Author's Note: I've noticed (after the fact) an error in the last chapter regarding Adrahil, Imrahil's father. Apparently, I had misread my notes and mentioned that Adrahil had fought in the battle with the Wainriders. In actuality, it was his ancestor and namesake, Adrahil, father of Imrazôr, who fought in that war. Since that minor historical discrepancy doesn't really detract from this story, I'm going to let it stand as is. To those diehard Tolkien fanatics that may have noticed that inaccuracy - I humbly apologize.
Chapter Three: Breaking Point
Only a few minutes after Boromir had left, Miriel suddenly sprang from the sofa and bolted toward the door.
"What are you doing? Where are you going?" asked Bregolas, perplexed by her abrupt need to depart.
She stopped and faced her friend, who now sat upright on the couch. Already she could see his jaw beginning to swell.
"I failed to tell Boromir to keep our… er, tryst secret," she answered with concern. "If he should run into Faramir, chances are, you will have a matching bruise on the other side of your face." She paused, furrowing her brow in thought. "Not to mention the fact that he said he came here looking for me, yet he delivered no message. If Father has summoned me and I do not come, things could go ill for me."
Bregolas leapt from the couch, his face grave. "Shall I come with you?"
"Not now," she replied. "You should put a cold compress on your jaw to help with the swelling. I would hate to have to explain the tale behind that! Join me when you can."
She then left, leaving the warrior alone.
Miriel went racing through the streets, bypassing children playing and people going about their daily business. She couldn't believe that she had failed to tell Boromir to keep things quiet. She attributed that to her lack of sleep. She had gone more than twenty four hours without it, and, even now, after a strenuous workout, she felt no fatigue whatsoever.
As luck would have it, she encountered her brother on the fourth level of the city. Apparently, some admirers had stopped him, offering him ale in exchange for some stories of the battlefield. If there was one thing that Boromir liked more than anything else, it was swordplay. It was the point of his entire existence, or so it seemed.
"Excuse me, my good fellows," she said, stepping into the circle of men and boys. "If you don't mind, I would like a word with my brother. It will only be for a minute or two, I promise," she added, after hearing their murmurings of discontent. Evidently, she had interrupted her brother's tale at a particularly interesting part.
Boromir followed her a few paces away from the others. "Where's Bregolas?" he asked before taking a swig from his tankard.
"I imagine he's tending to his jaw," she replied coolly.
"I'm sorry about that," he answered, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. "Those things do happen."
She didn't address his comment, for she was too concerned with more pressing matters - the lie she had told. "Well, I do hope that you will keep your, um, discovery of me and Bregolas a secret from all, including Faramir," she said, feeling suddenly nervous. "I'd rather none know of… " Her words trailed off, uncertain how exactly to finish her sentence.
Boromir laughed heartily. "Miriel, it is no secret. Only the blind fail to see the love between you two."
Miriel felt her cheeks reddening though she didn't know why. Perhaps, she thought, it was because she had become so good at the art of deception. "Will you promise me that you will not say anything about what you have seen?" She emphasized those last two words while looking pleadingly at her oldest brother.
"I shan't say anything, Miriel," he replied. "But, Bregolas must speak with Father tomorrow about… " He hesitated for a moment before adding, "Well, I do not think I need to finish that sentence, eh?"
The young woman shifted her gaze to a barking dog chasing a little boy down the nearby side street. She sighed.
"What is it?" asked Boromir, watching his sister with his keen eyes.
"It's nothing," she replied, glancing back at her brother.
"Come on, Captain!" shouted one of the men waiting eagerly for Boromir to return. "Finish your tale already!"
"Your admirers call," she remarked with a smirk, motioning toward the slightly inebriated men, using only her eyes.
Boromir attempted to downplay his adulation by the group, but Miriel knew better. He relished it. And she supposed he had every right to. He would one day become the Steward and ruler of Gondor, and having the people's support was definitely a plus.
"I will see you later, alright? Come by my house and we'll celebrate your last day of sixteen," he said with a smile, raising his tankard of ale, as he stepped backward toward the group of men.
Miriel stood there for a moment before asking, "You never said why you came looking for me. You told Bregolas you were looking for me. Why?"
She could almost see Boromir processing her query in his mind. His eyes then widened and he answered, "I had completely forgotten. Imrahil is looking for you. He's waiting by the fountain… " His words became lost in the cheers of the men, who were glad that he was now returning to their company.
The young woman then took off, hastily making her way up the winding streets of Minas Tirith to her uncle who had been waiting for Eru knows only how long.
By the time she reached the seventh level, Imrahil was standing at the edge of the embrasure, looking down upon the lush pastures of Pelennor seven hundred feet below. Even from behind, her uncle looked lordly. She could see the warm breeze out of the southwest causing his long, dark hair to cascade over his left shoulder.
She stopped for a moment, combing her hair with her fingers, and wondering how different life would be if Imrahil had been her father. Maybe that was a horrible thought to have, but she couldn't help but envy her cousins and the childhood they had. In the Halls of Imrahil, children were permitted to be children whereas the children of Denethor were not so lucky. Exhibiting loyalty and devotion to the Steward of Gondor came first and foremost, and love of their father fell to a distant second. While Andreth had done her best to fill the void left by Finduilas' death, the fact remained that the nurse was a servant of her lord, and had reared Denethor's children at the Steward's bidding.
The young woman tried to push those thoughts out of her mind as she crossed the white stone court. The water of the fountain rained down in a sweet melody and the smell of freshly cut grass lingered on the air. It was indeed a beautiful afternoon.
She crossed the swath of soft, green grass, and halted beside her uncle, who had now fixed his gaze on Mordor. So deep in thought Imrahil had seemed that the young woman wasn't sure if he even noticed her presence. Though fair of face, her uncle looked grim, much like her father. She surmised that that was one of the effects of living in the shadow of the Black Lands.
They stood there, in silence, for a long while.
When Imrahil finally spoke, he spoke in such a soft voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Sometimes I forget how close Minas Tirith is to Mordor, which seems so distant from Dol Amroth. Here, one cannot escape the menacing shadow."
Miriel stared at Imrahil, noticing how grave his face appeared. Hoping to dispel whatever gloom had befallen him, she said, "Yes, you can. All you have to do is close your eyes." She then did just that. "When my eyes are closed I can travel anywhere I want to in my mind's eye, even to distant lands if I so desire." She then opened her eyes and looked at her uncle, grinning.
A small smile came to Imrahil's face, as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. His eyes then popped open. The smile had vanished from his face. "Alas, Mordor continues to stand though I wished otherwise," he sighed. "I fear that the Dark Lord's powers are growing, and one day, dawn will not come, and darkness will cover all these lands."
"You're beginning to sound like Father," she remarked dismally.
