In mid-March, Prince Adrahil received a message from his son-in-law, the Steward of Gondor, saying that he was to meet with a representative of the Haradrim government down in Pelargrir to discuss the renewal of the current peace treaty. Adrahil's presence at the negotiating table was requested.
Imrahil offered to stay behind and see to things at home, as he had certainly not been invited, but Adrahil asked him to come along anyway.
"You have been to Umbar and parts south more recently than I, and I think that perhaps your insight would be useful to Denethor," he said with a smile.
"Denethor thinks I am an impetuous hot-head, Father," Imrahil chuckled, as they sat together in his father's study. "I doubt he would thank you for bringing me."
"Whether he thanks me or not, Imri, you are coming. He says that Finduilas and the boys will be there as well, and since he seldom lets them come home, it would be a chance for you to see them. Besides, I have a feeling that you should come." The Heir, gladdened at the prospect of seeing his beloved sister and nephews again, nonetheless gave his father a curious look, wondering if the "feeling" was one of the precognitive visions their House was prone to. Adrahil's expression was unrevealing, but his tone of voice had indicated that he would not be thwarted in this matter. Not that Imrahil intended to argue--any opportunity to journey forth, even if it resulted in having to keep company with his stuffy brother-in-law and a bunch of equally stuffy Haradrim diplomats, was preferable to remaining mewed in Dol Amroth.
"I had thought that Nimrien might accompany us as well," Adrahil continued calmly, ignoring his son's sudden sharp stare, "since she and Finduilas love each other dearly, and have not seen each other in such a long time. Besides, Finduilas will then have someone to keep her company while we men are about our business."
"How very thoughtful of you, Father," Imrahil murmured, straight-faced. "I am sure that Finduilas will be overjoyed to see her again." His father cleared his throat and frowned in a manner that suggested he was repressing a smile.
"Not to mention that it will give you further opportunities to woo the young lady--if that is in fact what you are doing." Imrahil laughed.
"I think it might be more accurate to say that Nimrien is deciding if she wishes to be wooed! It was rather dismaying to discover what her opinion of me truly was! I have fallen considerably in her estimation since I was a lad!"
"You appear to be going to some effort to redeem yourself in her eyes, and that pleases me," Adrahil declared. "Nimrien has been the daughter of my heart for a long time. It would delight me greatly to make her my daughter-in-law." He gave Imrahil a somber look. "I feared, when I first gave you my ultimatum, that you would spend these months chafing in futile rebellion, and that I would indeed, have to select a wife for you. It pleases me more than I can say, that you have been so industrious and constructive. And you have been a great help to me these last few months. I appreciate it, and thank you for it, my son."
Imrahil shook his head, flushing a little. "There is no call for thanks, Father. I have done nothing more than I should have been doing all these years. Nothing praiseworthy in that. 'Tis I who should thank you for your tolerance." Adrahil sighed.
"In truth, Imrahil, the one thing I never understood was your insistence on going out to find a fight. We are going to Pelargrir to hopefully make peace for another four or five years, but I think you know that in the end it will not hold. The Darkness in the East will rise, and call to its long-time vassals in the South, and we will either win one more day in the sun for our people or fall overwhelmed at last. I do not know if it will happen in my reign or in yours, but in either event, I fear that you will spend most of your life in battle. Treasure your peace while it lasts, my lad. Enjoy it, for it is a frail and transient thing."
Imrahil looked out the window, down into the courtyard. Nimrien was walking towards the castle, her cloak clutched close over what looked to be two or three books. He smiled.
"I begin to understand what you mean, Father."
Pelargir was two week's ride by carriage on good roads, and the roads of Belfalas were good ones, as Imrahil had cause to know, having recently acquainted himself with the contracts for building and repair. Dol Amroth was a wealthy principality, partly because of natural advantages and partly because Adrahil and his forbears had not scanted the foundation that made business and trade easy and profitable. And while it could certainly support Imrahil's brothel bill, and indeed the brothel bills of several of his non-existent brothers, the Heir was beginning to realize that there were more sensible expenditures that could be made, expenditures that actually returned money for the investment.
Nimrien and Prince Adrahil kept each other company within the royal coach, reading and playing chess on a travel board while Imrahil rode in armor with the Swan Knights and Andrahar outside. Nimrien had brought a large trunk of books with her, and it rode, swathed in oilskins, on the roof of the coach. A fine pony, intended as a gift for young Boromir, a palfrey and the Prince's favorite horse were tethered behind the coach, and from time to time Nimrien or the Prince would ride for a while at Imrahil's side. The rest of the time, the Heir was forced to endure the jibes of his fellow knights about his newer, softer life style. These did not cease-- until, over a period of several days, he defeated most of them in the morning sparring practices. Though he knew that Nimrien did not particularly value martial prowess, he was nonetheless pleased to see her watching him on a couple of occasions.
