There are many roads to forgiveness
and I haven't found one yet.
I dove into the Atlantic
and prayed that I wouldn't get wet.
Salvation - Laurena Segura.
His touch was strange, papery as if she could feel the very fragility of him as he touched her jaw, his fingers stroking her face as if he could ever be her family. The hall was cold, the flagstones hard and like ice she could feel through her skirts as she lowered her eyes, not wishing to look upon him any longer than she must. She could feel his grip tighten, gripping her jaw and forcing her eyes up. Had she not known rough actions it might have frightened her, even then it still made her teeth grit and hands fist at her sides.
"Your foolish actions… leaving in the dead of night without word, with only your maid to make your excuses," he spat, his words cold. He took it for a personal slight, as well she knew he would. But her maid, dear Unnr had made excuses for her and she thanked her for it, wherever she was now. It may be the only thing that allowed her to carve a place here once more, whatever lies she had offered him.
"Forgive me, My lord," she whispered, her own hands going to his, prising them from her skin and holding them between her own hands, asking for his kindness, bowing and scraping to this foul, false king. Even to Aragorn, she would not give him this display, he would not seek it, and he would know what a false thing it was. But not Denethor, Denethor would love her for it. "When I walked these halls once I was young, foolish and faulted. Undeserving of them and the love your family offered me." She said gently, and her stomach jolted with the very truth of it. She had been so, a pampered young thing with no fear, her own pride built on a foundation near as shaky as Denethor. She thought them alike for a moment, nought but a name and a title they did not deserve, tramping the halls they had no claim to.
"And you think yourself wiser now?" the worm spoke, his mouth turned down, his jowls carved into his face like some ancient statue. He did not believe her, she thought, or he did not trust her, though by rights he was unlikely to ever do so. But she did not need his trust, only his wits and his savvy. "For your years spent serving Theoden?"
"I do my lord. Each day that passed I have thought of this city and your family, of how I failed you, shamed you, I only wish I had been able to come sooner." She said, her voice pitiably small and eyes once more turned to the floor, unwilling to look at his face. "You've every right to send me from your sight, My Lord, but I beg that you will not. For the sake of your high city." She wanted to spit her words out, the very falsehood she spoke was bitter in her mouth but her voice was honey sweet. It will not be so long, she told herself, when the beacons are lit Aragorn will come. When the beacons are lit the white tree will bloom. When the beacons were lit she would likely be wed or promised, but her fellowship would still come.
His lips, as dry and cracked as his hands fell upon her hands, brushing over the back of her knuckles.
"I will not send you away, my daughter. You will have your place in my city," he promised her, his own voice low as he unclasped his hands from hers. Victory held no sweetness, but a smile crossed her lips. She had done her duty well enough, she was not yet cast or hung from these pale stone walls. But if it was so why did the steward's eyes seem colder than steel?
A young maid, Ior, was called to serve her and a suite was readied for her, grand rooms within the family's wing she had held once so many years ago. Quickly the quiet girl unpacked her bags, seeing, touching everything she had brought with her and even that felt an invasion as if Hedda could feel the strangers touch on her as much as she had felt Denethor's. The maid drew her wrapped knife from the bag, her dark brows furrowed at its weight and its muffled shape and Hedda snatched it from her hands, telling her it was fragile and precious and private. The girl looked at her strangely, but nodded, accepting her order with a delicate dip that made her brown curls gleam in the weak sunlight spilling in.
Such forwardness, such intense service was not so in Rohan, and it was as strange now as it had been to the child she was. Such invasions she could not bat away though, and Ior unlaced her gown with deft fingers, tugging the dusty thing over her head and baring her treacherous, naked skin. It could not be hidden, even as she curled, trying to diminish the sight of her scars in the light, Ior saw, her eyes tracing the marks across her with wide eyes.
She played tired, weak and weary from the trip and seeking only solitude, but her excuses only made the girl more anxious to stay within said little as she scrubbed her skin, cleaning the dirt of the road from her back and she would not hear of a lady doing so herself, no matter how Hedda tried to ask for some peace. She stood in the bathing chamber, her body pale and cold but she felt the girl pause, her hands abruptly still as she brushed the backs of her skins with a clean rag and soft smelling soap, trying to wash away the bruised and ruined tissue. They stilled at the scars there, new and old. Servants scars. Hedda could think of nothing to say, her eyes looking ahead as if she had not noticed the girls pause. Such a small thing, and yet it told a story greater than any she had said in Gondor yet. Such a small thing, and yet it could almost undo her.