"I think, Miriel, that I am beginning to better understand Denethor's mood," he answered, finally shifting his grey eyes to her. "You're late, by the way," he added, flippant in tone.
"Forgive me, Lord," she responded with a curtsey. "I was elsewhere in the city."
"Ah, yes," he chortled, the smile returning to his face. "I hear you've been spending much time with Bregolas, that your friendship with your personal guard has grown into something more."
Miriel's cheeks flushed, as her thoughts of the earlier incident with Boromir rushed to her mind.
"There is nothing wrong with that," Imrahil continued lightheartedly. "Bregolas is a good man and I can see that he loves you deeply."
The young woman could feel the warmth in her cheeks spreading throughout her face.
Her uncle laughed, seeing that he was embarrassing her. "Alright, I will not discuss your love life." He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I would, however, like to give you one of your birthday presents today, if that is alright with you."
Of course, at the mere mention of presents, Miriel's eyes lit up, and the reddening of her cheeks began to lessen. "I always welcome gifts," she answered with an air of excitement to her voice.
"I thought so," he replied, offering her his arm. She took it, and together they strolled across the courtyard towards the King's House.
From the uppermost windows of the Tower of Echthelion stood Denethor, watching his daughter and the Prince of Dol Amroth below. The sound of their laughter seemed to waft into the windows, taunting him. He found himself jealous of Miriel's affection for her uncle as she seldom wore a smile on her face whilst in his company.
When Miriel and Imrahil reached his room, he gave to her an item that looked like a large, white cloth scroll. Unrolling it, she discovered that it was the family tree from her mother's side of the family. Though the line of Princes officially started with Galador (who founded Dol Amroth), the topmost names embroidered in blue thread beneath the device of Dol Amroth were Imrazôr, the Númenorean, and Mithrellas, the Silvan Elf that he had taken as his wife. Those from the royal house of Galador were proud of their lineage, particularly the elvish blood that flowed in their veins.
Such a gift touched Miriel, especially when she learned that her grandmother had started the family tree but passed away before she could finish it. Her aunts had taken it upon themselves to complete it, and had only done so a few months ago.
After thanking Imrahil for her present, she asked if he would help to hang it on her bedroom wall. He happily agreed.
They would end up spending the rest of the afternoon together, talking candidly about things that concerned them both. Imrahil brought up his earlier conversation with Elphir and his son's fear of Denethor's use of the palantír. He questioned Miriel much about that, wanting to hear from her the specific changes that she had noticed in her father.
She spoke at length, but, to Imrahil, it seemed as though she wasn't revealing everything, and that's what troubled him most. After having spent time with Denethor, and now Miriel, it seemed that both of them had mastered the art of shielding their minds from him. Like father, like daughter, he reckoned.
Nonetheless, he was able to perceive that a shadow seemed to have fallen over the Steward, and he believed that Miriel was correct in thinking that Denethor's use of the seeing-stone had invited Sauron in, and that the Dark Lord was manipulating the son of Echthelion's thoughts, and, perhaps, even his actions. With that, his niece wholeheartedly agreed.
It was at that point in their conversation that Imrahil decided he could no longer hide his true purpose in giving Miriel one of her presents early.
"I'm afraid I have a confession to make," he revealed with a sigh.
The young woman locked her eyes on her uncle, her brows raised in question. "Oh," she replied.
"I spoke to Denethor earlier about your returning to Dol Amroth with me," he continued.
Her hopeful eyes widened in anticipation.
"Sadly, he refused to grant his permission," he divulged.
"What?" she exclaimed, aghast by the news. "Why?"
"Your father said that the road is now too perilous for you to travel upon," he answered, not hiding the disdain in his voice. "I know. I know," he added, seeing the look of disbelief on her face. "Quite honestly, I found his comments not only distressing but rather insulting as well." Imrahil scowled. "This lord," he indicated to himself, "did not find the road too perilous to bring his children to Minas Tirith!" he scoffed.
"Did you tell him that?" she queried, still crushed to hear such devastating news.
"There was no need, Miriel, for we are here. Though I did remind the Steward that Erchirion and Amrothos are both younger than you."
Miriel felt a surge of anger. She leaped from her chair, glaring at her father's likeness in the portrait over the fireplace. "I feel like he's keeping me prisoner here!" she cried out. She then kicked the ottoman, a little too hard. It skidded across the floor several feet, much to the amazement of her uncle.
He rose from his chair. "Miriel! Do not take your anger out on the furnishings!" he admonished, speaking to her as if scolding a small child having a temper tantrum. Her uncle then composed himself, adding in a gentler voice, "There's always next year."
She turned to Imrahil. "If the road is too perilous today, then I deem he will say it is even worse next year!" Seething, she folded her arms across her chest. "Never again will I look upon the sea. And it's his fault. I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!" She stomped over to one of the windows in a huff, staring outside as the shadows thickened with the setting sun. Tears began to form in Miriel's eyes.
"Do not say such a thing," rebuffed Imrahil as he made his way to her. He stood behind his niece, placing his hands on her shoulders. "You may be wroth with your father, but do not say that you hate him."
"Sometimes I do," she whispered, a teardrop escaping from the corner of her eye and trailing down her face.
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do," she answered softly.
Imrahil gently turned her around. "Oh, my child, do not cry," he said kindly, wiping the dampness from her cheek. "It is your birthday tomorrow. Now is no time for sorrow, but for joy." He tried his best to be supportive, and offered her a smile. "There will be other journeys to Dol Amroth. I promise."
"No there won't," she said, pouting.
"I'll tell you what, Miriel. I will speak with Denethor again. Let's give it a few days though, alright?" He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger, as he always had since she was a small child.
She nodded, sniffing back her tears.
He then kissed her forehead and held her in his arms. "I will always be here for you, my sweet girl. If you ever need me, send word, and I will come."
"Thank you, Uncle," she said, feeling slightly better.
Not long afterwards, the supper bell rang out. Miriel and Imrahil left her chamber for Merethrond, where they would join the rest of the household.
The young woman avoided eye contact with Denethor throughout the meal, which she wolfed down in her eagerness to depart the Hall of Feasts.
Miriel's tension lifted after dinner when she, Bregolas, Faramir, Boromir, Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos went over to Boromir's house to celebrate Miriel's last day as a sixteen year old. Everyone shared stories involving Miriel, some of them quite silly, that had taken place in the past.
It was a joyful time, and one that seemed to pass by all too quickly. The reminiscing didn't stop, even after the young sons of Imrahil could no longer fight off sleep, and conked out on the floor of the sitting room where they had gathered.
