set them down on the low table in front of the couch, curtsied, and left the two visitors to their repast.
Finduilas poured the wine and the milk, then watched Mellawen drink and eat. The child had had little appetite since she became sick, and Finduilas often watched her to make sure she ate enough. Normally Mellawen tried to eat something to appease her mother, but today her mind was on other, more exciting matters. There was a whole house just waiting to be explored, and Mellawen had to sit still while her mother watched her.
At last Finduilas set her cup down. "Now, what shall we do?" Mellawen's eyes darted to the door, and Finduilas laughed. "I suspected as much. Why don't you go and see your room?"
Mellawen did not need to be asked twice. She put her cup and saucer on the table, rose, and walked gracefully if not over-slowly toward the door. Just as she was about to leave, though, the door opened and Mellawen stopped, staring at the stranger standing before her. His raven hair and deep eyes reminded her of many a Minas Tirith nobleman, not least of all her own father.
"My lord," Mellawen managed, curtsying.
Finduilas turned around. "Arabôr!" she exclaimed. Finduilas rose and crossed the room even more quickly than Mellawen had and embraced her brother-in-law.
"And this must be Mellawen," Arabôr said to Finduilas. He bent down in front of her and introduced himself. "Good morning, my lady. I am Arabôr."
Mellawen nodded, then looked up at her mother for some confirmation. Finduilas nodded, and Mellawen smiled at the man.
"I did not expect you for another week," Arabôr said at last. "You can imagine my surprise when the housekeeper announced your arrival."
"I can indeed," Finduilas replied. Then she added, "Mellawen's cough was worse, and the healers suggested we leave as soon as possible. I do hope that is all right?"
"Of course, of course," Arabôr assured her. "My house is your house. But I wish I had known. I would have liked Borlin and Farlin to be here to greet you."
Finduilas shook her head. "Luncheon will be soon enough for that," she said.
Mellawen stood beside the couch as her mother and uncle sat down. She tried to focus her attention on the two adults as they talked of old times and people she had never met, but every so often her eyes strayed to the open door and the great stairs beyond, betraying her waning interest in this conversation. At last Finduilas noticed this.
"You may go if you like," Finduilas said. Mellawen nodded at her mother and uncle, then walked to the door with as much decorum as her excitement allowed. As she hurried away she heard her mother say, "You will have to excuse the child; I am afraid new houses and farms hold more excitement than an uncle she never met before. But tell me..." Mellawen did not wait to hear what her mother said but instead made her way up the marble stairs to the rooms above.
Once upstairs she went down a long hall and began testing doors to see which were open. A few she found locked, but most opened when she pushed on the handle. She found her uncle's study with the many volumes lining its shelves and its great desk covered in stacks of paper, quills, and ink bottles.
She guessed correctly that this was no place for a small girl, so she moved on: to the bathing chamber on one side and to the two nearly identical rooms across the hall from each other, boys' bedrooms obviously. In the second she found the maid who had greeted her at the door making the bed. "May I help you, miss?" she asked.
"I was looking for my room," Mellawen replied, and the maid smiled.
"Of course, right this way," she said, and the maid led Mellawen further down the hall. "Here you are," she said a few seconds later, opening a door. "Your mother will be sharing a room with you, I believe. The master thought you might like to be together."
Mellawen smiled at that. "Thank you very much," she said, and the maid left her to her investigating. Mellawen had worried a little, when she first saw the large house, that perhaps her mother's room would be far from her own, and she would not be able to find her when she needed her. That worry alleviated, she now looked around the room.
There was a large bed, curtained from the rest of the room by thick velvet hangings, and a closet where the maid had already hung Mellawen's and Finduilas's dresses. Mellawen worked at arranging her wooden eagles on the bedside table, then walked over to the window. She noticed a door on the back of the house and wondered where it might lead. With that thought in mind she decided to explore some more.
