Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep. War is kind.
-War is Kind, Stephen Crane
It was good sleep, but it could not prepare Rhoswen for everything.
The ladies of the city, she decided, she would put off for one more afternoon to go and survey with one of the heralds the route the coronation parade would take through the city. It was a lovely day, and to be quite honest, her head was beginning to ache with figures – and the ladies of the city could be infinitely worse. At least the relative stability of masonry and the promise of a good walk was not quite so mentally consuming as calculations on how much wine and ale should be distributed to each circle of the city relative to its population from the last census, nor quite as dull as listening to carefully practiced trite compliments.
After what seemed like the longest time spent trying to find a writing tablet and stylus, the herald, his assistant, and Rhoswen were finally on their way down to the city gates, intent at starting at the bottom and working up in the order the seven levels of the city would be approached. They were only down to the gate at the fifth level, when one of the house's pageboys came running, all lanky limbs and limp hair flying. "My lady, your lord brother asks for you! The Lady Heledirwen is come!"
Valar be merciful. They're here.
The last of Dol Amroth's rearguard was milling about near the stablegates as Rhoswen walked past as quickly as she could. She had to be the first to speak with her, Lothíriel would never forgive her if she heard it from anyone else. The royal party was already inside the hall, the last of Heldirwen's ladies bringing up the rear of an impressive train of people. Erun would already be greeting them – he would not tell her, surely…
"Lottie!" Rhoswen cried, picking up her pace to go and greet her friend. The other woman turned towards the sound of Rhoswen's voice, and in the split second before Lothíriel turned and bolted away, Rhoswen had time only to see that her friend's face streaked with tears. And that could only mean one thing.
Lucan.
She sprinted up to Erun, standing hopelessly in the hall. "Erun, what did you say to her?" Rhoswen asked angrily, ignoring the dozen other people waiting to speak with them.
"Nothing! I said nothing! I meant only to greet her, but I could not smile and I could not speak, and – and she knew." But by the time Erun had finished his thought, Rhoswen, too, was gone, having barely given her brother enough time to even begin speaking.
Lottie might have had the advantage of a few moments start, but she was running away into a place she had not seen for nearly ten years, and Rhoswen was not recovering from a shock as she was. It was a plain, obscure corner of the King's House that she lead the chase to, Rhoswen finally catching up to her when Lottie could, literally, run no farther, having found where the corridor finally ended. It was an out-of-the way passage, meant to house the King's retinue in days gone by when there was still a king, and courtiers still spent much time in attendance upon him, as part of his household, and the air was thick with forgotten memories and dust. There were no seats or benches here, as in other parts of the house, only a stone window seat, and it was here that Lottie collapsed, and Rhoswen went to comfort her.
Once she had thought to run away from the world, to cry alone and have the seeming solace of an unshared grief. But that did no good to anyone, least of all herself. She had not known then of the perils of such bottomless wells, but she knew them now, better than anyone, and she did not wish Lottie to be so alone and so drowning, especially when she could prevent it.
There were no words, only the open and firm embrace she offered and the warmth of her arms, and a willing shoulder to hold her friend's tears. Lottie wept freely, and Rhoswen with her, such as she had not been able to weep for her brother before. Then came the lamenting wails, and the buffets and blows, and Rhoswen took them all with her own face full of tears, until Lothíriel could cry and hit her no more. And still she held on.
"If I could bring him back for you, I would," Rhoswen spoke softly into her friend's hair.
And that seemed, in that moment, to be enough.
Heledirwen and Ivriniel looked up as Rhoswen shut the door to the room behind her with a reassuring heaviness and took a moment to sigh softly.
"She'll live," she said, the older women looking more than a little out of countenance as they sat, sequestered, in Rhoswen's solar. Lothíriel had spurned her mother's attentions, and those of her aunt, as Rhoswen had brought her back to her own rooms, wanting, for some strange, adolescent reason, only her friend's comfort. "I've given her a posset, and she should be asleep soon enough, and that should help. I'm sorry she wouldn't speak to you, Aunt," she said, addressing Heledirwen. Imrahil's Princess was clearly struggling with something, more than likely the idea that her daughter had considered herself today too old for her mother's love and care.
Or perhaps it was that her daughter had been in love, deeply in love, with a man she could not have, and it had come as a surprise to her mother, who thought she and her daughter kept no secrets from each other.
"She's had a hard fall today," Lothiriel's mother said plainly. "It is good that you were there to catch her."
"We've all had a few hard falls these past days," Ivriniel said soberly. She brightened her face a little and looked at Rhoswen. "But a few good surprises, too, in spite of it all. Our Lady Hostess here plays her role well, do you not think, sister? It is a long way from the days in Dol Amroth when she was a frightened, quiet little thing."