When a cock crowed at five o' clock in the morning, Boromir decided to put an end to the festivities. Weariness had caught up with him at last. Miriel, however, felt wide-awake although she hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. Bregolas was the only one willing to stay up with her. He lasted about another hour before his need for sleep forced him to return to his home.
By that time, Andreth had already awakened and offered Miriel companionship. The nurse prepared a bath for the young woman, whose excitement rose with each passing minute, knowing that she'd be able to open all her gifts at breakfast. Once dressed in her pale blue gown, her mother-figure gave her a lovely silver hair clip in the shape of outstretched wings as a present. Miriel had Andreth pull back part of her hair, using the shiny, metal clasp to keep her locks in place. She then topped off her ensemble with the pearl swan circlet that had once belonged to her mother.
A beaming Andreth stood behind the Steward's daughter at her dressing table, looking at the girl's reflection in the mirror. "You look like a princess," she said, her eyes glistening with tears. The nurse was so proud of the woman Miriel had become.
"I'm no princess," answered the young woman. "The daughters of Stewards hold no title, other than that of Steward's daughter."
"Well, that's a crying shame, I tell you," replied Andreth with an air of annoyance. "The Steward is acting lord and their daughters should be titled."
Miriel laughed. "If only I had been born a male, then I would be some great captain."
"Humph!" sounded Andreth, still annoyed. "After all these years, somebody should have spoken up for the women in this land! It is a disgrace for one from a lordly line to remain title-less!"
"But, Andreth, discontent grows when women seek titles or claims of any kind," she remarked. "Look at our history. There was once a time when the eldest child became heir and ruler of the throne, whether male or female. Men did not look too kindly upon women holding the scepter, and seized that power from them. Just look at my namesake - Tar-Míriel of Númenor." She sighed. "There's been much bloodshed of our noble kind in the name of titles and the power it wields." The young woman shook her head. No, my dear Andreth, I would take none."
Miriel did not see the need for any such title. She already one - the Slayer, though none in Gondor would learn of it, until many years later.
"Nonsense. Utter nonsense," grumbled the nurse as she resumed brushing the young woman's hair beneath her hair clip.
The Steward's daughter couldn't help but smile. It seemed to her that Andreth thought much about titles for women in Gondor.
"Too long have we women been under appreciated by the rulers in this land," bemoaned the nurse. She tossed the brush onto the dressing table and added, "This has gone on long enough. I shall have a word with the Steward and demand that he find some suitable title for you - "
" - But Andreth, I do not seek any title," protested Miriel. "I am content with being… me."
The nurse ignored Miriel's objection and stamped out of the room with a look of determination on her face. She would march into Denethor's private quarters (unannounced and while the Steward was dressing!), and demand that he bestow upon his only daughter some noble title.
Once the Lord of Gondor got over the initial shock at the woman's audacity, he smiled. He believed that Andreth was speaking on behalf of his daughter, whose will was nearly as firm as his own. He vowed that he would find an appropriate title for Miriel, but would need some time to think on it.
Miriel's birthday breakfast proved to be the most wonderful that she ever remembered. Denethor had outdone himself, lavishing many expensive gifts on his only daughter. She received lots of jewelry, in all shapes and sizes, with gemstones in a rainbow of colors. Her father had imported many fine fabrics and linens from all over the country, which would be made into beautiful dresses and cloaks by the skillfulness of Fíriel, the finest seamstress in all of Minas Tirith. She was also given numerous pairs of shoes, an assortment of perfumes and bath oils, dozens of hair adornments, and a few handwritten copies of historical texts dating back from before the destruction of Númenor. The books, in particular, were of great interest, as they were copied from the original writings of Elendil and members of his household.
She appreciated the gifts and thanked her father for his generosity. Yet, she couldn't help but feel that Denethor was trying to bribe her with presents in an attempt to ease her mounting animosity toward him. Though her tension had lessened in the past week, it returned when she learned of her father's refusal to let her go back to Dol Amroth with Imrahil. In spite of that, today was her birthday, and Miriel wasn't about to let anyone ruin her day, not even the Lord of Gondor.
After she had opened all her gifts, Denethor summoned those present to the Citadel. The young woman was baffled by his request. She had no idea what her father had in mind, but followed his orders with the rest of the household.
Andreth had steered Miriel into the Great Hall, making sure that she stood before the throne of her father. "Andreth, what is going on?" she hissed to her nurse, who was standing behind her with her hands still on the young woman's shoulders.
"You will see soon enough," whispered the woman in her ear.
Denethor took a seat on his black stone chair on the bottommost step of the dais. On his lap, he placed his white rod, the only token of his office (other than the Horn of Vorondil, which he had already given to his heir, Boromir).
The Lord of Gondor then raised his right hand. Immediately, the murmurings within the mammoth chamber died down.
"Today, my youngest child and only daughter turns seventeen," he began. "It has been brought to my attention," his eyes darted to Andreth for a moment, "that the women of this land, namely, those descended from the noble House of Húrin have little honor and have bore no titles of respect since the Stewards have taken up the lordship of Gondor. Our women have been wronged," he continued, fixing his eyes on his daughter, "and I, Denethor, son of Echthelion, Steward and Lord of Gondor, will see to it that this slight is righted." Denethor's eyes twinkled in amusement; a smile graced his normally stern face. "Come forth, my daughter."
Miriel shot Andreth a contemptuous look, as the woman nudged her forward. Miriel stepped before her father's seat.
He motioned for her to drop to one knee.
She reluctantly did so, longing to be elsewhere at that moment.
In a softer voice he said, "You are the jewel of my heart, Miriel. And I love you more than you will ever know." Then, in a louder voice, Denethor proclaimed, "Therefore, I shall bestow upon you a title worthy of my affection for you. Today, I name you, Miriel, the White Lady of Gondor."
Those in attendance then broke out into applause and cheered.
Miriel felt her face turn three shades of red. Even over the raucous cheering, she could hear her father chuckling. She raised her head, meeting Denethor's gaze. His smiled broadened, his eyes gleaming with pride.
Feigning enthusiasm, she said, "Thank you, Father," before rising, and giving him a peck on the cheek.
He held her there for a moment, whispering in her ear, "I hope this helps dispel any grief between us, for it is not my intent to cause you sorrow. Brighter days await us, Miriel." Denethor kissed her cheek before adding, "And you still hold sway over my heart."
The young woman wanted to address his last comment by saying, "You mean the Dark Lord holds sway over your heart," but wasn't foolish enough to do so. Instead, she offered her father a smile.
The Steward then picked up the mallet at the foot of his chair, and banged the gong to his side. "Bring us wine," he bellowed to his servants, as the revelry began.
Desperately in need of fresh air, Miriel made her way through the throng, eager to escape their words of praise and the incessant cries of "White Lady of Gondor." She thought that that was too much, and dreaded the fact that her father believed that it was her desire to be titled. She was irked by Andreth's meddling and wished that her nurse had never approached Denethor on the subject in the first place.
