THE RISE AND FALL OF THE SOLDIER'S HOUSE
By Jashi Troasien
N O T E: I do not own LotR. This is a story about a very large, military- oriented family during the end of the Third Age (the Return of the King) and the Fourth Age.
Chapter One:
Through darkness and shadow
One must prevail
Though the sea is cold and bloodless
One ship must sail
And in the darkness
Where the shadows lie
One must stand up
And hear his people's cries.
When the wind calls of murder
And the sky cries in shame
One must go onward
In his people's name.
-Excerpt from "A Soldier's Vow ," Anonymous. Prose and Poetry of the Third Age, archived in Minas Tirith the year 3036.
Ocendade plucked the volume from the shelf carefully. She climbed back down the short ladder, and handed it over to the stocky man waiting below.
"Ah, thank you milady," said the man with a smile.
"You are quite welcome," said Ocendade in reply. The man turned on his heel and went to sit down at the large study at the back of the room; Ocendade went to a tall desk at the very head of the gargantuan room. Taking a large feather quill, she dipped in an ink bottle and scribbled hurriedly on a long scroll of parchment.
"The History of Osgiliath," she muttered as she wrote. It was the first book of the day today. Through an open window near the desk she could see the sun slowly climbing to its place in the sky.
Hothien, head librarian of the Minas Tirith Library and Archives, had commanded her to always make a list of the books she was requested to find for people...or whatever kind of being decided to drop by the History and Architecture section.
This immense tower loomed high in the sky on the sixth tier of Minas Tirith. There were several sections. First section was the "index" floor of sorts, where great scrolls were kept that logged every scroll or book in the tower. The second floor was Botany and Animals; the third floor was the smallest, it contained fictional tales; the fourth floor was Ocendade's floor, History and Architecture; the fifth floor was the Arts, and the sixth floor was everything that didn't really have a spot. The sixth floor had also a very large study.
Each floor was expansive and contained rows and rows of books, and along a wall would be a place for scrolls. At the back would be a small study with a few chairs and desks for transcribing and reading. At the head of the room, near the door, would be a tall desk where the librarian and her assistants would sit, if she had any.
Hothien was head librarian, and ran the place with strictness and great organization. Ocendade monitored the History and Architecture floor. A man named Delos ran the Botany and Animals; Gamil watched over Arts; Ydea looked over fiction; Neyu was on the sixth floor with the obscurities and the study. Down in the basement were the records of genealogy. It was all a very smooth business.
Someone appeared at the door, and Ocendade glanced to the entryway. It was Hothien. She stood up immediately.
"My lady Hothien," Ocendade said quietly, "what may I do to serve you?"
"Really, Ocendade," the older woman retorted briskly, going over to Ocendade's desk and snatching up the log-scroll, "there is no need for such formalities, as I have told you morning after morning for the past two years."
"Sorry, ma'am. Old habits are hard to break."
Hothien glanced over the list, clucking softly. "History's been busier than usual."
Ocendade nodded. "With all this war going on...well, you'll see that most of the books are war histories."
The head librarian sighed. "One can only hope it's over soon. The Dark Lands seem to grow more menacing each night. Even the sun seems a blessing these days.
The other woman was quiet at this. Hothien gave her back the scroll. "That's all. Everything seems to be fine here. Is Manôsâi coming in today?"
"I would imagine so. He was asleep when I left this morning," Ocendade smiled gently in the memory of her twin that morning, sprawled out on the floor in a pile of cloaks and blankets, snoring softly, innocently.
Manôsâi was Ocendade's twin brother. They lived together in a very small house on the second tier of Minas Tirith. Their older brother, Aetheorean, was a captain in the Guard of the Citadel. He refused to live with them. He was a proud, nearly arrogant sort.
In fact, their entire family was. A family of soldiers, each man a soldier, each woman a soldier's wife. This was why Manôsâi and Ocendade lived together out of need of a house. Manôsâi did not, simply could not work for pay. He was an artist, and illustrated books next to Ocendade every day in the library as she worked. Manôsâi was very capable with his hands as he illustrated words and images around text: sometimes vines with vibrant, evergreen tendrils curling around words, beautiful red flowers blooming in the corners of the pages, or knights of Gondor, broad and tall as towers in their glimmering, luminescent armor of the White tree, or the fairylike, delicate-looking Elves of the far forests and glens. Every once in a while a scribe would pay him a little to illustrate a book for his lord. But this was rare, especially in times like these when books were probably the last thing on any sane lord's mind.