She left the room and continued down the hall until at last she came to a single door. Finding it unlocked, she made her way down another set of stairs. These were wooden and carpeted, not marble like the stairs coming from the entranceway, and they were lit by torches lining the wall, not having any windows opening to the sun outside. At the bottom she found two doors, one on her left and the other on her right. She pushed open the one on her right and walked through.
Mellawen found herself on a packed dirt floor with straw spread over it. A great store room lay towards the rear. It was almost empty now but still held some berries, left-over potatoes, and winter barley. On the back wall of the store room Mellawen found a giant stone box; she laid her hand on it, then pulled it back quickly, surprised by the cold. Imagine that, and with summer quick on its way!
She walked on along the wall, past the stalls where the cows and sheep must sleep and the wall with its pegs holding bits and bridles for horses, until at last she reached a great door, light pouring in around its cracks. She opened it and stepped into the sunlight, blinking.
"May I help you?" Mellawen shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at the two boys walking toward her. Nay, a man and a boy, or close to it. The older was muscular, his dark hair hanging limply on his shoulders, and the muscles he developed hunting and riding showed through his tunic. The younger had raven hair like Arabôr's and those same piercing grey eyes. He appeared several years older than Mellawen and, though he had lived on a farm his entire life, he lacked his brother's build.
"Who are you?" she asked them.
"We might ask the same of you," the older replied. "But I shall answer. I am Borlin, and this is my brother Farlin. Now may I ask your name?"
"Mellawen," she replied cautiously.
At that Farlin's eyes lit up. "Cousin!" he cried, dropping his horse's reins and walking toward the girl. "We were not expecting you for some time yet."
Mellawen smiled. "Yet I am here."
"That you are," Borlin agreed. A man approached them from the house and took the reins of the horses. "Thank you, Galahir," Borlin said to him, then hurried over to his brother and cousin. "Come, let us get inside," he said. "I wish you saw us in cleaner state..."
"Nay," Mellawen assured him, "'tis no fault of yours." She and her cousins walked around the lawn toward the front entrance, and Mellawen rejoined her uncle and mother while the boys washed up and changed. When they came down a few minutes later they met Finduilas, Arabôr, and Mellawen crossing the entranceway toward the dining room. They soon were enjoying their first meal as a family.
Time went on. At first Mellawen stayed inside most of the day, helping her mother around the house, but Finduilas tried to get her outside as often as she could: keeping the cows out of the garden, gathering berries from the woods, bringing in firewood. She wondered how long they would stay here; life in the country was not boring, as she had expected, and Mellawen rather dreaded leaving. Her cough was almost better, thanks to the tonics her mother forced her to drink every evening, and surely that was the only reason Denethor let them stay here.
"Arabôr, I was thinking," Finduilas said one evening over dinner. "Mellawen could really use more time out of the house; that is why we came here, after all. Would you let me plant a small garden near the house? Your own vegetable garden is nice, but we could have flowers, and fruit, and other things that you do not grow. It is not too late in the year to begin, is it?"
Arabôr pondered this for a moment. "No, it is not too late, but, by Berúthiel's cats, where will you get the seeds? You know I am not allowed in Minas Tirith, and if you think I am letting you travel by yourself, in these dangerous times, 'tis more than my life is worth--"
"I would not dream of it," Finduilas answered, a sly smile creeping across her face. "Besides, there is no need. I brought my own with me."
"Well, of all the--why are they not in the ground yet?" Arabôr smiled back at his sister-in-law. "You planned this." It was more a statement than an observation.
"My lord, I know not what you mean," Finduilas replied in a mirthful voice. "I promised my husband the steward that I would return as soon as Mellawen was well enough and would never dream of abusing your hospitality. Yet it would be cruel, would it not, to force a child to leave before her garden could be harvested?"
That settled it. Life fell into a pattern they were all happy with. It was the beginning of Nárië [June], and Borlin and Arabôr needed to see that the crops were being tended properly. They often rode far out to the field and would not return for lunch. Finduilas prepared their noontime meal the night before. Farlin, however, stayed with Finduilas and Mellawen. Arabôr had charged him with entertaining his cousin, and Farlin was happy to oblige.
