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Chapter ten.
In the lull of the morning.
He was moving swiftly along the corridor to his own chambers to spend last minutes before the onset behind the security of the closed door. The inner yard of the fortress was gradually filling with arrivals, armed or skirted, mounted or otherwise. The crowd of townsmen was gushing out of their houses to devote themselves either to a naïve gaping at the variety of faces and banners, or to a more practical task of finding a place in the field by the road, where the tents and staging for the future amusements set up in illusionary quietness. The high velvet-draped chairs, and even the lower rows of benches were, for sure, closed for them – not on the fear of punishment, but on the mere respect for those for whom they were reserved. But no one forbade people from settling around, standing, or even sitting right on the scanty grass, and they felt they would be fools in their own eyes not to take the best spot while the others were rubbing off their sleep or amazement. Early bird catches the worm.
Boromir didn't welcome the idea of launching a fighting contests right after the participants jumped off their horses. He couldn't but admit that the dwellers of Ithilien, him including, thus received a certain advantage over the men tired by a long road, but for him to beat the latter wouldn't be a victory to be proud of. While he hadn't dreamed of making allowances, either. Be the times former, and he himself would persuade Faramir to prolong the feast so that their self-respect and honesty were equally pleased. Now the sweet taste of the fair confrontation was lost on him, probably because he knew that the contest was the least important part of the celebration.
And probably because he was alien among those who deserved their right to celebrate.
Something blue jumped from behind the corner, advancing so quickly that, lost in thoughts, he had no time to do anything but thrust his hands forward by instinct, when the blind oaf hit against him.
The attacker was small – smaller than anyone, who could stand on feet after the clash with a man of Boromir's height and strength. And he would have fallen, if not for the fingers of the Captain, which clutched around his lean forearms and pulled him back to collide with the broad chest of the Gondorian again.
With a snarl ready to escape his lips, Boromir stared at his victim and had to shrug back at finding out that it was not him, he was holding. It was more like her. Much more like.
Her head lowered, she was looking at the embroidered cloth on his wrists. The standstill she took was no doubt caused by surprise, but when the amazement was over, she froze even stiffer, giving him the impression that instead of a clumsy girl he was run against by a marble statue.
"Will you be careful, lass!" threw he at last, because she didn't appear likely to move or say anything.
"I will," the voice was fell like a drop from a cave vault – low it resounded in a corridor, and coming back, died off, it seemed, between them.
She avoided looking at him. He suddenly became aware of her hands still resting against his abdominal. Surprised that she didn't interrupt the contact, though from what he knew, she had to do it both if it was unwanted or too welcome, he glanced down at where their bodies had met. Of course. He was gripping at her no less persistently, and his touch must have been more tangible to her than her weightless fingers – to his tried frame. It hadn't occurred to him to proportion his strength to her endurance.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" asked he, less harshly this time, bending slightly to look her in the face. The shadows under her lashes quivered.
"Yd'dnt," she slurred in one incoherent sound, not unclenching her teeth. Boromir noted the first signs of animation in her rigid pose, as she let out a small soft sigh, as though for all that time she hadn't ventured to breathe. Carefully, even cautiously the girl took herself out of his loosened grasp, holding the palms in front of her in that odd gesture of self-protection with which she had already shrunk back from him once. This time it was slower, calmer, and less pronounced, but vexingly unambiguous, anyway. He repressed the impulse of closing his fists again to prevent her from further escape.
Her sleeves made the final journey along his skin, the silver thread on the blue silk clinging to the rough patches left for him after the years and years of gripping at a sword-hilt. She was dressed with luxury, he remarked, though this luxury didn't make her shine. Whoever trimmed her did a good job – a good job of turning her into his sister-in-law. With her fair hair she could pass for a maiden of Rohan easily, if not for that accented frailness.
Rohan. Rohan will be here too, and Gondor, and the Shire, and Mirkwood, Eru save him. And they decked themselves out, and adorned their dolls, meanwhile …
Meanwhile the "adorned doll" didn't go. Stepped back, but remained with him.