She half wished the Lord had taken her offer of servitude, giving her maids quarters and the beat of a switch on her legs again, but this was the wisest path for her. The corridors, so long gone from her mind and heart were familiar, the paths she had taken those years ago seemingly as ingrained into her mind as a sword was scored into her palm. But no matter what she wished she had been ushered here from the throne room, after some hours of questioning, and her weariness was not such a lie, the weight of Denethor's eye and touch and aspirations on her head. Where she had been, why she had left, the work she had done across Middle Earth to become wiser and how she could serve him. Her lies, careful and quick sufficed it seemed, but they were exhausting. Only when he had bid her speak of Theodred's loss she was honest and wept deeply, tears unbidden and swallowing her. It was one rare moment that her grief could help, not hinder her country and her friends. Denethor, fool he was, could not deny a weeping woman kindness.
She was given the day to recuperate from her travels, a gift she had not expected after Denethor's cold acceptance and cloying worry and his questions, but she was glad for it, even if Ior did not leave her sight. As the day began to darken she went to the wide window, one hand curled in the elegant drapes and the other fisted in the skirts of Eowyn's dress as she looked to the stormy lands of Mordor, the dark clouds and flaming light that encircled that land. As she looked, she thought of Frodo, preying as she watched that the eye would fall, that the clouds would lessen, that the walls would crumble. How close is he? Does the ring weigh on him as it does all others? She wondered, the breeze cold on her skin. She longed for a better land, greater, more beautiful and rough. Is he still alive at all?
So many years of her life she'd longed for Rohan and the Golden Hall, for her father and her cousin, for her people, bold and strong and so very different to this cold land. She thought of her fellowship, of her drutdeor, of Aragorn. And she felt lonely. A strange feeling, one she had shaken after so long wishing for solitude, but faces, hearts, people dead and buried and still so very, helplessly alive would not leave her. Even Boromir's knife was a cut, hidden as it was beneath her plush mattress. Though it belonged in this city, it stung to know that she could not wear it when she had so rarely been parted from it.
As she stared over the land that separated Mordor from this city of men she imagined Faramir, though she rarely had before. She remembered him, young, quiet, ever disappointing to his haughty and cruel father. Was he still so? She wondered what he looked like, if he had inherited his father's unpleasantness or if he was more truly Boromir's brother that Denathors son.
For thirteen long years neither Rohan or Gondor had owned her, but shadows of both had kept cutting into her, chaining her. Shadows of those she loved held her as well. Only shadows. She was shaken from her thoughts dully as Ior placed a silken shawl around her shoulders, muttering about the chill from the wide windows. She stepped away, reminding herself of her duty and trying to smile brightly, putting away her troubles and pushing them back. She was not within the city to wallow but to work.
"Where is the stewards court, Ior? It's uncommon for a ruler to be alone in his halls," She said mildly, settling down to sit at the delicate table in her suited sipping at the sweet cup of wine poured for her. The lords and ladies of court had been a safety for her, tongues to whisper into the kings ear their plights and just how her country may help their own causes. Without them, her task was more difficult. "When last was here their sons and daughters would always be taught and educated in the city,"
"The Lords and Ladies have come to court less often of late, My Lady," Ior said gently, her hands crossed behind her back and neck, long and delicate was very straight. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Imrahil's children were the last lords and ladies from the outer lands in Gondor in residence. The prince feared the passage home was growing too dangerous to be parted from his lands. That was some years ago." She said, though there was some hitch in her throat that suggested such was not entirely true.
"Seems a lonely keep without a court, I grew worried when I saw the steward alone in his hall. He must miss his sons and his friends greatly," she pressed, a saddened expression on her face she did not feel. She knew Denethor well enough to see that he was paranoid, angry and unkind. Likely the lords of outer Gondor, while busy battling hoards under his command, did not want their children under his decree as well. Her words felt just as stilted as her maids, for neither knew who the other may tell.
Ior's eyes widened, looking nervous, and Hedda knew she was pressing for more information of the girl, something the maid would have to learn to offer more freely if Hedda ever hoped to learn this city and its steward again. Hedda was not fool enough to believe that her maid would not report her every action to the steward himself, and Ior had no certainty that she was not a cruel woman, bent on adding to the scars on her maid's skin for imagined slights and gossip. The thought was an unkind one. She had been in Ior's place once, and her hands found hers, knotting them together tightly. "You may speak freely with me, Ior. I will not harm you. I will not order harm upon you, and I will protect you from it where I can."