Andrahar, seeing this, would not comment other than to tsk loudly, like a friend seeing another friend rush headlong into folly. And try to take him down, if he could.
Cold rain sleeted down for the first four days of the journey, then the weather cleared and the chilly, pale sun of early Spring shone over the caravan. Not being wet brightened the spirits of the travelers, and when a warm spell came in the latter part of the trip, they rose even more. Adrahil spent more time during the last days outside of the coach than in, chatting with his son about the details of the treaty and all sorts of other subjects. Imrahil, who had not spent a prolonged period of time with his father since he had got his first command, was surprised to find that they had much in common, and were of one mind about many things. He found himself simply enjoying Adrahil's company, and really not worrying overmuch about when he would be able to return to the sea or to battle.
His chats with Nimrien also continued to be enjoyable, and covered many topics. One day he chided her a bit about all the books she had brought along, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed in the cool spring air.
"My lady must live in dreadful fear of boredom, to have carried so many books with her! Are we such dull company?"
"They are all books about the Haradrim, Imri!" Nimrien protested. "Everything we had upon their customs, language and history that I could find. I thought that they might be useful during the negotiations." Imrahil chuckled.
"Perhaps they shall be. Though I would hope that my lady would spare some time from her library to keep company with my sister and myself."
"You need have no fear of that, my lord," she replied soberly. "I love Lady Finduilas well, and am very much looking forward to seeing her again. In truth, I would have asked to come along, had not my lord Adrahil offered. I am somewhat concerned about your sister." He looked at her, surprised.
"Concerned about what?"
"I have written Finduilas on a regular basis for years now. And it used to be that she would write me back fairly regularly. But during this last pregnancy and afterwards, she has answered me less often and less swiftly. And when she has answered, the tone of her letters has seemed sad."
"Does she write of what is troubling her?" Imrahil inquired, feeling chilled suddenly for no reason that he could tell. Nimrien shook her head.
"No, she does not. And truthfully, it is not anything I can really put a finger on. But I deal in words, Imrahil, it is my stock and trade, and there is something troubling going on beneath the words she sends to me. I am hoping it is naught but a difficult pregnancy and weariness from dealing with a young child. I have heard that women sometimes grow sad after they have babies. And that they can stay that way for quite a long while afterwards." Her face reddened becomingly once more as her train of thought apparently leapt to her own future children. The Heir did not discomfit her further by commenting upon this, but he thought it a hopeful sign.
"I have heard such as well," he agreed. "May I rely upon you to try and discern the nature of her malady, while we are in Pelargir? For if it is something that may be amended by some action of Father or myself, we stand ready to do all in our power to bring her to joy once more." Nimrien nodded.
"I have in fact spoken of this already to your father. He too has been troubled by the letters he has received." Her brows lowered and her face assumed a resolute expression. "I intend to get to the bottom of this matter, since we see her so rarely anymore. It is for this very reason that I was glad to accompany you on this journey."
"Oh dear. And here I was thinking you accepted because you wished the pleasure of my company," Imrahil murmured, grinning raffishly. Nimrien gave him a considering stare.
"No, my first purpose was to see Finduilas again, and my second purpose was to aid the Prince with any information I could provide him. The pleasure of your company was third, no, make that fourth, on my list. I am also hoping to practice speaking Haradric with someone other than Andra."
At which point the Prince ceded the battle to her, laughingly declaring that he had been quite put in his place, bowed in the saddle, and spurred forward to the front with the rest of his men. So he did not see the longing look she directed at him as he rode away.
8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8
Pelargir, long the greatest haven of the Faithful, and the city from which the Numenoreans had set sail to conquer the kingdoms of lesser men, lay upon the wedge of land between Anduin the Great and the mouth of the River Sirith. She was an old city, and a decadent one, and one that Imrahil was more than a little fond of. Many were the times he had put into port here to resupply at the end of a perilous journey, and many were the nights of pleasure he had enjoyed between voyages--as he was rather forcibly reminded upon entering her once more.