Seemingly he wasn't standing in her way, so it was hardly understandable why she lingered, whilst only a minute ago she had been in such a hurry.
"Were you ordered to decorate this place with yourself?" the Gondorian wanted to know, losing his patience, "Or should I kiss you good-bye?"
Inspired with his own idea, he grinned crookedly and reached out to capture her chin and pull her mouth against his.
And then she cast her eyes up at him for the first time – perplexed, hurt, mistrustful. His hand hung in the air, not attaining its aim. For some reason she was looking at him as though he had been going to betray her.
His throat dry, he let the motion of his limb end in nothing, clumsy as it was. No matter how she had seen him, and how ludicrous it was for him, he grew unexplainably scared of that reproach, and reluctant to change her mind about what he was.
"Go," growled he shortly, "Call lady Eowyn down. The guests are arriving."
Softened almost to a smile, she vanished in the end of the corridor with a hurried tapping of her heels. He snorted in self-disgust, having arisen after her departure. Now that she was away, his sudden generosity seemed nothing but maudlin. Became afraid of hurting her feelings, by Gandalf's beard! As if he was going to do something out of ordinary. He had stopped plucking the casual, just-for-fun kisses from maids and ladies in waiting long ago, but that didn't mean that it had ceased being a common practice. And it didn't justify that squeamish after-taste that adhered to him like dirt. It was almost like he regretted that he had momentarily levelled himself with the brutes who thought it manly to entertain this way.
But once he had started, he had to put a finish to it, not efface himself in front of the non-entity, growing dumb like a fool just because it all of a sudden frightened him not to be a knight in shining armour. He had never been one. What on earth had come over him?
Now she must have been celebrating her victory in her small head. He let her step closer, let her believe her plan was a success.
If that light-haired wisp could be a vessel of any plans of the kind. The way she avoided his presence, his touch, the way her glance stifled his resolve, made him doubt in his former conclusions. There was no pity anymore, which could strengthen him with another pile of anger and archness, or encumber his heart with another gnawing pang, he had expected. He had intended to fight with it, but when it appeared that something had already rooted the emotion out of her eyes, the bitterness ensued instead of triumph.
The thought sobered him suddenly by its irrelevance, and he laughed with cutting jeer to drive away the unfamiliar fret it brought. It felt better immediately, as though the grin armored and thorned him inside, like bared fangs armor a wolf meeting its hunters with a deathly smile.
To scare and not to be scared.
If he frightened her off, the better for him. If not, he'd do something else, for now he knew what she shunned. He resented the annoyance she was and he'd be damned if she wouldn't resent the annoyance he could be.
The stairs glimpsed fleetingly under my shoes. Light blue shoes with low heels and pointed toes, trimmed with iron setting. Now and then I stumbled, because this footwear was not mine – or rather it has just appeared in my possession. Zirah insisted on my putting it on together with the dress I found stretched over my blanket this morning. The favour of lady Eowyn, elucidated she, combing my hair into a net of thin braids, twisted lace and flowing strands and stepping back to enjoy the result of her work.
Wouldn't I like to wear it for the feast?
It really made no pronounced difference what to wear, but I had to admit that the attire was a rich gift, and a fitting one to that. Not that I changed in my obstinate thinness too much, but though the eye might not seen the slight shift to something close to a decent weight, the outfits in my wardrobe were not as inattentive.
Besides, the appearance of a dress spoke of a careful thought someone had put into it, so that it suited me and only me. The colour was that of my eyes – light enough to emphasize them, and bright enough to smooth away the palish tinge of my skin, which I preserved in spite of the efforts of Zirah, who left no hope to correct it with food and fresh air. I suspected that be it her will, I'd live and sleep outside on the balcony, and woke up only to open my mouth for another tasty bit she brought.
I was angry at myself for being so late. The robe was a little longer than anything I had tried on before, and the pains I took not to roll down the stairs at stepping on the slippery silk hem reduced me to keeping the haste that didn't look like haste to me. And I was running faster and faster, trying to cut down the delay and sacrificing caution for speed. If not for that, I probably wouldn't lose my sight and vision at once, and bump at him so stupidly, driving myself into the torture again.
