Chapter 36: Musings and Mishaps

The first view of Minas Tirith after several hours' travel stole Áine's breath: the fabled seven-layered capital city of Gondor lay pressed against an eastern cliff face, cloven in two by a wedge of white rock that started wide at the peak and narrowed as it descended down the levels. The bright afternoon seemed to infuse the blanched stone with a radiance that spread across its length and breadth.

Once they came into full view, the awe wore off in favor of a pervading somberness. The Fields of Pelennor still bore scars from the siege on the city: the land directly before the city gates was scorched and pitted. Further east towards Osgiliath and the river were burial mounds that had been set aflame but not yet receded into the ground. Patches of grass spread out like wildfire, desperately trying to reclaim the earth; to her surprise, it seemed to circumvent both the untouched piles of burned bodies and one rather large swath of blackened land to the northwest of the city.

While the wedding party was about a quarter mile from the entrance, a faint call went up from within and faces began popping over the edges of the walls pockmarked from the catapults of the enemy. Repairs were in effect, it seemed, which only made her wonder what it had looked like moments after the battle. Upon reaching the gates, both Elladan and Elrohir rode to the front of the procession, the former holding the banner, and announced themselves, trading off every so often as they rattled off titles and lineages of themselves and those within the group. With one voice, the twin sons of Elrond completed their introduction by declaring, "We petition entrance so that we may present to King Elessar his bride, Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, as the future Queen of Gondor!" They fell silent and for a while, all that was heard was the whistle of the wind and the quiet flapping of both the Elvish and Gondorian banners.

Suddenly, a dark-haired Man dressed in silver and dark blue stepped forward. "I am Ingold, Captain of the Rammas Echor. Your presence is expected and welcomed here in Minas Tirith. May you travel onward in peace through our fair city!" With a gesture, he sent a few soldiers scurrying out of sight; moments later, the gates begin to groan and slowly bow inward.

Áine did her very best to keep her eyes forward in a neutral stare, trying to imitate those around her as they ascended the cobblestone streets. All around her were endless crowds of people staring at them making their way up through the seven levels. Men, women, and children alike all gawked, their dirt-streaked faces following every move. The crush of humanity was enough to make her heart stutter anxiously, and suddenly, it was easier to fix her gaze on one thing and forget that she was being watched.

Near the third level, the air became thinner. Though she was riding, Áine's breath started to come in short, heavy gasps. Her ears popped with every inhale, and her heart thudded in tandem. She made sure to breathe deeply and fully, trying not to be too obvious in her discomfort. Oh please don't faint – not here! Surreptitiously, she let Aurthiniel fall back in the line-up until there were enough Elves around to shield her from prying eyes; only then did Áine let out a ragged sigh and reach down to grab her waterskin.

"My lady?" Faelwyn appeared at her elbow, face drawn with concern.

Áine waved at her, finishing her deep draught before answering. "Fret not, I am well. Just a bit tired and thirsty." She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

The Elven handmaiden nodded slowly, still perturbed but not distrusting. She cast her eyes above to the towering structures that ran in a broad, white swath from left to right. "Overwhelming, is it?"

"Aye." Áine followed her gaze, taking especial interest in the buildings that protruded from the eastern cliff-face. "It is a strange thing to realize that had I come to Imladris, I might have become a resident here."

"This was your original destination?"

Faelwyn's surprised look reminded her that she had relayed very little of her past to her friend. A stab of guilt was accompanied by an embarrassed chuckle. "Yes, I left home to come here and study in the Archives – a fanciful dream, mind, but it was all that I wanted to do merely a year ago. I ran away and traversed the prairies for about three months before Elladan and Elrohir found me."

"What did you want to study here?"

"Anything, really. Geography, history, languages, lore – I didn't care." Áine paused. "I think…I really just wanted to leave. I did wish to study under the masters, but at its root, I was simply desperate to get away from the farmer's life."

"What about it was so very terrible, my lady?"

Áine took a moment to think before answering. "The absence of self, I believe. In the Mark, your loyalty to king and country is everything. We are leery of outsiders and fiercely protective of our heritage and our culture. As an Eorlingas, you live and die as one. You trust your fellow man and maintain a tight-knit household. In practice, this way of life is unassailable: the nation survives on the will of the people, and we all benefit from having someone by our side and at our back."