They were black sheep, as their father, Careocyn, called them, oddities that every family had. But this still did not save them from becoming a joke inside the rings of the soldier's house. The uncles, especially Addrynnyn, could be positively vile about the two, especially Manôsâi. Manôsâi was, as Careocyn's son, destined to be a soldier, a guard of the Citadel, like his brother Aetheorean. And Ocendade was, as Careocyn's daughter, meant to be married to a soldier, preferably one of high rank, stature, and great favor with the Steward. The twins were neither soldier nor soldier's wife, and for this they were, though it was unspoken and never intentional by the other members, the lonely outcasts of the house of the soldiers.
The soldier's house, as it was called around Minas Tirith, called the House of Edain Dagorais, House of Man's Horns in the Elven tongue, itself was a large house on the fourth tier, where all the members of the house gathered on Sunsday of every week when they were able. The house was lived in by Careocyn, their father, and their brother Aetheorean, along with one of Careocyn's brothers, Ederin, who had no wife or children.
Careocyn himself was one of five brothers: Ederin, Laernil, Addrynnyn, Thaliondal, and then himself. All of them were sergeants, colonels, or captains of the Citadel. Careocyn had been discharged honorably from his post after a nasty Orc blade permanently disfigured his leg. So he set to live in the old Edain Dagorais with Ederin, teaching and taking care of the place. But there was no home there for Manôsâi and Ocendade, and they did not live there with Aetheorean and Careocyn.
Hothien cleared her throat, shaking Ocendade out of her reverie. "I have a task for you, Ocendade."
Ocendade cocked her head quizzically. "What task might this be?"
"The Steward wishes for these books to be brought to him," she said, handing Ocendade a scrap of parchment. Ocendade looked it over. "When does he wish to have them?"
"By noon, if at all possible, Ocendade. It would be even better if you could somehow get it there beforehand."
Ocendade nodded. "Yes, my lady. Is that all that is required of me?"
"That is all, Ocendade." She turned on her heel and left to go observe the other levels of the library. The young librarian glanced at the fragment of paper clutched in her hand. "Prose and Poetry of the Third Age, Minas Ithil and Its Falling, and The History of Osgiliath," she murmured softly, racking her mind as to where those books might lie in her section. Poetry and Prose of the Third Age would reside in Gamil's section; she could pick it up last.
It was true that Ocendade had read most of the books in the History and Architecture section. She'd read them constantly, even as a young girl. At fifteen, when she practically begged her father—and then the librarian—to be able to go into the service of books, she had found herself a home. Two years later, she was now head slave driver, as Manôsâi jokingly called it, of the section. She had always favored architecture over history, and had by now read every architecture book in the section.
"It is no wonder no man has married you," her father had muttered grudgingly when she had happily informed him of this a year ago. He had thought she wasn't listening.
"I would rather marry books," Ocendade had mumbled in a weak reply.
Ocendade now traversed up and down between each shelf of quivering, bound knowledge, looking for Minas Isil and Its Falling. She could retrieve The History of Osgiliath from the man reading it at the back of the floor. Ocendade found the "M" bookcase and peered at the dusty volumes. After a few tepid minutes of gazing at the books, she finally found her object of desire wedged between Minas Ithil, a History and Minas Ithil: Architecture. She remembered the latter of those two fondly. Pulling out Minas Ithil and Its Falling, she proceeded to the back of the floor. She came upon the man who was reading The History of Osgiliath as one would read the holy records of the gods. A smile came upon her face. She could not simply wrench this book away from him for the Steward. The Steward would wait. Though she realized she probably would be late and what complications it might have to her occupation, she only shook her head at the thought, going back to her desk and writing in her small, wrinkled script:
Minas Ithil and Its Falling --- the Steward Denethor of Gondor
The History of Osgiliath --- the Steward Denethor of Gondor
Gamil would make his own marks upon his own list later for the last book. For now, Ocendade settled back in her chair, waiting for Manôsâi to come in and illustrate a book with vivacious color, watching the sun rise to its highest, most glorious peak of noon.