The Dol Amroth party had arrived in the early afternoon, crossing the magnificent bridge that spanned the Sirith, like unto the mangled one that still spanned the ruins of Osgiliath. It was a warm afternoon, almost warm enough to make wearing armor slightly oppressive. Adrahil and Nimrien had played chess earlier in the day, but then, after the noon meal, Imrahil had looked into the coach to see that both of them were napping sitting up. He made a note to himself to inform Nimrien that she did in fact snore, though it was a very soft and melodic one. On the whole, he did not think it would be any impediment to sleeping in the same bed with her.
The sound the carriage made when clattering over the bridge woke his father and prospective betrothed, who looked out the window with interest as they moved into the city. Imrahil, listening to his father answer her eager questions was smiling--until the first voice calling his name echoed over the water.
"Imrahil! Imrahil, darling! Over here!" He looked across the river to a stately house, whose two floors each had verandahs. Upon those verandahs lounged young women of pleasure of the most expensive variety--most of whom he knew personally. As the first young lady's calls drew the attentions of her co-workers, they leapt up and waved scarves and handkerchiefs. Judging by their attire, or lack of it, several of them had been taking advantage of the warm weather to sunbathe. It may have been intended as advertising, and if so, was certainly effective. A regular chorus of "Imrahil! Imrahil!" arose.
The Heir of Dol Amroth had forgotten that the Drunkard's Dream, his preferred resting place when in Pelargir, abutted the Sirith bridge, for he generally approached it from the docks on the Anduin side of town. Now he could do nothing but wave politely in return, while listening to Andrahar and the other Swan Knights snickering behind him. Daring to glance at the carriage only briefly, and just once, he found his father regarding the tableau with an air of genteel interest, and Nimrien dividing rather astonished looks between him and the courtesans.
"Gracious, Imrahil, have you patronized all of those young ladies? They certainly seem happy to see you." Prince Adrahil remarked gently, his eyes twinkling and mouth held hard against breaking into a smile. Imrahil suddenly realized that his fair and upright father was quite capable of getting his own back. "If so, then perhaps your entertainment bills are not as excessive as I thought--if one divides the total amount spent among such a large number of young women, they are actually rather reasonable." There was really no satisfactory response he could make to that, so he simply rode silently on with eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the suppressed noises coming from the bodyguard at his back.
After they left the bridge, and the vicinity of the Drunkard's Dream, the carriage and escort traveled the main town road north until they had gone a considerable way upriver on the Anduin side. Skirting the dockside slums , they came into the most wealthy precincts of Pelargir, where ancient houses fronted tree-shaded promenades. The old King's House, wherein they would reside while discussing the treaty with the Haradrim, was not far away. Nobles and merchants, the wealthy and influential of the city, walked or rode here, to see or be seen. And here Imrahil's past caught up with him once again.
A slender, brightly-clad figure mounted on a fine blooded mare wheeled her horse from a knot of admirers that surrounded her, and cantered towards the Swan Knights. She spun her mount expertly once more when she arrived, and ended by riding stirrup to stirrup with Imrahil.
"My lord Prince," purred the contralto voice that belonged to the most renowned courtesan and dancer in Pelargir, " are you in the city long?" Honey skin glowed in the spring sun, her intricately braided black hair threw back blue highlights, and eyes of an odd, golden brown regarded him with a glowing heat that immediately kindled a reflexive warmth in his nether regions. Images from the nights he had spent with this woman, nights which were exercises in the excesses of passion, flitted through Imrahil's brain.
"Hello, Callia," he said at last with some difficulty. She noticed his reticence, and her eyebrow raised, then she cast a look at the coach, and the royal arms upon it and smiled in understanding.
"Your father is here, for the negotiations?"
"Yes. We will be here for a little while, it seems."
"Will you be able to find some time for me, while you are in town?" Imrahil could not help but smile in reminiscence. Callia charged a high price for her dancing, and an even higher one for access to her bed, but she was not available to just anyone who had the price, and she was extremely selective. Imrahil she always allowed into her presence, and upon one or two occasions, had even waived her fee. She was a demanding lover, and he was one of the few who could truly sate her.
"I fear not, lady, though it pains me to admit it. Father would like me to attend to the negotiations most closely--he feels that it will be an invaluable learning experience."
Callia was also renowned for her boldness, so he should not have been surprised at what happened next, as she dropped her mare back, slipped behind his stallion, and pulled even with the door of the coach. The Heir, glancing back, saw Andrahar flick his wrist to ready a knife. Andrahar, who of course knew of his relationship with Callia, nonetheless took nothing for granted when the royal family's safety was concerned.