Once outside, she felt instant relief. It was much quieter and the sky was cloudless and pale blue. She crossed the court, taking a seat by the fountain. She turned her gaze to the Withered Tree, eyeing the dead boughs as if seeing them for the first time. She had never noticed, until that moment, how much she felt like that tree. The White Tree had died long ago, and, to Miriel, it felt as if a part of her had already died too, and that if she didn't leave soon, she wouldn't long survive in Minas Tirith.
She shuddered, despite the warmth of the day. She couldn't help but wonder if she was experiencing one of those so-called prophetic Slayer moments, or if she was being struck by a sudden bout of melancholy. As she stared unblinkingly at the Tree, she reaffirmed to herself that she would soon leave Minas Tirith for the north. If she did not leave before Midsummer's Day, chances were she'd fail to find her northern kinsmen before winter arrived. And not knowing what road to travel upon, she expected that it would take her months to journey so far north.
Consumed with her thoughts, she was heedless to Bregolas' approach. With him, he carried two chalices of wine. He plopped down beside her. "Here you go, White Lady of Gondor," he said cheerfully, offering her a drink.
She faced the warrior, frowning. "I'll have you know that was Andreth's doing, not mine," she grumbled in discontent.
"There's no need to be ill-tempered, today of all days," he groaned, in no mood to deal with her grumpiness. "It's your birthday! It's a time of celebration." Bregolas smiled, raising his cup. "Let us drink to your health, and… and to your new title - White Lady of Gondor," he added impishly, feeling that a good ribbing would help lighten her mood.
He clanked his chalice against hers before taking a gulp.
Next thing he knew, Miriel swatted his arm. "Never call me that again!" she reprimanded, though her eyes were glinting with mischievousness.
"Ah, well, I am willing to take a beating from you as long as it's done in jest!" shot back Bregolas lightheartedly.
Miriel sipped her wine.
"I think the name Slayer is more befitting of who you truly are. You're not merely some fair maiden whose sole desire is to find a suitable husband and keep a fine home."
"You're right there, my dear Bregolas," she chuckled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "That reminds me, have you spoken with the good Steward yet?"
"No. I do not think now is the appropriate time. I would rather speak with him in private."
"I'm sure that Boromir will let you know when that will be," she answered with a sigh.
"So, tell me, Miriel: If Denethor agrees to our betrothal, will you go through with it?" he asked, watching her closely from the corner of his eye. "With the wedding, I mean."
"I told you I would, did I not?"
"Well, yes, I suppose," he replied. His tone revealed his doubt, which the young woman easily noticed.
Miriel looked up at Bregolas, and smiled. "You think that I would only marry you because of Boromir. Is that right?"
He shrugged.
She raised her brow, waiting for an answer.
Feeling Miriel's eyes boring into him, Bregolas nodded. "I would not have you become my wife if you did not love me." He turned, locking eyes with her, and skeptically asked, "Do you?"
Still smiling, she answered with, "I can honestly say that you are the only man I love, outside of family."
Bregolas smiled when he heard that.
"Granted, it's not the type of love that has me swooning at your feet… " She paused, noticing the look of disappointment on his face. "Perhaps, in time, that will change," she added, taking his hand in hers. "You are a dear friend, and the only one in this whole world that I trust completely. If that is not an appropriate foundation to build a relationship upon, then I don't know what is."
"Sometimes, I think you are wiser than your years," he remarked, tightening his hold on her hand.
Miriel rested her head against his shoulder again. "I watch and listen, and hope that I learn from others' mistakes." She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun and Bregolas' body, both of which she found quite comforting.
Her words were not said out of maliciousness, but out of love. She had never been oblivious of his feelings for her, but she knew that she and Bregolas would never wed. She was lying to him too - not about her feelings - she did care a great deal about him. However, she did conceal her plans to leave the city in ten days time, as she had decided.
She could only assume that after she had gone, Bregolas would move on with his life. Eventually, he'd find the love of another, marry her, and have the life he had always dreamt of for himself. Miriel wouldn't have to worry about his dying from grief. According to the legends of old, only women succumbed to grief, not men. Just like Finduilas. How unhappy her mother must have been to give up her own life while granting new life to Miriel. The young woman found it even sadder that she had never gotten to know the woman that she so closely resembled, and sometimes wondered if any knew what a curse that truly was.
Miriel wanted to push her dark thoughts from her mind. Today was her day, her special day, and she needn't dwell on things beyond her control.
She and Bregolas remained on that bench until it was time for the midday meal. As they made their way, hand in hand, toward Merethrond, Boromir exited the doors of the Citadel in search of Bregolas. When he spotted him with his sister, he summoned him inside.
"This is it," said Bregolas with a nervous laugh.
"It'll be fine," answered Miriel in her most reassuring voice. She fixed the collar of his shirt. "Do not be nervous."
"That's easy for you to say," he replied, noticing that his mouth was already going dry.
"You'll be fine," she repeated though her stomach seemed to twist and turn uncomfortably.
"Alright then," he said before taking a deep breath. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck," she whispered with a smile. She then pressed her lips softly against his, the first time she had ever done so. They looked deeply into each other's eyes for a moment or two, then parted ways, he to the Citadel and she to Merethrond.
People trickled into the Hall of Feasts through the various doors. Instead of taking a seat beside her father, as she had done earlier, Miriel felt compelled to sit at the far end of the main table, away from the Steward's seat.
A feeling of uneasiness was creeping over her, as she stared transfixed at the door of the building that her father, brother and Bregolas would enter.
What little appetite she had, diminished. Her eyes remained locked on the chamber door, and she ignored those seated around her that tried to engage her in conversation.
Imrahil, seeing that, immediately felt the need to investigate the change in his niece's demeanor. He came over, taking the empty seat beside her, and asked what was wrong.
With her eyes still glued to the door, she hastily told him about Bregolas' meeting with her father.
Smiling, the Prince of Dol Amroth now understood the reason behind her obvious anxiety. He assured her that all would be well then returned to his seat at the other end of the table.
Time seemed to tick slowly by, so slowly that even Andreth ordered everyone to eat despite the fact that their lord had not yet entered the Hall.
Miriel's eyes darted to the clock. Ten minutes had passed, then fifteen. She took a swig of wine, hoping that would calm her nerves. It didn't.
When thirty-two minutes had passed, and the meal was nearly over, the door finally opened, and in came Denethor with Boromir, talking at his side, followed by Bregolas.
