Amras the Stableboy
Chapter 6
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"Imrahil," asked Denethor, "Is your sister engaged to Forlong or is she not?"
Imrahil looked at Amras the stableboy's back. Amras' back looked as if it were all ears.
"My sister is not comfortable with the idea of marrying Forlong. But she is too much a coward to openly say so," answered Imrahil. "I've been asking her from the start to speak her mind, but she hesitates to do so. And the longer she hesitates, the harder it will be for her to speak when she eventually decides to do so."
"But why does she hesitate to speak her mind," asked Denethor.
Imrahil shrugged. "I don't know. It's sheer cowardice, I think. "
"Perhaps it isn't cowardice. Perhaps, being a lady of gentle temperament, she does not like to thrust her opinions on others," suggested Denethor.
Imrahil looked at him in surprise.
'How is it that without ever having met her, you speak of her gentleness and humility? You sound as if you know her!"
"That's how women are said to be," smiled Denethor. "They are gentle. They are kind. They wear skirts. They are skilled in arts such as embroidery. And they do not oppose the will of others."
Imrahil looked at Amras' back. Amras' back had an inscrutable look.
My sister wears my old clothes, a wig and a fake moustache and runs along the shore, thought Imrahil. She is skilled with a sword and could beat me in a duel. And yet, she is gentle and hesitates to oppose the will of others.
"Why don't you encourage her to speak, Imrahil? Why don't you encourage her to marry someone she loves?" asked Denethor.
"My sister is a cynic," said Imrahil. "She says that it is childish and juvenile for a real woman in the real world to dream of a handsome prince sweeping her off her feet. She says that in the real world, men are sorry specimens, and that she should be mature enough to accept the fact that she must marry someone less than perfect."
"That is a mature argument, Imrahil,' said Denethor.
"It is far too... I don't know. She should not take such a cynical attitude. It is true that the man she will marry might be less than perfect. But he need not be this far from perfection..."
Imrahil was silenced by the laughter in Denethor's eyes. He shrugged. "I think that my sister deserves better, that's all."
"Your sister must be beautiful," said Denethor.
Imrahil shrugged. "She's all right."
Denethor smiled to himself. Judging by Imrahil's parents, and Imrahil himself, he was sure that Imrahil's sister was not just "all right."
"If you wished to marry a woman," burst out Imrahil in disgust, "would you be so crass as to ask your father to speak to her father? Would you not woo her, express your love to her, try to win her over and then propose to her?"
"The second option seems a lot more tedious and time consuming than the first," said Denethor. "So, yes, I would ask my father to speak to the lady's father." He grinned at Imrahil's horrified look. "You are a hopeless romantic, Imrahil."
"Indeed, I am not," said Imrahil hotly. "And I am sure you do not mean what you just said."
Denethor grinned apologetically. "I'm afraid I do," he said. "What on earth would I say to a woman, Imrahil? And what woman in her right mind would fall in love with someone who looks like me? Women make me nervous. I cannot even wish a lady a good morning or pleasant day. So proposing to one of them is quite out of the question."
"You speak of women as an elf would speak of a dwarf," said Imrahil.
Denethor smiled. "In fact, I do regard them as an elf would regard a dwarf. I still remember the elaborately overdressed dolls that my mother would introduce me to, when she was alive. I never could think of a thing to say to them. I could not spend fifteen minutes in their company, let alone a lifetime."
Frustration flooded into his voice.
"Imrahil, every idiot on the street has the right to choose his own profession. But I have no choice but to eventually become the Steward of Gondor waste my whole life on countless futile battles against Mordor that will wear me out and send me to my grave insane.
"And Imrahil, every fool on the street has the freedom to choose whether or not he wishes to marry. But as for me, it is my duty to breed hordes of crude replicas of myself, in order to perpetuate my line..."
Denethor looked so upset that Imrahil tried to convert his smile into a look of sympathy. But all he could manage was a smilingly sympathetic look. He put his hand on Denethor's arm.
"It might not be so bad..."
'Oh yes, it will," snapped Denethor. "Your father and mine are nothing but farmers, bringing together livestock of the right pedigree to create more livestock of the right pedigree. It sickens me!"
Denethor's was speaking passionately now, and had unwittingly raised his voice.
"Come, now," said Imrahil, "you need not look at it like that. If you find someone you love, the ugly chore might instead become a beautiful journey."
Denethor growled in reply, and glared at Amras' back.
"Even young Amras here has the freedom to choose whether he wishes to marry and whom he wishes to marry. But I do not."
Imrahil looked at Amras' back. It was still inscrutable.
"...and as for falling in love," continued Denethor, "I happened to look in a mirror this morning, Imrahil – not out of vanity, I hasten to add, but simply in order to comb my hair – and I saw in that mirror nothing that would be likely to inspire the love of a woman."
Amras the stableboy spoke up all of a sudden.
"You are too harsh on yourself, my lord."
Denethor looked up at Amras' back.
"Would you fall in love with me, Amras?"
"You forget, my lord, that I am not a woman," answered Amras.
"And that fact is easy to forget, Amras, because your soulful blue eyes with their long curling lashes would be much better suited to a woman's face, and..."
Amras the stableboy stiffened in fear, and he decided to speak no more for fear that his disguise would be found out.
"If Forlong can think of getting married, I don't see why you can't," said Imrahil, quickly changing the subject.
"Forlong knows his limitations as well as I do. Neither of us would attempt to win a woman's love. No. The father will speak to the father, and that will be that."
"That sort of negotiation might be suitable for Forlong, but not for you or me," said Imrahil.
Denethor smiled. "No, Imrahil. You could make a woman fall in love with you. For that matter, you could make hundreds of women fall in love with you. But Forlong and I..."
"Do not speak of Forlong and yourself as being alike," growled Imrahil. "He is not aware of his limitations. In fact, Forlong of Lossarnach is not aware that he has any. He thinks he's irresistible to women..."
Denethor grinned. "He might be -- who knows? Who knows what women think? And who can understand them?"
"I can understand them, my lord."
It was Amras who had spoken.
Denethor's grin widened. "You know all about women, Amras?"
"Yes I do, my lord."
"And what do you know about women, Amras?"
"They have minds that think, my lord. They have feelings that can be hurt. They are not commodities to be sold for the purpose of breeding the heirs of princes."
Denethor chuckled. "Why, I'd never have known that! I'd never have known it if not for you, Amras. I've always thought that women are singularly unintelligent, and that they should know their place, and that they exist for the sole purpose of breeding heirs for useless men..." He burst out laughing at the look on Imrahil's face. "Don't look so shocked, Imrahil. Amras understands my sense of humour. Amras knows that that was a joke – don't you, Amras?"
"It wasn't funny," said Imrahil.
Denethor and Imrahil looked at Amras' back. It was more inscrutable than ever.
But unbeknownst to them, Amras the stableboy smiled to himself.
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