Ior's eyes, a pretty brown were wide, seeking some falsehood within her and Hedda did not look away, not until the girl was sated with what she saw and dropped their hands. When she spoke her voice was quiet, half a whisper. Her words were no treason, but Hedda had no idea how shallow a cut to Denethor's ego could result in a fresh scar.
"Some defied him, My Lady, thought to shame him and dishonour his lead." She said, her voice still and slow, choosing her words with great delicacy, but it as the words she did not speak that Hedda could hear loudly. Denethor has no friends left.
She nodded, smiling as kindly as she could to soothe some of the fear she could see there on her shoulders. "But they will honour his call, and still do I am certain. The steward of Gondor commands great respect and loyalty, even without a court to keep." She played, the words diplomatic, "From even his servants?" She edged, not untangling their fingers when the girl gave no answer.
The next day came, and the next and the next. The sun rarely dimmed and her bed remained so soft she could hardly bear to sleep in it, rubbing her eyes as she was laced into Eowyn's butter-soft gowns. From the moment she was woken she had appointments made with the steward, to break her fast in his chamber, to dine with him at noon and dinner and sit with him in his empty court and office. Handmaidens dogged her steps, calls to stand and simper, to speak and be spoken to came constantly, leaving her few hours for her own, though she had no one to spend them with but Denethor anyhow, she could not be seen or heard in the wizard or her hobbit's company.
The days seemed to blur and still, her vision seemed to only know shadow and worry, light fled, burned out of her by that blasted stone and Denethor's fingers, trailing over her cheeks, her shoulders, seeming to touch her endlessly until she longed to slough off her skin. It seemed as if the white city had swallowed her. As a child three long years had past and yet still she had held the fire, the fight within her, tempered and trained by Boromir, even while she dreaded her fate. Now, sword apart from her, Gandalf and Pippin kept apart from her for propriety and for their stories sake, she was alone. She was weak. She had never known herself to feel so much, to feel so shattered by it and to be so worn down. But the anger, a flame burning, flaring with every one of the steward's touches, his questions, his dismissals, his indignant rage at her every failure fed it. She could feel it souring her, and every day that passed she felt less able to contain it. Even when last she'd played Idis before she'd had a sword and shield at her side, even then she had been allowed to call herself a shieldmaiden and have those beside her that cared for her, would even grow to love her. Beneath the mask of Idis, here in this city she felt a squalling babe, useless, failing, nothing again. It was enough to make her scratch at her skin, trapped, walking in circles like a caged thing.
But she hid it. She accepted it. She nodded and smiled.
She greeted him politely when she met him in his hall at dinner, shadows carved beneath her eyes and Ior by her side to serve. Questions, questions, questions, every moment he asked her more questions as if he were waiting to catch her in lies. Every one set her teeth to clench, her heart to jump in fear. She had not forgotten his words, she had not forgotten that he knew more than he should about Gandalf and the fellowship and the king that was so soon to return. When he was not questioning her he was mocking her, her family and he country. It seemed as if he was pushing her, punishing her with his every word, waiting for her to snap.
And she was not a fool. She knew no pronouncement had been made to the common people that the blood of Rohan was in the city. Not as a betrothal, as a servant, or an ambassador. To them, she was likely still the hated and lost princess that had spurned the hospitality of a greater house. She was not a fool. He was keeping her presence here quiet until he decided yet what it meant, a truth that set her stomach curling but she was trapped, unable to force his hand or to insist he announced her to the city. With his court disbanded, even rumour could not spread among anyone but the servants. She hoped that was enough to set the city calling for word while she sat in this leech's company.
"Faramir will soon return," he remarked, his mouth bleeding a red stain from the meat on his plate that had dribbled from the corners in his haste to eat. She was surprised for the moment's respite in his questions on how true the rumours of ritual sheep sacrifice in Rohan were but glad for it, glad he seemed to be speaking something of use to her now. She fixed her eyes on it, a weak on her face as she carved her own. Strange that I may share a meal with a lord and be the more delicate of us. "He is away at war, securing the lands of Osgiliath from a horde that seeks to overrun it,"
"I look forward to it greatly, My Lord, too many years have passed since I saw him last," She murmured, biting hard into the tender meat. Her eyes went to the window, looking out to the world, the yellow plains and the fiery land beyond. Tis the border of two worlds, this city. White and grand Minis Tirith and all the flame and death there was in the world. She could feel his eyes on her and idly, she wondered if he could heft a sword any longer. He was weak, somewhat at least, older than most warriors and grown fat with age and anger.