After breakfast Mellawen and Farlin worked in their garden, first hoeing and planting, then later weeding and chasing off the birds. Finduilas stayed inside, ordering the maids to let her bake the bread and dust the shelves, all of the chores she was never allowed to do in Minas Tirith. The bread always tasted better to Mellawen, somehow, knowing that her mother had made it for her.
After lunch Finduilas retrieved her books, full of the stories and pictures that children love. Finduilas was teaching her daughter to read; Farlin joined them, reading his own books and listening to the stories Finduilas told. When the sun shone down on the fields they sat under a big tree on the stream bank, but on rainy days Finduilas taught them in the parlour, sitting in front of the warm fire.
Mellawen had seen letters when she watched Gandalf pore over the books in her father's libraries, but she did not know what they represented. By harvest time, however, she could write her name and read many of the stories by herself.
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 4056
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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April, TA 2996; South of the Rammas Echor
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Mellawen looked out across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath. She was only seven so she'd never seen it, but she had heard her father Denethor describe it often enough. He talked about Osgiliath's beautiful buildings and wide streets, once greater than Minas Tirith's. Now, though, Osgiliath's impressive edifices were reduced to ruins. Part of that was Sauron's doing. When the ancient Númenóreans first built the city they thought that the Dark Lord Sauron was gone forever, but they were wrong. He had concealed himself in Mirkwood, and after the Elves and Wizards drove him off he returned to Barad-dûr, in Mordor.
Mellawen had never seen Mordor, but if it was anything like the descriptions of Osgiliath she had heard from the soldiers, she didn't want to. Their talk of the way Osgiliath was today was very different from the way her father had described it to her: great piles of rubble everywhere you looked, deserted houses, and nothing but silence. No children running in the streets. No merchants shouting, "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!" No iron-toed boots scraping the stone walkways as the guards marched by.
Yet she wasn't going toward Osgiliath. Mellawen rode with her mother Finduilas and her father Denethor across the Pelennor, to the south. Her uncle had a farm there, just outside the Rammas Echor. The people here had suffered from Sauron, Mellawen's uncle not least of all, but somehow the land seemed untainted. The early Víressë sun shone down on the endless fields. The occasional farmer ploughed his land, but they were few and far between.
"What lies across the river?" Mellawen asked.
"Mordor," her father said.
Is that what lay across the river? she wondered. Mellawen could envision it. A dark land of smouldering volcanoes, rocky wastelands, and burned plains, full of orcs and other hideous creatures. But she couldn't imagine that place being so close by. Here, the sun shone down across the fields and farms, the occasional tree dotting the horizon, perfect for climbing. Birds flew in the sky, squirrels looked down from the trees, and rabbits stopped to watch the strange party ride by. Twelve horses: Mellawen and her mother on one, Denethor on another, and ten guards, their mail glistening in the morning sun.
Mellawen noticed that her mother had a far-off look in her eyes, and the little girl didn't wonder at it; she had heard the story once or twice. Finduilas' sister Ivriniel had married Arabôr, and they had moved out to a farm. He didn't want to raise his family in the city, and Ivriniel agreed. At first Finduilas visited them often, maybe twice a year, helping with her sister's new baby boy. Finduilas liked life at the farm and enjoyed helping with the cooking and cleaning, as she had sometimes been allowed to do growing up in Dol Amroth. But then, not long after Ivriniel's second son Farlin was born, orcs had attacked and killed Ivriniel.
Mellawen shivered to think about that: orcs, that close to the City! Denethor refused to let his wife travel outside the Rammas after that, and Arabôr had to agree. Times were just too dangerous. Mellawen looked up at her mother, almost giggling at her goofy smile. Maybe her mother understood not being able to visit for so long, but she sure seemed excited to be coming now!
Times were safer, yes, but that wasn't the real reason they were coming. This was no mere pleasure ride through the country; the healers themselves had ordered it.