Oh, no, it wasn't a complete torture. And that was what made me afraid of my response to the accidental impact.
I felt so small in his arms. Small, but not humble. It cost me dear not to relax myself and slip my hands high up his shirt to feel the relief of his chest, and the low beat, reverberating mutedly under my wishful touch. To raise my face and, hopeful, whisper the words that I repeated to him in my sleep and while awake, in this new life and the old one.
Welcome back, the warrior of mine.
I missed you.
It cost even dearer not to halt him with a protest, when he was letting me go, forsaking me. I was too strong to forget that it could kill him, but too weak to order myself to refuse the intoxicating pleasure of merely longing for his embrace, let alone being in it.
I shouldn't have laid my eyes on him then. I should have harden myself and flee so that no word of his reached me, but I have failed, and now the memory I could have cherished was marred by what I heard and saw. Even though it didn't happen. Even though I knew not what had been supposed to happen. The traces of dark and gruff intentions in his eyes told me it was anything but a quiet parting. For once I wanted to recoil from him not because of my fear of bringing him harm, but because he frightened me. More than frightened – repelled.
Nonsense. Treacherous thoughts. It hadn't been for true, I made it up, deceived by the tricks of the scant light of the morning.
I allowed my lids close for an instant, attempting to replace the picture they had witnessed with the one, I kept in my heart, and flinching as I discovered that the latter shrank and the edges of the former were showing from behind it.
My mind whimpered. It couldn't have been for true.
"Oh, there she is!" exclaimed someone cheerfully. What? I gazed around, going back to the ground with difficulty. Oh, yes. I'd been heading to Eowyn, at her own request. At last I didn't lost my way, even after having lost my mind.
The lady of Ithilien settled comfortably on a windowsill opposite to the doors of her chambers. Not alone, but neighbored by a tall, firmly built man with sharp features and eyes, the cool colour of which was somewhat subdued by the warm wheat of his hair. Forgetful to the sumptuous festive attire, he was leaning against the damp wall, crumpling and staining the richly embellished cloak, and one of his leathern gloves was already on the floor, in constant danger of getting under the heavy soles of his boots. The other, rolled in a ball, served Eowyn a toy to busy her hands with.
The two shared such a likeness, that I didn't have to guess who the visitor was. His sister mentioned him too often for such conjecturing.
Giving me no more attention than he paid to the damage, which was caused to his property, he went on telling something – something amusing, judging by his tone – but Eowyn cut him off carelessly, jumping from the sill right under his nose.
"I told you, she's absent-minded," said she, addressing a wave of a hand to me and a warm smile to the interrupted, "Good-morning, sleepy-head. You do remember Helanthir, don't you, Eo?" added she with confidence.
Luckily, I kept my mouth from opening in surprise, thus demonstrating the restraint beyond the abilities of my new "old" acquaintance. I wouldn't have thought that I'd ever call Eowyn mischievous, yet that was what she was. A pure paragon of innocence.
There was nothing left but to play on.
"Eomer!" cried I delightedly, and with a lesser amount of false notes than I expected from myself, "Of course, he remembers! How are you?"
A slight satisfied nod of Eowyn's head cheered me up. The man glared at her helplessly, the question "should I?" written in his eyes with big fat letters. The reciprocate glance was full of sincere reproach.
"You haven't forgotten, have you?" muttered she, elbowing him on the ribs, "It's Helanthir. We are relatives, almost cousins. Don't stand like a stuffed dummy, say something."
I was not supposed to notice that, so I imparted to my face the expression of slightly fatuous benevolence and studied the pattern, stamped on his vest. Eowyn hissed something else and pushed her brother forward to me. At the sight of his confusion, I grew afraid to utter a word lest I should break into giggle. How could she remain so undisturbed?
"Glad to see you, cousin Helanthir," braved he at last, having, perhaps, decided that a warrior ought not to give up in the face of difficulties, "You've…grown up."
I appreciated his courtesy all the more, because he was, indeed, trying hard to recollect how small I was when we last saw each other. Wasted labour, if one asked me, but nobody did.