"My lord prince!" the courtesan caroled gaily, "'Tis said you are a kind and generous man! Surely you can spare me your son for just one night!" Prince Adrahil looked upon her with a certain bemused appreciation, and responded politely.
"I fear he has the right of it, my lady--upon this trip at least, he will be busy with the negotiations." Callia's eye fell upon Nimrien, and narrowed.
"The negotiations, or this fine young lady?" Nimrien stared back at her curiously.
"The Lady Nimrien, daughter of Ohtar," Imrahil declared. "My father's archivist." He wished silently for a fissure to open up in the earth and swallow him, thus sparing him any further humiliation, but it was not to be. Callia's eyes brightened with a feline sort of malice.
"A lover of books, is she? Have you shown her that favorite of yours, Imrahil? The Garden of Love? You will need to study Chapter Three most closely if you spend any time with him at all, my lady."
Andrahar chuckled quietly, and Prince Adrahil looked troubled. The book in question was a renowned Haradric volume about love-making techniques, and Chapter Three dealt with the entertaining things that could be done to one's partner with one's mouth. The Heir's heart plummeted into his stomach in despair--Nimrien would never forgive him for such public humiliation at the hands of one of his 'ladies', and he could not bear to look upon her shocked or angered face. So he was very much surprised when her reply came, calm and matter-of-fact.
"Actually, you are kind to recommend it, but I am already familiar with that book--we have a copy in the library at home. The Dol Amroth copy was illustrated by Hyandhil, who as you may know was much admired for his ability to depict the varying tones of flesh." Imrahil dared a careful glance in her direction to find her sitting up straight in the coach, her chin raised, and color high in her cheeks. But she met Callia's eyes squarely enough.
"Speaking of that particular book, I was wondering if I could not impose upon you for something?" she asked quietly. The courtesan gave her a curious look. "You look like the sort of person who would know this. That business in Chapter Eight with the man, the woman, and the horse? Is that even possible? For it looks both uncomfortable, and unlikely." Mind boggling, Imrahil nearly toppled off of his own mount.
Callia laughed. Malice had been replaced with amusement. "Indeed, it is possible, my lady--I did it once to win a wager." The Heir cringed internally, but Callia was merciful and did not speak further of who had wagered, or who her partner had been..... "But you are correct--love-making upon horse-back is rather uncomfortable. Not something that I would repeat for the pleasure of it."
"Then I shall rely upon an expert's opinion, and not consider myself deprived for not having tried it," came the almost prim response. Callia laughed again, louder this time.
"Indeed, my lady, you are not missing much! I had saddle-sores for a week in the strangest places!" Nimrien's eyes widened, but the courtesan was finished with trying to torment her and turned to Imrahil instead.
"I hope that you can find at least a few hours to spend with me, Imrahil," she purred, standing in her stirrups to speak close to his ear, a movement which incidentally gave him a magnificent view of her small but firmly rounded bosom. He felt that familiar flush once more, and Callia, noting this, smiled with satisfaction, resumed her seat, touched her heels to her mare, and cantered away.
There was a long moment of silence upon her departure, then Andrahar broke out laughing.
"Lady Nimrien," he chortled, "I had no idea you were so......knowledgeable." Nimrien gave him a flat stare very reminiscent of her formidable aunt.
"When I reached an age to be curious about such things, my aunt was very straightforward, and answered my questions as best she could."
"Surely she didn't let you read The Garden of Love!" Imrahil protested.
"No, I came across that volume some time later," Nimrien replied imperturbably. "when I had some questions that she could not answer."
"I can just imagine!" Andrahar exclaimed. "Having never married, those questions were probably the reason her hair turned grey!" Nimrien's stare became an affronted glare.
"Master Andrahar, you have done nothing but laugh at your lord's expense since we entered Pelargir. And I know for a fact that you are every bit as debauched as he is--in your own unique way. I suspect there is a street or two here where you are a popular man as well. Perhaps we should explore a couple of them?"
Andrahar actually paled a bit, and became very silent of a sudden. Quiet fell over the coach and escort, broken only by the clopping of horses' hooves. Then Prince Adrahil tipped his head back and began to laugh. He was still laughing when they pulled into the courtyard of the King's House.
The wall surrounding the King's House was tall, imposing and fortress-like, but the building itself was graceful enough, built foursquare around a central garden, with porches running all around, and with the tall windows necessary to catch the breeze in a place where summers could be oppressively hot. The White Tree of Gondor and the Black Serpent of Harad flew above it, and guards of both nationalities stood on duty at the gates, pulling them open for the Dol Amroth contingent.