The whole trouble had started last autumn around the harvest time. Gandalf had arrived from the west and introduced himself at court. Of course, Denethor already knew him. Mellawen hadn't been there when he arrived, of course, but later at dinner her father had told her all about the strange visitor. "You will hear about him soon enough," she remembered him saying, "and I would rather you hear the truth from me than some half-true story elsewhere."
Years before, Mellawen's grandfather Ecthelion had allowed Gandalf to roam the city freely, but Denethor had put an end to that foolishness. The wizard insisted on sticking his nose in everyone else's business, always getting in the way. Gandalf realized he was not wanted and had left Minas Tirith for several years. And now the wizard wanted to study Gondor's books; Denethor still didn't like him, he had graciously allowed him to return. He had even given the old fool a room in the City and the keys to the libraries, on the single condition that he stay there. A very generous man, her father.
Gandalf had gone down to the libraries, followed by many of the city's children. They had heard the stories from their parents, about how the wizard produced marvellous fireworks displays and told the most wonderful stories. Yet Gandalf did neither, and most soon lost interest. Mellawen, however, was fascinated by him.
Mellawen knew her father would never approve, so she went to the libraries secretly. It was forbidden, and thus irresistible. She had spent most of the winter in those dank archives with the wizard. By late Narvinyë [December] she'd developed a slight cough, and by mid-Nénimë [January] the healers were starting to whisper pleursy. "Too much book dust," they said. "Send her out of the city. This Gandalf will be the death of her."
So they went. Denethor would escort his wife and only daughter to the farm south of the Pelennor, where Mellawen could recuperate and grow strong. Then Finduilas and Mellawen would come back to the City, and they would be a family again. Denethor had duties in the City, of course, but even if he had been free to join his family, he would never stay at such a house.
"Ruddy troublemaker, that brother-in-law of yours," he said at last, the edge in his voice revealing how much he hated the man. "We shouldn't even be coming out here. He's the one who decided to leave."
"Denethor," Finduilas replied, "you agreed. Mellawen and I need some time away from court, and if you do not let us have it--"
"Peace, my lady," Denethor interrupted. "I gave my word, and that should be enough. Yet if you threaten me in front of my guards, we will return to Minas Tirith." He sighed, then looked over at Mellawen, who was entranced by the novel sight of a horse-drawn plough. She coughed gently. "He is family, after all, and Mellawen does need to get out of the City. If he and his fresh air can save her ... well, I might as well give him the chance. It cannot do much harm." Finduilas was right: Arabôr could very well save Mellawen's life, and Finduilas loved the country out here. But that did not change the simple fact that the man had hurt Denethor both as an officer and as a friend, and the old wound still burned.
"He lost his wife--" Finduilas began.
"And that's my fault how, exactly?" Denethor demanded. "Those were dangerous times, Finduilas. People die. If he was a true Gondorian he would have fought on, defended other men's wives."
"Be that as it may--"
"I am not having this conversation, Finduilas. It is his decision to stay out here. He could return any day; I would take him back."
Mellawen looked up from the swooping blue jay she had been watching, up at her mother and then over at her father. "Mama, what's wrong?" she asked.
"Sha, Mellawen," Finduilas calmed her. "Sha." She stroked Mellawen's hair and looked over at her husband, warning him not to continue the conversation.
"Whatever he has done," Denethor said at last, "he can help Mellawen. But that does not mean I must like him." He stopped his horse, then dismounted and walked over to Finduilas' and Mellawen's steed. Clapping his daughter's knee reassuringly, he said, "You must get well as best you can, Mellawen. Do whatever your mother and uncle tell you to do, and we will see each other soon. By the harvest at the latest." Mellawen leaned over and kissed the top of her father's head, and he smiled up at her. "That's my girl."
Then he looked up at his wife. "I am sorry," he said, "to speak like that in front of the child. You know my feelings toward Arabôr. But that does not mean I should speak ill to you in front of Mellawen. I beg your pardon."
Finduilas shook her head. "There is naught to pardon."