Heledirwen recovered herself a little and smiled, dimly, nodding. "It is indeed. She does the House of Stewards great credit," she said, taking Rhoswen's hand to give it a maternal little squeeze, which made Rhoswen smile, in spite of the ache inside.
"The House of Stewards and the House of Swans," Rhoswen reminded them, returning her aunt's gesture with one of her own. "Both my houses, and both alike in dignity and good repute."
"And where is the rest of the House of Stewards today, while we ask after them?" Ivriniel asked with a coy kind of smile, looking at Rhoswen with that jesting look in her eye that made Rhoswen color a little. "Where are my nephews making trouble today?"
"Out at Osgiliath. Faramir is only gone for the day, and Boromir will not return to the city until the coronation – which will be very soon, now that everyone is nearly here. And which reminds me – I shall need to find another time to speak with the heralds…" Rhoswen's voice trailed away as she gestured at one of the servants for a piece of parchment and her pen, writing a quick note and setting it aside. She didn't seem to realize the humor in the action until she looked up and saw both Ivriniel and Heledirwen smiling at her again, which sent another little flush to her face. "You laugh at me," she accused, which made Iviriniel, at least, smile all the more.
"You have a kind of glimmer in your eye when you say his name," Imrahil's sister observed frankly. "It does me good to see it. And have you seen him, since his return? Has he made time for his betrothed?" Rhoswen nodded, smiling in what she hoped was a secretive sort of way, and Ivriniel's smile turned to one with a knowing note. "Seen in more ways than one, then," the older woman hinted broadly, and Rhoswen had no shame at all in nodding a little and smiling, openly, now.
"We have had words between us, and…more than words and less, at the same turn," Rhoswen admitted, an admission that made Ivriniel positively jump for joy.
"And have they been good words, sweeting?" Ivriniel wanted to know. Rhoswen blushed furiously for a moment and then nodded unreservedly, and her aunt-by-marriage clapped her hands and let a little kind of jubilant cry catch in her throat, a cry that suddenly made Rhoswen remember Lothíriel, in the room beyond.
But Heledirwen saw the fear, too, and reached to pat Rhoswen's hand. "Fear not for Lottie, Rhos – she comes from stern stock. And she is a prince's daughter. She shall manage as best she can, when the time comes," Heledirwen reminded her niece. "Enough of problems not at hand. I daresay you have your hands full of this coronation business and could do with whatever help two little old ladies may give."
"Oh, do not say old! Never old! Say instead two experienced, noble, queenly paragons, and that will be the right of it!" Rhoswen said, recovering herself and going to find her plans, her lists, her precedence tables and swatches of fabric and tailors' bills and the thousand other bits of paper that were floating around this coronation and threatening to end her. "Now, here is the table, as I have worked it out, of who shall be doing the greeting, and here is the script of what they shall say, as the heralds have set down…"
By the time the Princess of Dol Amroth and the Lady of Belfalas took their leave of Rhoswen's apartments, it was well past noon. Rhoswen should have been in the Great Hall an hour past, to receive the families now coming into the city for the Coronation, as the Stewardess ought to do for her honored guests, and apprise them of the situation, and ask after everyone's family. It was no great matter – someone would have made her excuses. She was Boromir's wife, and accorded all the privileges of that exalted state, and one of those was to be late to her audiences if she so wished. And it was not as though this were an idle lateness; she had been about the work of the City. And she knew she could not make a habit of it.
Faeldes had, indeed, dismissed the audiences for the afternoon, claiming, as was her right as Rhoswen's chief attendant, that her Lady was not to hear court this afternoon, a fact for which Rhoswen was very, very glad indeed. She made informal meetings in the corridors with some of the courtiers who had been very slow in leaving, her best court face on, smiling and nodding and taking mental notes she would be sure to pass on to Faeldes later so she would not forget them.
It was slow going, but finally, she had managed to speak with every one of her late-leaving guests. Everyone, that is, except one – a dark-haired lady she did not recognize, who stayed far to the back of the room and seemed to be avoiding her. Well, she would be avoided no longer. Rhoswen was not in the mood to play games just now – there were seamstresses to meet over the matter of the king's banners and livery for an entire household. She approached, as quietly as she could, hoping not to stir the woman into running away again, touched the woman's shoulder, and the face that turned to meet her made her jump a little in surprise.
"Lady Serawen!" Rhoswen exclaimed, hardly recognizing the heavily pregnant woman for the court beauty who had left the White City last summer after her marriage.