"He is not his brother. Weaker, a foolish boy. He has ever been, it was why I kept him apart from you when you came to the white city as a child," the old man's voice cut bitterly into her consciousness, and she swallowed down a bitter retort at his insult. To have one remaining son, and yet to mock and hate him so... she did not understand how he justified his words. How he dared. "But he may suit you,"
"I'm sure he is strong, my lord, and he will do well in the battle, my father and cos have often longed to fight beside your sons. Tales of them are well known in my country. When the war comes and the beacons are lit -"
"Tis no talk for women, Daughter!" He spoke voice loud, seeming to quake as his hands, aged and weak fell upon her shoulder, long and pale like the fingers of a spider from the neckline of her dress to the bare skin of her shoulders and throat. He seemed to touch her more often than once her had, his cold, papery hands touching the coils of her brushed and tamed hair, her cheeks, her shoulders, even her waist when they stood to walk the gardens of Gondor after their fast. Each touch made her throat feel tight, her stomach clench uncomfortably, wanting to shake him off. But his gaze was worse. "When my son returns I will speak to him of alliances. I will decide if we must reconcile with your country in this war."
Alliances. There, in such a simple word, hung her heart. Should he accept her, the war could be won. Should he deny her, aye she would be free, free to Rohan, free to Aragorn and her friends, but the world would fall. And yet Denathor would not speak of marriage, seemed unwilling to offer the idea. His anger and his insult still hung heavy, she could feel it in the air when he asked of trade, of travel and the world. He called her his daughter, but he had not forgiven, he had not forgotten, he wanted more of her. He wanted days to ascertain her loyalty, her chastity and her manners, but they did not have the days he demanded.
It rankled her, made her impatient and daily she fought the urge to snap at him, to force his hand or kill him, create a vacuum of power that Faramir, surely wiser and less weak could fill for a time. But she could not. An Eorling assassin would simply make the crevice between their world deeper still. But she was working too slowly. When she imagined Gandalf and Pippin she could feel them, disappointed as they were. She had given all, promised all to make this union and yet all she could do was take tea and make her pleas, hour by hour, a servant to the whims of the steward.
"Denethor please, I have talked of alliances in cities and countries across this land, we have little time for this, I can stomach -"
Her eyes were downturned, focused on the meal before her as Ior slipped forward, a wine jug in hand to refill her goblet but the motion shocked her, made her jump in her seat. Her reflexes still expected a battle, a fight, a sword, and the maid jumped when she did, the jug slipping from her fingers, clattering off the laden table and spilling, soaking her plate and the lap of her pale dress. The girl gasped, reaching for rags to stem the spill but Denethor roared, standing from his chair as if the wine were blood and the jug a sword aimed at his very heart.
"Foolish girl!" He snapped, slamming his curled fist on the table. The wine had soaked his dark robe sleeves, the rich vintage staining it, shaking droplets onto the table and onto her own dress. His eyes and hand raised to strike. She reacted without thought, her hand curling around his wrist and knocking it away from the young girl as she stood herself, her reflexes still sharp, even after such disuse.
"You will not strike my servant!" Hedda shouted her own lips turned down into a scowl and own fists curled, stoked by the thought of running him through and her own, far away thoughts. Her hands shook, stoked not by wisdom but by feeling, by fairness.
"You tell me how I may punish the servants in my own house, Girl?" He snapped, his anger unpredictable and stoked by her actions. Such a simple thing, and yet it was another insult she had laid upon him. Another slight she had made upon him and his house. He shook off her hand, his dark eyes skating over her
"My lord I mean no insult but I will not have my maidservant punished for a fault not her own, It -" She was cut off. The slap echoed throughout the chamber before she felt it, making her head reel back in shock. When she felt it, her cheek burned, his hand still raised from the slap he'd laid upon her cheek and the bruising force he'd used to lay it. She brought her fingertips up to it, dusting over the stinging flesh of her face. She could hear Ior beside her, breathing hitched and feel the servants eyes on her, the shock and stillness hanging between them all. When Denethor spoke his voice was cold, without remorse.
"Know your place, Girl, know it is not the side with servants."
Her cheek throbbed, burning, but she did not move aside.
Sorry this has taken so long! Gondor is a hard one for me it's also very involved. Thank you so much for over a hundred reviews, favourites and follows! I love to read them though, so keep em coming!
Again, I hope this still feels realistic to all, to my eye Denethor is extremely proud, any insult he's taking to the nth degree and from her it's so much worse, bugging her and bugging her to slip up and fail or be caught in a lie. As for Hedda well she's always had anger issues and now they're very obvious.
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