"Always so kind," I dropped a quick curtsey, which would have been perfect, hadn't I tripped over the dress in the middle of the attempt. I must have overdone with it, as well as with politeness. The man frowned and, immediately suspicious, turned to face his sister, who was pursing her lips to fight back laughter.
"Pulling me by the leg, huh?" he started dangerously and grabbed her with one hand, while the other reached out for the perfection of her hair-do. In a second the two royalties turned into a laughing, romping mess. It was easy to predict the end of the tussle, and soon Eowyn hanged down from her brother's forearm, her scattered like a hay-stack after a storm, with the only difference that, while being dishevelled, hay-stacks could not produce giggling, muffled shrieks and pleas for mercy.
Having thus administered the justice, the stern king of Rohan switched his attention to me. The menacing expression he had resorted, however, lacked plausibility because of the boyishness that glinted almost as brightly as his teeth.
"Now, not a cousin, and scarcely Helanthir," asked he, folding his arms on the chest of an impressive wideness, "Who are you and who gave you the right to fool me?"
"My friend," interfered Eowyn, "Her parents sent her to live with us. She helps here…helps me."
"That I see. But what has taken your tongue, milady?" it appeared to me that he was going to ruffle my hair, too.
"My deep respect to you," to be on the safe side I stepped back quickly. I didn't want Zirah's job to be spoilt.
"Cheeky girls," sniffed he with satisfaction, addressing rather to Eowyn than to me. She smiled tenderly, braiding her hair back to order.
"Silly boy. What is there, Helanthir?"
"Lord Boromir asked me to call you down. He said the guests were arriving," word-into-word I repeated the instructions. My lips ached in response at the name which left them.
"Lord Boromir?" the mirth slipped away from Eomer's face, "That Boromir? The Boromir of Gondor?"
"That Boromir of Gondor," confirmed Eowyn calmly, "And of Ithilien now."
"But he-," he cut off, giving a hesitant chortle, "It's a joke again, isn't it?"
Eowyn shook her head slowly. Having grown serious, the king of Rohan took himself off the wall, at which he had reclined again.
"Lead the way then, … cousin Helanthir," said he with a crisp gravity, "It's going to be not as dull a day as I thought."
The doors of the castle were thrust open, but nobody was entering them, in spite of that there was not an inch of room in the front yard. Instead, all were numb and irresolute. The reason of the total stupor stood on the stone stairs, one against the army of arrivals. His torso was forged into a nielloed back-and-breast, the plates of dark metal covered his arms, underlining the hostile cross of the sword above the right shoulder… Eomer exhaled a constrained curse behind my back.
Obeying to the overall shock, I could only watch the motley guests, while their eyes and minds were absorbing the picture.
And there was a lot to look at.
A group of Fair People, lead by a lithe crowned ellon, the only one of his kin and companions, whose impervious serenity was seriously shaken by the creature in front of him. A body of Dwarves with their chief a total antipode of the ellon in build and his utter twin in surprise.
Keen-eyed King Aragorn was sitting very calm in the saddle, just like the she-elf of marvelous beauty, looking down from the horse near the one which carried her husband. For I assumed that she wouldn't hold him by the hand so firmly, if they were not together. He was watchful, she… merely anticipating. I inwardly thanked her for the mercifulness of her appearance – neither suspicious, nor accusing. Not even wary.
I have never met those who were called Halflings, but it was not a hard task to recognize them. Four of them shifted uneasily near their plump ponies; two being ready to burst with smiles, which were for now suppressed by the common indecision, one – glaring from under the faded brows. The last one, more haggard and dispirited than his friends, was watching the doors steadily, sadly, as his hand travelled up to the cut of his collar in what seemed to be an uncontrolled motion.
The back of the armed man strained, and though his face was hidden from us, I could swear that he noticed it, too.
The reign of silence was going on, but the reign of immobility has found its end. Four visitors detached from the crowd and strolled forward, gradually quickening their steps.
And, from what I saw, those three who had to follow them, remained in their places.
To be continued… Somehow.