"I have come for the body of my husband," the lady of Pinnath Gelin said stiffly, answering a question Rhoswen had not asked. "And for the coronation of our new king. You've not changed so much," she added, looking Rhoswen over with the same look the younger woman remembered so well from her first day in Minas Tirith, a mixture of disdain and downright hatred.
You've not changed at all, she thought to herself, saying out loud, "You're looking very well."
But that was a lie, and a bold-faced one at that. Pregnancy had not been kind to the court beauty – the vitality was gone from her honey-gold hair, and it was bound back, in the manner of a married lady, with evident disdain. There were hollows under her eyes, as if she had not been sleeping, and her fingers were swollen around her rings. But more than anything else, it was her bearing. Other women could have the same troubles and still look radiant when they were with child, their present happiness at the thought of becoming a mother overbearing all else in their countenance. But Serawen seemed to look as though the light in her entire being had gone out. And it did not suit her at all.
The Lady of Pinnath Gelin pursed her lips and frowned. "You were always a terrible liar, White Rose. You think I look hideous. And I do," she said with distaste, shifting her hand along the large curve of her heavy stomach. "What man on earth would find this attractive?" she asked in a low voice to no one in particular, her eyes darting to Rhoswen's maidenly curves with jealousy. "Well, lead on to my dear departed husband, then," she said as an afterthought.
Rhoswen felt her blood go cold, and suddenly, all the morning's talk of Lucan, and Lothiriel, and slighted love, and the sight of her dearest friend weeping as though the world would end rose up in her like a hurricane, and was just as swiftly let loose.
She seized Serawen's wrist and practically dragged the lady through the King's House, down into the Houses of Healing and into the mortuary rooms deep within the mountain, bodily pulling her former rival into the room where the body of Hirluin lay, already shrouded, only missing the cloth that should cover his face, the last part of mourning, traditionally reserved for his wife to place. Death had sunken his face, carved hollows into his skin where once it had been full-figured and friendly. His mouth, which once had smiled with such abandon, was now grave in death as it had never had cause to be in life.
"Here is your husband," The White Rose spat, looking at Serawen with a blazing eye. "He loved you, far more than you deserved to be loved, and gave you the gift of himself while he was living, and he has left you with a treasure beyond measurement. It is the last gift you will give him, and if you do not love that baby as is his due as the son of Hirluin and the heir to Pinnath Gelin, then I swear by all the Valar who are listening now I will take him and all his patrimony away from your care and you will be what you have always feared – penniless and alone." She felt a fire biting at her eyes, her ears, the very blood in her veins screaming to be let loose upon this woman, this hateful, spiteful creature who cared so little for the thoughts and needs of others.
It was an anger such as she had seldom known, and it terrified and thrilled her at the same time.
Serawen stood still for a moment, astounded, and then laughed, quietly, more out of amazement than amusement. "You say that now and I believe you. The White Rose's thorns," she repeated quietly to herself. "And people said you had none. My husband never stopped speaking of you, you know," she said, a clear vein of disgust in her voice. "It was almost as if he were mourning a dead wife. I hated it," she hissed. "You got everything that should have been mine. The city, the title, my husband's…fawning attentions. Boromir."
Yes, lady, wish for that! Wish for the city, and the title, wish for all the sorrow and the heartache it has caused me, and I will let you have the whole of it, freely and gladly! But keep your wishes far, far away from the man whom I love and you would only ruin. "Boromir chose to love me," Rhoswen interjected sharply, "And Hirluin might have done the same. He did love you, when you were first wed."
"I was perfect!" Serawen shouted, her voice echoing strangely in the cavernous room. "No man should have chosen you over me."
"Ivory statues are perfect, too, but men desire warmth in women," Rhoswen observed candidly, her voice as cold as the stone walls of the shrouding room. She felt very much like a piece of steel newly drawn from the fire, all hot, sharp edges and patterned blades, and she did not much want to stay with Serawen any longer. She felt if she did she might come close to bodily harming the woman, and that was a crime she could not allow herself to indulge in, especially when she was great with child. "I will leave you here to mourn in peace," she added, just as coldly.
It was a long walk back to Rhoswen's apartments, and she thanked all the Valar for it, for it gave her time to let her anger to burn away. She even took the longest route she could find, going far out of her way to make sure she'd calmed again. There was no reason Lottie should have to suffer through any of that. She had enough to occupy her at the present.
The door to the sleeping chamber was still mercifully closed, and Rhoswen sat down heavily in one of her chairs in her solar, feeling her body relax and spread out against the chair's support. She hadn't realized how much of her muscle had been unconsciously clenched as she had spoken with Serawen, and suddenly, all of the taut cords in her arms, her shoulders, her neck and her jaw, even around her eyes seemed to slowly hum with pain.