She scrutinized the men. Her father looked as grim-faced as ever. Boromir was talking to Denethor; his expression serious. Then there was Bregolas, who appeared worn-out. She chuckled to herself, noticing that her father had that affect on many people. Only the strong-willed could endure the Steward's keen, penetrating eyes, as he searched one's mind for the truth. Unfortunately, it did leave one quite drained afterwards.
Miriel waved the warrior over, catching her father's eye for a moment before he looked away. She thought that that was rather odd. Normally, she was quick to break eye contact with her father, not the other way around.
Bregolas settled into the chair beside her, and began to eagerly fill his plate. "I'm famished," he announced.
The young woman stared at him, somewhat stunned that he didn't immediately reveal how his conversation with her father had gone.
"Well!" she finally said when her patience reached its end. "What happened? What did he say?"
The warrior's teeth tore the flesh off the chicken leg in his hand instead of replying.
Miriel leaned forward and glanced down the table at her father. He looked to be in deep conversation with Imrahil and did not meet her gaze. She then turned her attention back to Bregolas, staring at him as he ate. Frustrated at his lack of decency, she hissed, "Find me when you've finished eating." She then rose from the table and hastily left Merethrond.
Without really thinking of where she was going, Miriel found herself treading the path to Fen Hollen. The gatekeeper permitted her passage, and she continued on to the House of Stewards. When she pulled open one of the main doors to the tomb, she felt a rush of icy cold air from the opening, instantly causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. Most people would hesitate, thinking twice about entering the halls under such ominous conditions, distrusting the stream of frigid air, but not Miriel. She stepped inside the deserted tomb, closing the door, and shutting out the afternoon sunlight.
The interior of the building was as black as a starless night. No lamps were lit, and it took a few moments for her Slayer eyes to adjust to the darkness. The young woman could see puffs of her breath from the cold, as she made her way through the large, shadowy chamber. It was silent except for the sound of her footfalls, which echoed within the marble walls of the structure.
She stopped beside the resting place of Ecthelion. "Hail, Grandfather. It's me," she said, placing her hands on the edge of his cold marble bed. "I had this sudden urge to visit you today. It's… it's my birthday. I am now seventeen."
From behind, a deep voice answered, "Happy birthday, my Granddaughter."
Miriel smiled. She turned, facing the misty form of Ecthelion that seemed to glide from behind a pillar.
"It's been too long, Grandfather," she continued, her heart starting to race with excitement.. "I've come many times, hoping to speak with you again." The smile faded from her face. "Why has it taken eleven years for me to see you again?"
"Some things are beyond even my control, my dear Miriel." He slowly floated toward her, just as he had when she was a child. "Let me get a good look at you," he went on, the air seemingly turning even colder. "My, how you have grown." He stopped before her. Echthelion then reached out, caressing her cheek with his phantom hand.
Miriel trembled from the chill of his touch. Yet, somehow, his spectral form became clearer, more life-like upon doing so. He appeared as mortal as she. His grey hair and beard seemed to shimmer within the gloom of the chamber, and his dark eyes brightened with life, as he slowly inspected the young woman standing before him.
"How I wish I could give you some sort of gift on your special day, Miriel," he confessed, displaying his empty hands.
"You're here. That is gift enough," she replied, the smiling returning to her face.
"Perhaps," he continued, sweeping past her to the marble table where his empty hröa lay, "I can counsel you in your time of need."
The young woman turned toward the table, but her eyes remained fixed on the Echthelion standing at her side. She didn't answer, and wondered what advice her grandfather had to offer.
"It has been six months since you have been called as the Slayer."
Her jaw dropped, amazed that he knew about that.
The late Steward turned his gaze to her. "Yes, my child. I have heard all you had to say," he said, a smile adorning his ruggedly handsome face. "I may not have been able to answer you, but I did hear you. I can only hope that you will listen to what I have to say."
"And what is that?" she queried, eager to hear all Ecthelion had to say.
"You have tarried in Minas Tirith for far too long, avoiding your sacred duty - "
" - But, Grandfather, I was not yet ready to combat evil. I had not been properly trained in weaponry or warfare," she said defensively, cutting off his sentence.
His facial expression turned somber, eerily resembling that of Denethor. "Yet six months has past since that day in December. Practicing with wooden weapons will only take you so far, my dear. As long as you remain within the confines of Rammas Echor, you will learn nothing. It is outside the walls where you will be tested against real enemies… and defeat them." He emphasized the latter part of his sentence. "You are the Slayer, and I have the utmost faith in you. However, you have lingered in the White City much longer than you should have, avoiding your destiny."
Ecthelion's words made her feel as though she had dishonored the institution of the Slayer. She had thought that she was doing what was best - preparing for her inevitable departure, trying to learn the skills to survive in the wilds of Middle-earth.
She bowed her head in shame. "I had decided to leave on Midsummer's Day," she replied bleakly. "I just wanted to make sure that I was prepared to survive in the world."
"You are a descendent of Húrin and the Edain of old! Of course, you're able to survive. Our noble blood line has endured whilst the line of Kings has failed."
Miriel looked up, meeting the gaze of her grandfather. "Our bloodline had already diminished, even in your day. We are not as great as we once were."
"No?" he questioned, cocking his head to the side. "Yet, you, a scion from the House of Húrin, were chosen by those in the West to be the Slayer. No such honor has ever been bestowed upon any from our House. This is your time to make your mark on the world, to prove that the women of our line can be as great as the men."
The young woman shifted her gaze to the lifeless body of her grandfather. Her mind was swimming with thoughts.
"You should make haste, Miriel," added Ecthelion with an air of caution in his voice. "I fear for you if you should wait overly long."
Now, Miriel felt honored that her grandfather had only revealed himself to her. But, a part of her was beginning to resent the fact that the men in her life tried to influence or dictate her decisions. Maybe, she was beginning to rebel, or, perhaps, she trusted her own judgment over theirs. Rushing into the vast world without learning how to fight sounded far more disturbing than taking her time, preparing for that inevitable day. Why could her grandfather not see that?
She turned to Ecthelion, fixing her steely eyes on him. "I had already made up my mind, Lord," she said resolutely. "I will leave the White City on Midsummer's Day."
"That is nearly a fortnight away!" countered Ecthelion in alarm.
Miriel remained steadfast. "True," she answered. "I love you, Grandfather, and often I have come here and found solace in your company." She felt herself becoming bolder, undaunted by his lordly presence. "I am now seventeen and can make my own decisions. Once I leave Minas Tirith, there will be no coming back. Today is my birthday, and as far as I can foresee, it will be the last grand celebration that I will ever have. I shall keep to my original plan, and enjoy my last days here in the company of those whom I love."
"If that is your choice, then so be it," replied Ecthelion. "It is not in my power to undo what is to come."
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean? What is it that you see?"
His form began to wane, turning ghostly again. "I'm afraid that you will find out soon enough, my dear Miriel."