As acting commander of the Swan Knights escorting his father, Imrahil suddenly had work to do, and he sent one contingent to survey the stables and begin to care for the horses, another to unload the baggage and assign rooms, and a single man up onto the 'ramparts' with a Swanship banner to be flown with the others. By the time he was done, and had dismounted, giving his mount into the charge of one of the other Knights, the Steward of Gondor was there along with his family, in a rare show of informality that Imrahil suspected had been orchestrated by his sister.
"My lord prince," Denethor was saying as he embraced Adrahil solemnly, "it is good of you to aid me in this matter when I know that there must be pressing matters in your own demesne."
"None so pressing that the peace of the realm does not take precedence, son," Adrahil replied easily, embracing the Steward in his turn with much more warmth. His father was apparently continuing his long-term and thus far futile effort to engage Denethor's affections, Imrahil realized, and wondered what he would do in the unlikely event he ever succeeded. But the Heir stopped worrying about that when he saw Finduilas, her youngest boy on her hip, almost run towards him with a great smile upon her face, followed closely by Boromir.
"Imri!" she cried, throwing her free arm about his neck, and kissing him soundly. He squeezed her firmly back, being careful not to crush his young nephew. There was less flesh and more bone under his arm than he remembered, and when he pulled back to look at her beloved face, he found it had thinned. But her eyes were sparkling with joy, and there was a becoming flush upon her cheeks as she surveyed him.
"Gracious, Imri! You're so brown! Have you been to sea all this time?"
"Not for several months. Is this great big fellow Faramir?" Contrary to his words, the child was a slender one, even at this chubby age, unlike his brother, who had been a big, solid fellow. Huge grey eyes surveyed Imrahil solemnly beneath a thatch of untidy black hair, and he gnawed upon a small finger thoughtfully for a few moments before suddenly reaching his arms out to his uncle. Finduilas looked surprised.
"You should be flattered, Imri--he doesn't take to strangers normally." Imrahil reached out, scooped him up, and settled him high upon his waist. A little hand reached out and stroked his cheek softly.
"But we are not strangers, Fin," he said, giving his nephew a warm smile. "I'm his Uncle Imri, and we're going to be great friends, aren't we Faramir?" Faramir said neither yea nor nay, but seemed quite content to stay where he was, his hand now twining in his uncle's hair. Imrahil looked down at Boromir, who was alternately casting glances at him, and across the courtyard, where a Swan Knight was leading the pony towards the stables.
"Hullo, Uncle Imrahil," he said, courtesy warring with curiosity. "You look very well. I hope that you have been successful in your pirate-chasing, and.......is that really a pony? A pony for me?"
"Boromir!" exclaimed his mother, scandalized, but Imrahil merely laughed.
"Yes, Boromir, it is a pony for you. For your birthday. Your grandfather got the pony for you, and I picked out the harness."
"But my birthday's not till the summer," the boy said, almost vibrating in place in his eagerness to lay hands upon the animal.
"Yes, but we knew we were coming here, and did not know if we'd be in Minas Tirith this summer, so we brought him now."
"Excellent!" Boromir exclaimed, and absolutely bouncing now, begged his mother, "Please, Mother, oh please may I go look at him?"
"Only if you greet your grandfather first," she answered, and that was all it took. Boromir was off, pelting across the courtyard till he neared his father and grandfather, whereupon he slowed to a decorous walk. Imrahil watched, grinning, as he gave his grandfather a hug, and the swiftest greeting he could get away with, then resumed his pell-mell pursuit of the pony. Finduilas sighed.
"That boy! He is such a handful!" Suddenly she spied Nimrien, who had been standing quietly by the whole time, and her face lit up again.
"Nimrien! You came as well? This is so wonderful!" And she flung herself past her brother, impetuous as her son, to embrace Nimrien fervently, the two of them immediately starting a happy conversation.
Imrahil glanced about the courtyard. Andrahar was stalking the perimeter, and glaring at the Haradric guards who were glaring back, Denethor and his father were already deep in discussion about the negotiations, Nimrien and Finduilas were excitedly catching up on old news, and Boromir was lost in pony-love. He looked questioningly at Faramir, who stared back at him soberly as ever, still chewing upon the finger.
"It looks as if it's just you and me, lad." Faramir considered this for a moment, then removed the finger from his mouth and offered it to his uncle. Imrahil mimed biting it, snapping his teeth together right beyond the end of it, and the little boy suddenly smiled and gurgled a laugh. The Prince took his hand, kissed the finger, and carried him into the house.