And then she let her head fall slowly back against the top of her chair and wept.
Not tears of anger, nor really tears of sorrow. Simply tears to wash the uncomfortable tide of too many feelings away. And the crying did more good than she could have thought possible. Dabbing her eyes with a piece of linen, Rhoswen checked her face in the mirror, pinched her cheeks a few times to return some color to her face, and went to go call the seamstresses who were working on the liveries.
The seamstresses came and went, giving their report on their progress in quiet, reverent tones and leaving with Rhoswen a sample of the livery meant for the King's retinue – a boy-sized tabard, richly embroidered over with the white tree with the crown aloft it in all its glory. She'd send it out to Osgiliath for Bergil to gloat over. She was just setting into the inventory of the treasury's festival banners for the high table when there was a creaking from the door into her room. A very disheveled Lottie emerged, looking a good deal calmer than when she had first arrived but no less worse for wear. She saw Rhoswen, gave a bleak smile, and came to sit closer to her, fresh tears springing up as Rhoswen took her in her arms.
"It's not a lie, is it? He's really – "
"I'm afraid so," Rhoswen said, petting Lothíriel's hair down in places where it seemed particularly badly matted. Now, this is love. There were a few tears biting at her eyes to say it, but it was true. She'd expected to cry a little, when she talked with Lottie about this, but her sudden fit of weeping earlier seemed to have calmed that need.
"Father had made him Captain – was going to make him Captain-commanding after the battle was over! I would have talked him into giving him a castle, or a…a watchhouse, perhaps. He would have been able to marry me! We would have been happy."
"He would have been very happy," Rhoswen affirmed. And if he had lived, and you were still parted by a marriage to another man, the parting would have been easier. But this? To be parted by death? You will never lose sight of that.
"I wish we could stay here forever," Lothíriel said miserably, "And I would not have to go out and be… joyful with all the rest. But Mama would not let me, I do not think."
"I would not let you, either," Rhoswen said strongly. "And…" Should she give that blow? It was a heavy one, and it would hurt. "Nor would Lucan," she added, softly but still strong. It was a low pass, a dagger straight to the heart, but it needed to be given. Lottie looked at her with wounded eyes. "I knew my brother, Lottie, and I knew the way he loved you, and he would rather that you went and laughed and danced and remembered him that way than sitting and weeping. He did not like dolorous romances, my brother. He loved a bold and wild lady who always smiled."
"Oh, Rhos, must I?" Lottie begged.
"I will not order you thus," the White Rose said reasonably. "I would not order you to anything. I merely remind you of it, and you may take it as you will. But you will set off my numbers for dinner, if you do not come, and I am not sure I can forgive that," she threatened lightly, and that, at least, made Lottie laugh.
"Oh, well, if it will upset dinner," Lottie said as if she were agreeing, tears fresh on her face again. She leaned her head against Rhoswen's shoulder and for a while the two women sat in silence, each deep in her own thoughts.
"Have you met him?" Lothiriel asked suddenly.
"Who?"
"The king. Aragorn the son of Arathorn." She pronounced the name as though he were a particularly foreign sounding character from a story.
Rhoswen felt a little relieved Lottie's mind had found something else to focus on for the present. "Yes, I have, several times. He is very kind, very gentle, and a great leader of men. A poet, too – I think you'll like him. Boromir does, anyway, but the affection of men is different." She gave a small shrug and lapsed into silence for a moment before remembering what she was going to tell Lottie. "I saw Serawen this afternoon." A simple enough statement, and yet filled with such feelings as could not be spoken of!
Lothiriel had heard enough stories in Dol Amroth to fill a small book about Serawen – her expression changed almost immediately to indignation, as suitable distraction as any from grief. "And what hateful trash did she spew at you? I hope you didn't listen."
"No, it wasn't that. At least, not all of it. She – she came for Hirluin's body. And it is very plain to see she is very great with child. His, I hope, though she does not seem to care one way or another. She'd rather not have it at all since it's ruined her figure. And the things she said! I was close to raking my nails through her eyes," Rhoswen admitted.
"I wish you had," Lottie said vehemently, "It would have done you good." She added, quieter, "I know how you feel about having children."
"I only hope that baby gets more love from her than Hirluin did," Rhos said darkly. "I told her I would take it from her if I heard otherwise."
"A wise woman come to judgement!" Lothiriel cried, in the manner of a herald shouting a poem of overwrought praise in the streets, and the two women fell together laughing in the manner of old friends who know they laugh only to keep the darkness at bay. "Oh, Rhos, I've missed you."
Oh, Lottie, I've missed you, too.