Feeling the same frustration as she had with Bregolas, she decided not to play mind games with any man anymore. "Riddles," she uttered, shaking her head. "The men of this House always speak in damned riddles." She then fixed her eyes on the spectral form of her grandfather. "Fare you well, my Lord. I feel… I feel like celebrating now." She then turned and marched out of the House of Stewards. Though her meeting with Ecthelion was not how she had expected it be, she did depart feeling more powerful and confident than ever before.
When Miriel had left, a wicked grin came to Ecthelion's face and his eyes shone like fire. "Foolish child," he hissed icily in the darkness. "She shall soon learn the hard way to heed the counsel of her elders." He then laughed - a shrill, cold laughter that would have chilled any mortal to the marrow…
Once outside, the woman stepped off the white, pillared terrace of the House of Stewards and basked in the sunlight that bathed Rath Dínen, which is the Silent Street. She fervently rubbed her arms, not realizing how truly cold it was inside the tombs. If there was anything she had gleaned from Ecthelion's visit, it was that Miriel was going to do what Miriel wanted to do. She would not be staying in Minas Tirith much longer and would enjoy each day as if it were her last.
It was not long before she ran into Bregolas on the seventh level, and finally heard about his conversation with Denethor. She wasn't surprised to learn that her father had said no to their betrothal, deeming that Miriel was too young. The Steward told Bregolas not to lose hope and that he would reconsider the warrior's appeal next year. While Bregolas seemed disappointed by the news, Miriel was not. It seemed to her that her dear friend had forgotten that their betrothal was a ruse, and that they would only follow through if need be.
"Cheer up, Bregolas!" she said happily, eager to resume her birthday celebration. "You seem to forget that our betrothal was merely a ploy to deceive Boromir from finding out the truth. Our secret is still safe. No one knows!"
"I suppose you're right," he answered with a dejected sigh.
"Oh my dear Bregolas! Do not be sad today of all days!" she said, doing her best to raise his spirits. "It's my birthday, and I want to celebrate it with you. But, I shall change my mind if I do not see that smile of yours."
With her fingers, she lifted his lips upward into a grin. When she removed her fingers, the frown returned to the warrior's face.
"So, that is how it is going to be, eh?" she said, playfully rubbing her chin as if she were analyzing the situation.
The spark was beginning to return to Bregolas' eyes. He struggled to keep from smiling, finding Miriel rather entertaining at the moment.
The young woman's eyes then lit up. "I think I found the answer! Maybe this will help your mood." She stepped forward, clasped his face with her hands and kissed him. It was not like the peck she had given him earlier, but a deep, opened-mouthed kiss. Miriel was a little surprised at her forwardness, particularly when it came to affairs of the heart. That was uncharted territory for her. Nonetheless, Bregolas seemed wholly responsive. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, and kissed her back.
Needless to say, the warrior's joy swiftly returned. He and Miriel spent the better part of the day alone together seated on the swath of green grass outside the Citadel. They remained there until the sky turn pinkish-purple as the sun sank in the west.
Miriel excused herself so that she could change for her birthday feast. She was eager to wear her new red and gold gown that she had had made for just this occasion.
Once dressed, she joined her friends and family in Merethrond. Unlike the previous meals, more people attended the dinner since it was the grandest of all the meals that day and would be followed by music, singing, and dancing.
Miriel was seated between her father and Faramir at the main table. Surrounding them sat their immediate family, including Boromir, Imrahil and his kindred. Further down, on the opposite side of the table, sat Bregolas between Amrothos and Andreth.
While the revelers dined on their three-course meal, the minstrels sang. It took an enormous amount of self-restraint for Miriel to hide her displeasure when they sang a newly written song about her, entitled, The White Lady of Gondor. Several times, she cast a disapproving look in Andreth's direction, but the nurse simply beamed in response.
Once the meal was over, the merry-making truly began. Barrels of ale were opened and wine flowed freely into silver goblets or crystal flutes.
It was custom, on such occasions, for the Steward's daughter to dance the first dance with her father. Yet, Miriel found herself giving that honor to Bregolas. Perhaps, deep down, she did that out of spite, or, maybe, selfishness. She really didn't think about it, choosing instead to live in the moment. And to her, it just felt right.
Denethor thought better than to usurp Bregolas' station with his daughter, deeming that it was not a battle worth fighting. He asked Andreth to dance, and she happily obliged.
Miriel soon found that her lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. After a couple of hours of dancing with Bregolas, her brothers, Imrahil, each one of her cousins, and a few of Gondor's chief councilors, she found herself tired and in desperate need of a break. She took a seat at an empty table, sipping a glass of wine while watching the revelers.
"Is this seat taken?" asked Faramir, who had approached from behind.
Smiling, she motioned for him to sit.
He clutched a tankard of ale in his hand, his eyes scanning the crowd. "It has been too long since we've celebrated so," he said.
Miriel nodded in agreement. Her eyes stopped on Bregolas and Boromir, who looked to be entertaining a bevy of young ladies.
Faramir noticed her observing the group. "I do not think you have cause to worry, sister," he chuckled. "Bregolas only has eyes for you."
She shifted her gaze to her brother. "Who says I'm worrying?" she asked, fanning herself with her hand. She suddenly felt a lot hotter.
"Then I guess I was wrong," he answered with a grin. "It would not be the first time."
"I'm not the jealous type," she remarked, her eyes darting back to Bregolas. Her brows shot up in surprise when she saw him dancing with one of the women.
"Of course not," said Faramir, trying to suppress his laughter. He decided that he needed to divert Miriel's attention away from the spectacle. "I hope you did not think that I had forgotten to get you a gift," he mentioned out of the blue.
She faced her brother once again. "You did not have to get me anything."
"That's a relief," he responded with a dramatic sigh, "as I did not buy you anything."
Puzzled, Miriel stared at her brother, wondering why he had even mentioned anything about a gift if he had not gotten her one.
"What does one buy for a woman that has everything?" he remarked, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a small roll of parchment. "It then occurred to me that my sister would like something thoughtful, and unique." He handed the small scroll to her. "For you, Miriel. Happy birthday."
She smiled, thanking him as she unrolled the document. She fell quiet, tears coming to her eyes, as she read the poem that Faramir had written for her. It was incredibly heartfelt and touching. When she finished, she looked up at her brother. "I love it," she said, her grin widening. "It is the most precious gift that I have received." She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big hug. "Thank you, Faramir. I will treasure it always."
"I was afraid that you would think I was cheap!" he said, after pulling out of the embrace. "I could have bought you a bottle of perfume or some sort of trinket."
"Pfft!" she sounded. "I have far too many as it is. This is something of greater value, to me, at least."
"I'm pleased that you like it."