Denethor took his wife's hand and kissed it. "I love you, meleth." He squeezed Finduilas's forearm tenderly, then walked back to his own horse and remounted. "Take care of her, and return as soon as you are able," he added. Then, turning to one of the guards he said, "Lailagond--ride with them to Arabôr's house. We will wait for you here." When the guard returned some time later Denethor and his men turned and rode back toward the White City.
Finduilas and Mellawen stood outside of the house for a long time. Mellawen thought it fabulous. She had always heard that the truly fine people lived in the cities, especially Minas Tirith, where there were banquets, libraries, plays, and recitations. Yet Minas Tirith only had two public gardens: one in the Houses of Healing, where those who were not sick were chased off by the matrons; and the Pavilion of the White Tree, a series of statues, fountains, and flower bushes centred around a dried-up old phantom of a tree. The great families of the Seventh Circle sometimes had small private gardens, but they were nothing like this.
Here she saw rolling fields, tall stalks of wheat and ears of maize, cows and sheep grazing, and far in the distance the Anduin. A stone path led up to a great house on the hill, stretching out far to either side and with a great porch in front. Far in the distance Mellawen saw a carriage-house and the farmhands' quarters. Yet what struck her most was the sunlight: it wasn't the sharp glaring white she had seen in Minas Tirith where the light bounced off the marble buildings; instead here the warm yellow light settled lazily across the land.
They knocked on the front door and were soon greeted by a young woman in a simple brown dress. "May I help you, misses?" she asked.
"Yes," Finduilas replied. "I am Finduilas, Lady of Gondor, and this is my daughter Mellawen, your lord's niece. I believe you were expecting us?"
"Oh, begging your pardon, miss," the woman answered, curtsying quickly. "But we weren't expecting you for nigh on another week--"
"It is fine," Finduilas said, smiling to put the poor woman at ease. "My daughter's cough is worse, so we decided to come earlier than we had expected. I hope that is not a problem?"
"No, of course not." Mellawen peered around the maid into the great entranceway behind her, and the maid blushed. "And here I am, forgetting my manners. I'm so sorry." She took the saddlebags Finduilas had carried from the horses, then continued, "Come in, come in." She led them through the grand entranceway to a parlour and bade them sit. "You'll be wanting drinks, I don't doubt?" she asked.
"That would be wonderful," Finduilas replied, settling herself on the couch.
"Then I'll go see to it," the maid said, "and I'll find Galahir; he'll stable your horses for you."
Mellawen looked around the room, though she knew better than to leave her seat beside her mother. There were portraits on the wall; some she recognised as kings and stewards of ages long past, but one she could not place. "That is your uncle," Finduilas told her, "with his wife and your cousin Borlin. That portrait was made over seventeen years ago, before they left the City. You will find them much changed." Mellawen nodded, then looked at the rest of the room: there was a virginal in the corner, an instrument popular among well-bred Gondorians, and one wall was almost entirely taken up with a great brick fireplace.
Not long after that two women entered the room, dressed similarly to the maid that had admitted them to the house but much older. One carried a plate of biscuits and sliced bread and honey, and the second had a pot of tea and two porcelain cups. They set them down on the low table in front of the couch, curtsied, and left the two visitors to their repast.
Finduilas poured the wine and the milk, then watched Mellawen drink and eat. The child had had little appetite since she became sick, and Finduilas often watched her to make sure she ate enough. Normally Mellawen tried to eat something to appease her mother, but today her mind was on other, more exciting matters. There was a whole house just waiting to be explored, and Mellawen had to sit still while her mother watched her.
At last Finduilas set her cup down. "Now, what shall we do?" Mellawen's eyes darted to the door, and Finduilas laughed. "I suspected as much. Why don't you go and see your room?"
Mellawen did not need to be asked twice. She put her cup and saucer on the table, rose, and walked gracefully if not over-slowly toward the door. Just as she was about to leave, though, the door opened and Mellawen stopped, staring at the stranger standing before her. His raven hair and deep eyes reminded her of many a Minas Tirith nobleman, not least of all her own father.