Lothiriel stayed Rhoswen with that night, though she almost insisted otherwise. But in the end, Rhoswen's more sensible will, remembering a few too many sleepless nights alone in Dol Amroth, prevailed. She herself could not sleep, though it had nothing to do with a foreign body in her bed, as had sometimes been the case when she and Lottie had shared a bed in the City of Swans. That part of her that lived to mother and protect others wouldn't let her fall asleep until she was sure that her friend was sleeping. But that was a long time coming, for there was a small, sad sniffling for a long, long while after the candles had been blown out.
The Princess of Dol Amroth had always kept different hours than Rhoswen did, preferring to get up much, much later, and she was still sleeping when Rhoswen dragged herself out of bed to begin getting ready for the day. But it was not in Rhoswen's nature to leave a friend alone, especially one in such a precarious place as Lottie, and she was sure she could find something to occupy herself with while she waited for Lottie to wake up.
It was several tenuous hours of piecework on this and that before Lottie, too, emerged, rubbing at her eyes and yawning, glancing around the room to see Rhoswen, dressed and washed and already hard at work.
"Were you waiting for me?" she asked, sounding a little suspicious.
"Waiting? For you to get up?" Rhoswen feigned surprise. "I'd have been waiting until the mountains came down. I had some letters to finish reading. Though now that you are up, I might as well ask what you want to do today."
"Do? Rhos, do we have to do anything?" Lottie begged, her eyes wide and puppyish as she looked at Rhoswen.
"Well, if you'd like to sit here all day I've no objection, but you are my guest, and I must entertain you or distract you, as you will."
"You've got something in mind already," the other woman accused, watching as Rhoswen gave a non-commital shrug and shuffled her papers for a moment.
"I need to see what flowers we can manage for the coronation, from the gardens. The heralds have said we must have flowers, or flower petals, or some such nonsense, and like a good little matron I must do as I am bid and find them. It'll be a bit dull, but you won't have to talk to anyone."
"Do I have any other options?"
Rhoswen thought for a moment, not having considered this possibility, and her eyes lit up. "Well, there are several very elderly and long-winded ladies who will be meeting this afternoon to check our table linens. I'm sure they'd love to gossip over you while they mend napkins."
Lottie made a face. "Flowers it is then."
I thought you might say that. The White Rose of Gondor tried not to smile and put her papers back in order before going for her cloak.
In Dol Amroth, it had been Lottie's habit to chatter constantly when moving from one place to another about any topic at all – the weather, the state of current fashion, the latest poem she had read. Lottie now did none of these things, content, it seemed, to walk in silence. And Rhoswen did not trust herself to speak on sundry matters, for every road her mind went down seemed, somehow, to lead back to Boromir, about what he would say or what he had said, a joke he had told her or a moment she had shared with him. She wanted so badly to share all these things with Lottie – but not now. Not yet. How difficult it was to keep such good and wonderful thoughts bottled up inside, when they wanted sharing! That would be cruel to her, and I am not that friend that would so quickly forget her grief in order to share my joy. I must not be that woman.
The Houses of Healing had been stripped to a bare staff to send whatever healers were necessary out to Osgiliath, and they were quieter now than Rhoswen remembered them ever being before. They took a cursory tour of the gardens without seeing any particularly promising patches of growth – it was still early, did the heralds not understand that? – and spoke with several of the gardeners to confirm that they had not missed anything. One of them suggested sending a few women further afield beyond the city to gather wildflowers, which might have started their growing season earlier, which Rhoswen thought was better than going back with nothing at all.
Rhoswen's eyes glanced casually to Lothíriel as the gardeners conferred amongst themselves about which field in which place would have the best blossoms at the present time, and was just in time to see Lottie ineffectively stifle a yawn. A few more minutes of your patience, my friend, and you shall be rewarded.
"Thank you, gentlemen," Rhoswen said, when the gardeners were finally finished. "You've been most helpful."
"Are we done?" Lottie asked as her friend collected her from the corridor where she had been standing.
"Not quite yet," the White Rose said with a small smile. "There is one thing more I would do before we leave. Someone I must see."
Lottie sighed, but did not complain, and Rhoswen's smile grew a little. She led Imrahil's daughter back into the Houses, to the portion usually reserved for patients staying longer than a few days. Their rooms were larger, and special gardens and courtyards were given over to their especial use. Rhoswen motioned for Lothiriel to stand in the corridor, and rapped her knuckles on the stone of the doorframe as she wrapped her body around into the courtyard. "Are you up to receiving visitors?" she asked someone outside of Lottie's view, stepping through the doorway a little.
"That depends," a male voice answered. "Who is it?"