Faramir was only able to distract Miriel briefly. Once again, her eyes swept the room in search of Bregolas. He was now dancing with someone else. "Wench," she hissed under her breath before guzzling down the rest of her wine.
Faramir laughed, amused by his sister's lame attempt at indifference.
"I could use a refill, my good brother," informed Miriel, sliding her empty glass toward Faramir.
"I imagine so," he snickered, reaching for an opened bottle of wine at the next table. As he filled her cup with the amber liquid he added, "It is quite unbecoming to scowl. Keep that up and your face will stay that way."
Miriel turned to her brother, the frown still on her face. "I'm not scowling!" she growled.
"Look at that! Twice I have been wrong in my observations this evening," he chortled. "I think that may be a record!"
"The night is still young!" quipped Miriel before taking a long drink.
"Watch it there, Miriel!" he warned. "You should not drink so much, so quickly, unless it is your aim to get drunk."
Her eyes went back to Bregolas and his companion. "Who invited Morwen anyway?" she grumbled. "She's surely not a friend of mine. Look at her!" she continued, looking at the golden haired beauty with disdain. "Who does she think she is?"
"Oh, no, you are not the jealous type," commented Faramir, mocking her earlier statement.
Miriel's head spun around as she fixed her narrowed eyes on her brother, who now wore a look of innocence on his face.
"Was it something I said?" he queried, feigning innocence.
"You're not helping."
"It is not the end of the world, my dear sister," answered Faramir with a laugh. "Morwen is the daughter of one of Father's chief councilors. If you have a problem with her being here, then I suggest you speak to the Steward."
She turned away from her brother, now having lost sight of Bregolas and the harlot. She grumbled under her breath. "Where is Father?" she asked, her eyes scanning the throng.
Faramir's eyes searched the room too. "I do not see him. Perhaps he has left."
"Maybe," she answered, still distracted as she searched for Bregolas.
"Enough of this!" exclaimed her brother, slamming his tankard on the table. He rose from his seat. "Come, Miriel. Dance with me."
"Oh, yes," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "I will surely make Bregolas jealous by dancing with my brother."
Faramir pulled Miriel to her feet, and began to dance with her. Her annoyance gradually dissipated, though he believed it was largely due to his charming personality, not the wine. Whatever it was, Miriel's bitter resentment toward Morwen had waned.
She shared several dances with Faramir, and he did make her feel better. Although her eyes constantly sought out Bregolas, and she was content to see that he was now talking with a few men.
When Bregolas finally approached, asking for a dance, Miriel was delighted. She did find herself slightly confused by her behavior and didn't understand why she felt so possessive of the warrior. That was very unlike her.
Bregolas, on the other hand, had noticed her watching him, and he teased her endlessly about it. He was elated at the mere thought of her being jealous of his dancing with another.
No matter how hard Miriel tried, she couldn't convince him otherwise. The warrior could see right through her.
Sometime around eleven thirty, she noticed that her father had returned. He sat by himself, watching her. She could feel his eyes upon her, even when she wasn't facing him. When she glanced at him again, she noticed his cheeks were flushed, the result of consuming too much wine. Oh how Miriel hated it when her father drank overly much. The thought alone caused her to shudder.
When Bregolas felt her tremble in his arms, he stopped. "Are you cold?" he asked with concern.
"No, no. I felt a cold chill pass through me is all," she answered weakly. She was beginning to wonder if Denethor was trying to pierce her mind from afar, zapping what little strength she had left in the process. "I think I've grown weary at last."
"It's about time!" he exclaimed. "How long has it been since you've last slept?"
"I do not remember," she answered faintly, feeling as though exhaustion had hit her all at once. "My bed is calling to me. I need sleep. Will you - "
" - My Lord," interjected Bregolas, staring over Miriel's shoulder.
A grimace came to Miriel's face. Even with her father standing behind her, she could smell spirits on his breath.
"The night is waning and I have yet to dance with my only daughter," said Denethor.
"Of course, my Lord. Of course," answered the warrior, obediently stepping aside so that the Lord of Gondor could dance with his daughter.
Miriel mouthed the words, 'Wait for me,' to Bregolas as he stepped further away.
Denethor then took the warrior's place, and began to dance with his daughter. "Why is it that I feel that you have been avoiding me this evening?" queried the Steward. Already his dark eyes began to probe her mind. "I have spent a small fortune on this celebration and, somehow, I get the impression that it is unappreciated."
"That's not true," protested Miriel, trying to fight off her father's penetrating gaze with what remaining strength she had. "I am quite thankful."
"Hmm," sounded Denethor, his eyes momentarily darting to Bregolas, who sat at a table with Faramir. "Then perhaps you are wroth with me over my conversation with the son of Halthor, that I have denied him your hand."
The young woman didn't know what to say. She was exerting so much effort to shield her thoughts from Denethor that she couldn't come up with an answer quick enough.
"I have hit near the mark, have I not?" he continued. "Tell me, my daughter: why is it that when I look in your eyes, I do not see the same love that Bregolas has for you? One would think that your courtship was merely a ploy, a ploy to leave my house."
"I do love him," she replied, her voice wavering as she spoke.
Denethor laughed, sensing that his daughter's words were said in vain. "You cannot hide the truth from me, Miriel. I can see your mind. My will is stronger than you deem. Not even Boromir can withstand my scrutinizing gaze."
At those words, Miriel's face became pale. And if she had thought that a cold chill had swept through her earlier, that was nothing compared to what she was currently experiencing. Denethor's last comment proved to be revealing, and confirmed to Miriel that he knew of the story that she had devised to hide her secret from her brother. She was terrified, not only for herself but also for Bregolas.
Seeing her reaction, Denethor's eyes once again darted to Bregolas, before he locked them on his daughter. "The punishment is severe for one who dares to violate the Steward's daughter. I do not think I can stress that enough, my daughter. I have decided to delay my judgment of Bregolas until tomorrow, as I would not want to spoil your special day."
Miriel summoned all her courage, and tried her best to maintain what was left of her composure. "I do not know what you think you have learned, Father, but Bregolas is an honorable man and has committed no crime."
The Lord of Gondor kept his eyes fixed on his daughter. He solemnly replied, "Yet I remain unconvinced."
"You are the wisest in these lands," she answered, "and cannot be easily deceived. If you cannot see that I speak the truth, then an innocent man will suffer needlessly. And I would not have that whether that be your will or not."
"It appears that you are protecting the protector!" Denethor snickered in response. "Is Bregolas not a man with needs?" he queried, raising his brow as he spoke.
Miriel felt her blood run cold. Her father's question mirrored her own remark to Boromir, near verbatim.
"What needs you speak of, Lord and Father, I do not know," she lied in a composed voice. "Though if he has them, I deem he sates them elsewhere. He has done no ill to me."