"My lord," Mellawen managed, curtsying.
Finduilas turned around. "Arabôr!" she exclaimed. Finduilas rose and crossed the room even more quickly than Mellawen had and embraced her brother-in-law.
"And this must be Mellawen," Arabôr said to Finduilas. He bent down in front of her and introduced himself. "Good morning, my lady. I am Arabôr."
Mellawen nodded, then looked up at her mother for some confirmation. Finduilas nodded, and Mellawen smiled at the man.
"I did not expect you for another week," Arabôr said at last. "You can imagine my surprise when the housekeeper announced your arrival."
"I can indeed," Finduilas replied. Then she added, "Mellawen's cough was worse, and the healers suggested we leave as soon as possible. I do hope that is all right?"
"Of course, of course," Arabôr assured her. "My house is your house. But I wish I had known. I would have liked Borlin and Farlin to be here to greet you."
Finduilas shook her head. "Luncheon will be soon enough for that," she said.
Mellawen stood beside the couch as her mother and uncle sat down. She tried to focus her attention on the two adults as they talked of old times and people she had never met, but every so often her eyes strayed to the open door and the great stairs beyond, betraying her waning interest in this conversation. At last Finduilas noticed this.
"You may go if you like," Finduilas said. Mellawen nodded at her mother and uncle, then walked to the door with as much decorum as her excitement allowed. As she hurried away she heard her mother say, "You will have to excuse the child; I am afraid new houses and farms hold more excitement than an uncle she never met before. But tell me..." Mellawen did not wait to hear what her mother said but instead made her way up the marble stairs to the rooms above.
Once upstairs she went down a long hall and began testing doors to see which were open. A few she found locked, but most opened when she pushed on the handle. She found her uncle's study with the many volumes lining its shelves and its great desk covered in stacks of paper, quills, and ink bottles.
She guessed correctly that this was no place for a small girl, so she moved on: to the bathing chamber on one side and to the two nearly identical rooms across the hall from each other, boys' bedrooms obviously. In the second she found the maid who had greeted her at the door making the bed. "May I help you, miss?" she asked.
"I was looking for my room," Mellawen replied, and the maid smiled.
"Of course, right this way," she said, and the maid led Mellawen further down the hall. "Here you are," she said a few seconds later, opening a door. "Your mother will be sharing a room with you, I believe. The master thought you might like to be together."
Mellawen smiled at that. "Thank you very much," she said, and the maid left her to her investigating. Mellawen had worried a little, when she first saw the large house, that perhaps her mother's room would be far from her own, and she would not be able to find her when she needed her. That worry alleviated, she now looked around the room.
There was a large bed, curtained from the rest of the room by thick velvet hangings, and a closet where the maid had already hung Mellawen's and Finduilas's dresses. Mellawen worked at arranging her wooden eagles on the bedside table, then walked over to the window. She noticed a door on the back of the house and wondered where it might lead. With that thought in mind she decided to explore some more.
She left the room and continued down the hall until at last she came to a single door. Finding it unlocked, she made her way down another set of stairs. These were wooden and carpeted, not marble like the stairs coming from the entranceway, and they were lit by torches lining the wall, not having any windows opening to the sun outside. At the bottom she found two doors, one on her left and the other on her right. She pushed open the one on her right and walked through.
Mellawen found herself on a packed dirt floor with straw spread over it. A great store room lay towards the rear. It was almost empty now but still held some berries, left-over potatoes, and winter barley. On the back wall of the store room Mellawen found a giant stone box; she laid her hand on it, then pulled it back quickly, surprised by the cold. Imagine that, and with summer quick on its way!
She walked on along the wall, past the stalls where the cows and sheep must sleep and the wall with its pegs holding bits and bridles for horses, until at last she reached a great door, light pouring in around its cracks. She opened it and stepped into the sunlight, blinking.