"Faramir!" Lothíriel cried out in the hallway, recognizing the voice, and ran to embrace her cousin without a second thought, making Faramir stagger for a moment under the sudden weight of a woman too used to a stronger, sure-footed version of her cousin.
"Lottie! Careful now, I'm not quite as I should be," Faramir said, trying to regain his ground while his cousin stepped back, looking a little ashamed. He recovered well enough before Rhoswen had a chance to say something, laughing and smiling as usual, but Rhoswen, just as suddenly, was no longer worried about him, but Éowyn.
The shieldmaiden had been on her knees near one of the planting beds, trowel in her unhurt hand, digging out spaces in the dirt for the line of carefully tended seedlings from the planting houses. Judging by the book near Faramir's seat at the table he had been reading aloud to her while she worked. She, too, had risen when she heard the noise, but there was no love in Éowyn's eyes, only a hurt kind of hate. Looking over the whole scene a second time, Rhoswen realized why. Here was Éowyn, a woman of Rohan, an outsider, wearing a mousy-brown workdress and faded apron with dirt on her knees and in the creases of her hands, and here was this vision of Gondorian womanhood, all lovely gowns and perfect dark hair and with so many smiles and kisses and embraces for Faramir, the esteemed captain of Gondor. How close they looked, how intimate and …full of love. Faramir had been Eowyn's entire world since Rhoswen had commended him to Eowyn's help, and now, she could almost see the Shieldmaiden's tentative little world here in Gondor unravel. Rhoswen took several quick steps to Éowyn's side and wrapped her hand quietly around Éowyn's own, fisted now in anger. Éowyn's gaze snapped to Rhoswen as though she were ready to raise her trowel as a weapon.
"This is the Lady Lothiriel," Rhoswen said quietly, no judgement or censure in her voice. "The Lord Faramir's cousin." She felt the hand relax a little, some of the hate leave her gaze to be replaced instead by a sort of fierce longing. How I wish I had with him what she does, her eyes seemed to say. Rhoswen understood that feeling, too. "She will want to meet you," the Gondorian whispered. Éowyn's hands flew again to the knees of her dress, and a hundred other little defects she was now keenly aware of, and Rhoswen was obliged to take her hand again for fear she'd hurt herself. "You will have much in common with her," The White Rose assured the shieldmaid. "She loves to ride, and to hunt, and the old stories of valour and great deeds. Lottie!" She called across the courtyard, drawing Éowyn away from the planting bed. "This is the Lady Éowyn, of the house of Thengel. The warrior who slew the Fell Beast and his Rider."
Lottie's praise, just as effusive as her affection had been for Faramir, set Éowyn back a bit. "Oh, Lady, we have not had a woman warrior in Gondor for an age! And we have sorely needed them. I will make every poet in the city sing songs about your deeds. Rhoswen has told me she thinks we will be great friends."
"Rhoswen's judgement is usually sound," Éowyn managed, still a little overwhelmed by it all. Rhoswen remembered that feeling, too. It took a little while to get used to Lottie's passion on first acquaitence.
Lottie beamed and looked over at Rhoswen. "Yes, it is," she agreed, and the trust, the absolute friendship in her eyes made Rhoswen's throat tighten a little. "Though I cannot agree with her decision to trade your spearpoints for spearmints," she added, looking at the little garden rows Éowyn had been tending. Already Rhoswen could see that some of them were planted too high and a few a little low, and the rows were not at all straight, but that was criticism that did not need to be given.
"In my country, at least, I think we have had enough of war. We shall need healers now, as well as ready spears. The Lady is teaching me a little of what she knows, for when I return."
"And a fine student she is, too," Rhoswen said, for the simple pleasure of one of Éowyn's tentative smiles. It was true, after a fashion – Éowyn did so want to learn, even if it was only little simple things that a child of ten would already know in Gondor. Her mind was not as quick as Faramir's when it came to deep philosophies, but there were times when even she outpaced him with simple wisdom. She had a keen desire to show her mastery, and a child's joy when that was praised. At times she was both an old soul and a young one, for when she and Faramir took their walks they spoke at length of war and old songs and what made a battle worth fighting like the most ancient of generals, and when she and Rhoswen worked in the Herbarium, writing an herbal full of simples and Éowyn remembered another plant or its properties without any hint from Rhoswen her face would become aflame with a child's pride.
"Well, fine student or no, she will put down her trowel now and come and tell me the whole story. I want to tell my grandchildren that I heard the Lady Éowyn tell me, from her own lips, how she slew the Witch-King." And so saying, Lothíriel gently pried the trowel from Éowyn's hand and lead her back to the table where Faramir had been sitting with his book of poetry.