The young woman felt sick to her stomach. She could no longer endure her father's questions and accusatory tone. Though she tried her best to remain calm, her body betrayed her. Beads of sweat had materialized on her forehead and neck and she had begun to tremble and grow weaker from Denethor's penetrating gaze.
Unfortunately, these changes that overcame her did not go unnoticed by the Lord of Gondor.
Deciding that she needed to get out of this situation as quickly as possible, she said, "I am weary, Father and have not slept in some time. I hope that you will reassess whatever doubts you have regarding Bregolas. He has done no wrong to me, or anyone else. I am sure that in the morning you will see things more clearly. Will you please refrain from reaching any conclusions until you speak with both of us, together?"
Denethor halted, but held his daughter in his arms. He searched her eyes, much to Miriel's dismay. "I am not one to react on impulse and without reason," he finally said. "I will delay my judgment of Bregolas. Perhaps the dawn will bring me new counsel."
Miriel smiled gratefully at her father. "Thank you, Father," she said, embracing him.
The Steward kissed the top of his daughter's head. "Off to bed, Miriel. Off to bed," he said.
The young woman turned and quickly headed toward the door, motioning for Bregolas to follow her. He caught up with her outside the doors to Merethrond.
"What is it?" he asked, watching her keenly in the dim light of the lamps. "You look like you've seen a Nazgûl!"
"Say no such things!" she snapped, wearily clinging to the warrior's arm for support. "Oh, Bregolas, bad tidings do I have to share, and," she glanced up at the star-spectacled black sky, "the night portends evil." She shivered though there was no breeze and the air was warm.
"What? What is it?" he cried, as they hastened to the King's House.
In a hushed whisper, she told him of her conversation with her father. The more that Bregolas heard, the graver he became.
"Portend evil is right!" he said in distress. "Denethor is going to have my head!"
"I do not foresee that, my friend, though I deem that I shall suffer as a result."
"What do you mean?" asked Bregolas, stopping her in the empty corridor inside the King's House. "How will you suffer?" The warrior was greatly concerned about Miriel's well-being.
"Will you do me a favor?" she asked.
"I will do anything for you, even scale the heights of Orodruin, if that is your will," he answered.
"Keep guard of my door tonight, but do not be seen. Hide in the alcove down the hall," she instructed Bregolas, as they resumed walking down the corridor.
"Why? Why would you need me to guard your door?" queried the confused warrior.
"Just do it!" she barked, her mood already having turned foul.
"Alright, alright." Bregolas did not understand the need to watch her door, but he would do as she asked.
When they reached her bedchamber door, she pointed to the alcove down the hall in which Bregolas was to stand guard. She then bid him goodnight, and disappeared into her room.
Bregolas didn't know how much time had passed when his eyelids began to grow heavy. With only a few hours sleep the night before, and after drinking much wine, he found himself struggling to keep awake. Often, he would close his eyes, only for a moment, but would fall into a light sleep, even while standing.
Slumped against the wall, dozing, he snapped awake when he heard the sound of a door clicking closed. Immediately, the hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. He rubbed his eyes, waiting and listening intently. All seemed silent. He dared to peek around the edge of the wall, but found the corridor empty in either direction.
The warrior wondered if he had imagined the sound, or if it was part of a dream he no longer remembered. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. It was only twelve twenty two, though it seemed much later than that.
The commands of Miriel came to his mind, and he thought that perhaps he should check on her. He took a step, and the floor seemed to creak loudly under his foot. He stepped back, alarmed. His heart began to race. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins; hear his heart beating in his ears. Bregolas had misgivings. He remained frozen to the spot, befuddled, and pondering what he should do next.
Maybe twenty minutes or so later, he heard a door creak open and softly close. He held his breath, listening intently. He then heard the sound of someone humming and footfalls going down the opposite end of the corridor.
Cautiously, he peeked around the corner and was stunned to see the back of Denethor ambling down the hall, humming a song of Númenor. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what business had brought the Lord of Gondor to that part of the house, especially at that hour. He watched until Denethor disappeared around the corner.
Bregolas' eyes then darted to Miriel's bedchamber door. Was that where Denethor had gone? he asked himself. Where else would he have gone? The sound had come from that area of the corridor, he thought.
He hesitated, trying to process his thoughts. When all fell silent, he warily went down the hall, stopping outside Miriel's door. He pressed his ear against the cool wood, listening for any sound. He could hear nothing. Glancing up and down the corridor, he gently tapped on the door with his knuckles. His knock was so light, yet the sound seemed amplified to his ears.
Biting his lip, he once again looked up and down the hall, almost expecting someone, maybe even Denethor himself, to suddenly spring upon him. But, thankfully, he saw and heard nothing.
Carefully, he reached for the knob and slowly turned it until it unlatched. He then eased the door open, as quietly as he could. With the door ajar, he slipped inside, closing it behind him.
The room was dark. He turned, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The bath chamber door was partially opened, spilling a narrow stream of dim light across the floor toward Miriel's bed. The bed was vacant, the bedclothes strewn about, hanging over the foot of the bed. He stepped further into the sitting area, his eyes scanning the room.
A muffled sound caused him to turn toward the bathroom. Miriel had to be inside, for he had not seen her leave with Denethor.
"Miriel?" he faintly called, his voice sounding hoarse.
He heard no answer.
With his trepidation mounting, he warily crossed the floor toward the stream of light. With his heart pounding, he reached for the bath chamber door, easing it open.
When he caught sight of Miriel, he gasped in horror. She was naked, sitting on the edge of the tub, scrubbing her flesh raw with a wet cloth. Her long dark hair was unbound, tousled, forming a curtain that hid her face. She was softly crying.
Bregolas stood there, in shock, as he quickly put the pieces of this puzzle together. Images that had flashed in his mind previously, now made sense. The evil that Miriel had portended was for her and her alone, and Denethor was the menacing shadow that she had come to fear. This evil, he deemed, had Sauron written all over it.
Tears welled in the warrior's eyes, and pity filled his heart. "Miriel," he said, choking back the tears.
She looked up. Silent tears streamed down her red and puffy face. "You were supposed to keep watch," she cried. "You were supposed to protect me. And you didn't. You didn't."
Bregolas trembled all over. Tears now ran down his face. His guilt was nearly unbearable but he had to regain his wits, for her. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he ran over to Miriel, covering her nakedness, and pulling her protectively into his arms. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I did not know. I did not know what evil lurked in this house. Forgive me, Miriel. Please, forgive me."
The young woman clung to Bregolas. "Help me, Bregolas. Please, help me. He's… he's killing me," she wept in despair.
The warrior's horror turned to unbridled rage. He had reached his breaking point…