"May I help you?" Mellawen shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at the two boys walking toward her. Nay, a man and a boy, or close to it. The older was muscular, his dark hair hanging limply on his shoulders, and the muscles he developed hunting and riding showed through his tunic. The younger had raven hair like Arabôr's and those same piercing grey eyes. He appeared several years older than Mellawen and, though he had lived on a farm his entire life, he lacked his brother's build.
"Who are you?" she asked them.
"We might ask the same of you," the older replied. "But I shall answer. I am Borlin, and this is my brother Farlin. Now may I ask your name?"
"Mellawen," she replied cautiously.
At that Farlin's eyes lit up. "Cousin!" he cried, dropping his horse's reins and walking toward the girl. "We were not expecting you for some time yet."
Mellawen smiled. "Yet I am here."
"That you are," Borlin agreed. A man approached them from the house and took the reins of the horses. "Thank you, Galahir," Borlin said to him, then hurried over to his brother and cousin. "Come, let us get inside," he said. "I wish you saw us in cleaner state..."
"Nay," Mellawen assured him, "'tis no fault of yours." She and her cousins walked around the lawn toward the front entrance, and Mellawen rejoined her uncle and mother while the boys washed up and changed. When they came down a few minutes later they met Finduilas, Arabôr, and Mellawen crossing the entranceway toward the dining room. They soon were enjoying their first meal as a family.
Time went on. At first Mellawen stayed inside most of the day, helping her mother around the house, but Finduilas tried to get her outside as often as she could: keeping the cows out of the garden, gathering berries from the woods, bringing in firewood. She wondered how long they would stay here; life in the country was not boring, as she had expected, and Mellawen rather dreaded leaving. Her cough was almost better, thanks to the tonics her mother forced her to drink every evening, and surely that was the only reason Denethor let them stay here.
"Arabôr, I was thinking," Finduilas said one evening over dinner. "Mellawen could really use more time out of the house; that is why we came here, after all. Would you let me plant a small garden near the house? Your own vegetable garden is nice, but we could have flowers, and fruit, and other things that you do not grow. It is not too late in the year to begin, is it?"
Arabôr pondered this for a moment. "No, it is not too late, but, by Berúthiel's cats, where will you get the seeds? You know I am not allowed in Minas Tirith, and if you think I am letting you travel by yourself, in these dangerous times, 'tis more than my life is worth--"
"I would not dream of it," Finduilas answered, a sly smile creeping across her face. "Besides, there is no need. I brought my own with me."
"Well, of all the--why are they not in the ground yet?" Arabôr smiled back at his sister-in-law. "You planned this." It was more a statement than an observation.
"My lord, I know not what you mean," Finduilas replied in a mirthful voice. "I promised my husband the steward that I would return as soon as Mellawen was well enough and would never dream of abusing your hospitality. Yet it would be cruel, would it not, to force a child to leave before her garden could be harvested?"
That settled it. Life fell into a pattern they were all happy with. It was the beginning of Nárië [June], and Borlin and Arabôr needed to see that the crops were being tended properly. They often rode far out to the field and would not return for lunch. Finduilas prepared their noontime meal the night before. Farlin, however, stayed with Finduilas and Mellawen. Arabôr had charged him with entertaining his cousin, and Farlin was happy to oblige.
After breakfast Mellawen and Farlin worked in their garden, first hoeing and planting, then later weeding and chasing off the birds. Finduilas stayed inside, ordering the maids to let her bake the bread and dust the shelves, all of the chores she was never allowed to do in Minas Tirith. The bread always tasted better to Mellawen, somehow, knowing that her mother had made it for her.
After lunch Finduilas retrieved her books, full of the stories and pictures that children love. Finduilas was teaching her daughter to read; Farlin joined them, reading his own books and listening to the stories Finduilas told. When the sun shone down on the fields they sat under a big tree on the stream bank, but on rainy days Finduilas taught them in the parlour, sitting in front of the warm fire.
Mellawen had seen letters when she watched Gandalf pore over the books in her father's libraries, but she did not know what they represented. By harvest time, however, she could write her name and read many of the stories by herself.