"I don't know where to begin," Éowyn said as she and the other two women sat down, now a little embarrassed that she should be thus singled out for praise and adoration, looking to Rhoswen for some kind of prompt.
"Begin where you started with me," Faramir suggested, his hand lightly touching her arm as if to bring her back down to earth, and Éowyn's gaze came back to him. He held it there a moment, all radiant steadiness and confidence and warm smiles, and she seemed to calm and relax a little, her smile more sure of itself. "Begin with Edoras."
And so she did. She spoke of her brother, and her cousin, the loss of her mother and her aunt and the world that so valued the bright swords and sharp spears of war, of her training as a shieldmaid, and the days not so far distant when men who had seemed like great heroes to her, Boromir and Aragorn, had passed through her uncle's halls and how she had sought to win their respect and favor, and, failing that, to win reknown in battle.
Rhoswen had heard the story before, from several people, including Pippin's friend Merry, who had ridden with the Lady all the way from Rohan, disguised among King Theoden's host, and she did not need to listen to the story quite so closely as did the others. She contented herself with quietly studying the others – Éowyn, now fully caught up in her storytelling with her attentive audience smiling and nodding in all the right places, seemed in her element with all eyes upon her, no trace of her former temerity in her face or body. It was not idle boasting, nor the borrowed stories of a green soldier who only praised battles because he has not seen them, but the cool, measured speeches of a woman who once thought too well of war, and now sought to make the truth known. Faramir sat by and listened quietly, as was his wont, his gaze reassuring, his smile, while small, brightening every so often when Éowyn's eyes tracked back to him, studying her in his own way.
And Lottie. Lottie sat by quieter than Rhoswen had ever seen her, taking all of what Éowyn said in with amazing grace. Her throat looked tight and her face oddly serene, as though she were willing herself not to make a sound, any sound, for fear of being thought rude.
She had been up in heights and down in valleys since coming to Minas Tirith, and Rhoswen had really not been sure what her reaction to Éowyn was going to be. She had not expected the effusive, bubbling welcome that Lottie had given her, for that was the Lottie of days gone by, the princess without a care in the world, the romantic whose thoughts were given over far more often to tales of lovers and great heroes rather than grim stories of war. This woman sitting with them was a different woman, surely, and Rhoswen thought she was seeing now more of how Lottie truly felt inside, a woman who was only playing the light, capering girl she had been for the sake of the people who had always known her that way.
Yes, we are all a little different now. A little older, a little wiser, a little more attentive to the world's ways. But It is a time for changes. A new age is coming, and we must be ready to meet it.
The new age came without clouds or rain, or any promise thereof, with a slight breeze and no chill to speak of. It was a perfect day for anything, really, but an especially perfect and auspicious day for a beginning.
The city was full of quietly bustling activity, all hands and eyes and ears fairly bursting with excitement at the prospect that soon – so soon now! – they would see a thing that had not happened in Gondor in an age or more.
They would see a King return to the Tower of Guard.
But for a king to return, he must first look the part, and the King today was still having a bit of reticence about his costume. Boromir watched, carefully silent, as Aragorn studied the mirror and tugged again at his crimson surcoat, Narthion waiting patiently with the wooden dummy holding his mail and the elaborate breastplate and pauldrons that would go over it. He was not only a returning king, but a victor in war as well, and that meant he would return wearing his armor.
It was a long way from the Ranger Boromir had met in Rivendell, his beard and hair hinting at long sojourns in the wild away from the comforts of home and a hot bath, the clothing he had worn at Council almost seeming too rich for him, looking very much borrowed. But nothing about him looked borrowed now. In the last two months – in the last week, even! – Boromir had seen him change, from the way that he stood his ground to the way that he talked with the men. It was what had always been there, hidden from view, and was now being allowed out into the sunshine: the courtly manners of the elves he had learned in his youth and the natural grace and command that carried them so well.
"They are waiting for us, my King," Boromir said, as nonchalantly as possible. Aragorn turned from the mirror to look at his friend with a slim smile.
"Are we in a hurry?" he asked, bringing an immediate smile to Boromir's face.
"Oh, the people of Minas Tirith may wait as long as they like – they have been doing so for near a thousand years, and an hour or more will not hurt them. But there is a woman waiting for me in that city who will not wait a minute more than she is required, and she will not speak kindly to me tonight if we set her plans awry. Our hour draws close, and there is still the ride to the gates yet."
It was an odd remark to bring a smile to Aragorn's face, but it seemed to do the job required. The soon-to-be King nodded, all decision and action once more. "Thank the gods for the goad of women," he said, somewhat cryptically, and gestured for Narthion to come with the mail.
In panoply of ancient kings, in chained rings he armoured him. That was a line from a poem, somewhere. Boromir couldn't remember which poem, or where he'd heard it, or why it was coming to mind now, but it gave him a sort of comfort that a sudden memory always brings. It felt right, this moment, this time, the slow slide of chainmail and the gentle clinking as Narthion buckled on Aragorn's breastplate. They could not go back from this.
They would not go back from this.
Boromir stepped out from the tent, momentarily surprised to see there was already quite a crowd outside the entrance. He smiled, and stepped aside to let Aragorn pass. As the Dunedain stepped forth into the sunlight, a great cry went up in camp, and Boromir watched his friend's face break into a smile. And the cheering did not stop, either – it followed them to the horse pens, up into the saddle, and well into the ride from Osgiliath, until finally the King, his Steward, and the honor guard that attended upon them were well away.
They would ride to the gates of the city, and greet the soldiers of the city on the first level, from whom they would have to ask entrance. At each of the six great doors someone would be there to meet them, and admit them to the city—six doors, and six groups asked to represent the city. The soldiers, and the farmers of the lower town, the guildsmen, the low court, the high court, and Rhoswen and the women of the city last of all.
There were banners waving upon all the battlements, and people lining the parapet of the first level like so many spectators at a sporting match. They cheered and called and waved their flags, but Boromir, and Aragorn, kept their eyes forward, focusing on the single figure standing in the gateway to the city – the symbolic watchkeeper, the soldier, a veteran of many of Gondor's wars, who had been asked to represent his fellow soldiers today.
The trumpets blasted out a trill of clear, silvery notes from every level of the city, and a reverant hush fell.
"Who is it that asks entrance here?" the man said, standing his ground as if he, too, was a king in his own time.
"Boromir, the son of Denethor the son of Ecthelion of the Line of Hurin, the Steward of this place."
"And who is it that comes with you?"
"I bring with me Aragorn, son of Arathorn son of Arador of the Line of Isildur."
"And what is his business in this place?"
"He is come to be our king."
"What tokens does he bring with him, that we should know him to be the one we have watched for?"
"He has the sword of Kings, the sword of Elendil that was broken in Mordor, and it has been remade, and he wears the ring of Barahir, that came out of the west with the sons of Elendil. He has brought with him the victory out of Mordor, and the company of the city unharmed, and it is by these signs that we judge him to be the one we have watched for."
"Enter, then, and be prosperous, and may the soldiers of this city go with you!" The man said happily, stepping aside and letting the procession enter into the city, adding a company of guardsmen to follow behind on foot.
And so they came back into the City of Kings.
Who is it who comes with you? What is his business in this place? What signs does he bring? Again and again they answered the questions, and again the gates opened, and the train of people grew longer with farmers and high and low guildsmen, and the nobles of the city, until at last they came to the doors of the sixth level, the doors that would take them to the doorstep of the King's House. It was here that Rhoswen stood, alongside her handmaidens and many other women of high nobility here in the city. She wore a dress of white, the color of the house of the stewards, worked over in cunning silver embroidery, and long lappets of pearls were in her hair and around her neck.
"Who is it who comes here?" she asked, her face fine and fair and noble as any queen, and Boromir was able to fully smile as he gave his answer.
"It is the Lord Boromir, your husband, and the Steward of this place."
"And who do you bring with you?"
"I bring with me Aragorn, the son of Arathorn."
"And what is his business in this place?"
"He comes to be our king."
"He comes clad for war, and his soldiers are behind him. Does he seek to bring war into this place, or discord?" She was as stern as any judge and yet her gaze seemed as kind as summer.
"He does not bring war with him."
"Will you act on surety for that promise?"
"I will," Boromir said, and meant it with all his heart. He thought he saw Rhoswen smile at this.
"We have heard the praises of our sons at the gates, and the joyful songs of our daughters at the parapets, and the sureties offered for you, and we agree here, now, with all that they have seen and said. Take then this key, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. It is the key to your house, which we have kept for you. May your sons be as strong and numerous as ours, and your daughters lights upon your living."
Aragorn bowed and took the key, an old, mottled black piece of ironwork that carried with it all the weight, implied and real, of the lordship of the city, and, fitting it into the lock, drew the bolt back with a shuddering sound. The guards at the insides of the doors pulled them open, and Aragorn, taking Rhoswen's hand, ascended into the courtyard of the king, with Boromir and the entire company following behind them.
And that, I think, will do to be getting on with for now.
From here, I've got a gaping hole to fill in the next part of the story, and I'm open to suggestions. What would you, dear readers, like to see next? Suggestions will be taken with all the seriousness they deserve. Praise is nice too. Criticism accepted with an open heart.