"But?" Faelwyn prodded gently.

"But to me…it felt like a death sentence. My head was filled with fantastical tales of far-off lands and daring deeds of the adventurers that populate those stories – and there was little to no place for such thinking in a land where all depend on one other. I do not imply that I was apathetic in my approach to work and family; rather, I had a wanderlust that the people of Rohan did not understand nor appreciate. Adventures and quests were best left to the myths and legends of our past, and what mattered in the here and now was tending the land and keeping the family alive. I respected my father's devotion, but I did not share it…and I think I now know why."

"Because of your Dúnedain heritage?"

Áine nodded. "It explains quite a lot about me, if I'm brutally honest. What it does not explain is how and why my father chose to give up the life of a Ranger."

"Perhaps he saw the value of being a Rohirric farmer and desired that path so that he could escape the horrors of war. After being a Ranger of the North for however many years, I do not doubt that he was enticed by its simplicity and straightforwardness. Not everyone is built to last in that lifestyle. Besides, did you not say that he was raised on that farm as a boy before his own father sent him away to join the Rangers?"

"Aye, that's true," Áine agreed. "Perhaps it is not all that difficult to understand, but even so, I struggle to comprehend why he would prevent me from trying to live how I saw fit."

Faelwyn gave a matronly smile at this. "I would wager that it was because of your youth, dear. Children very rarely settle on one path as their life goal, and you were and are no exception to this."

Áine bit her lip and sighed heavily. "I was never given the chance to try, though."

"Yes, but if you step into their shoes and see through their eyes, their eldest child has this dream of traveling to a distant land to potentially acquire a position within a field that is predominately male. What would you say if your daughter begged to ride off to Bree to become a tavern-keep? No money, no prospects, no promise of succeeding – just a dream." The She-Elf arched a dark brow as she awaited a response.

Another deep, mournful sigh. "I would not let her go."

"And well you shouldn't. You were very fortunate in your dealings with fate, but not everyone else is. You must understand this if you are to go far in this life: not everything is guaranteed to be a success simply because you want it badly enough. Hard work and persistence are all well and good, but sometimes, life is terribly unpredictable. You might have died a week past, but there was also a strong chance that you would have survived; while the latter was true, it could have very possibly have been the former."

The young mortal absently twisted her skirt about her fingers, eyes downcast. "Was I wrong, then, in leaving?"

Faelwyn moved closer and laid a hand over Áine's, stilling her fidgeting. "It does not do to mourn past decisions, be they good or ill. All you can do is learn from them and move on. So long as we are unable to change what was, it is to be seen as foolishness to keep our eyes backwards."

Áine nodded and glanced up at her friend, smiling faintly. "You're a fount of wisdom."

"But of course. I have years of experience." Faelwyn tossed her hair and lifted her chin, an otherwise pretentious display were it not for the impish grin that spread across her lovely face.

They continued to converse idly as the trip dragged on, both seeking distraction from the sheer boredom of riding through infinite streets that curved ever upward. Before either of them knew it, the sun was beginning to sink into the west, casting a warm glow over the city, and the crowd that was following them began to grow gleeful. There were whoops and cheers as children raced on ahead, faces alight with joy. The energy of the area was rife with expectation and excitement. The homes and alcoves coalesced into a broad wall that shot up a flight of stairs, too narrow for all those on horseback; here, everyone started reining in their steeds from a brisk trot, dismounted, and continued the journey on foot, Glorfindel and the twins going first with Elrond escorting Arwen just behind them.

Upon reaching the top, a grand courtyard stretched out before them, a vast sea of white broken up by a circle of green in its center; it was guarded by a quartet of soldiers in shining armor bearing spears and winged helmets. Past them, several structures formed a half-moon on the opposite end and curved inward, ending with a broad-faced citadel dotted with open dormers. Standing just under the pillared terrace was a Man in full regal attire and a shining winged crown seated atop his dark head. Áine struggled to make out the finer features, but she knew just by glance alone that this must be the King of Gondor, Elessar Telcontar.

Faelwyn leaned in and whispered, "I heard that you and the King developed a rapport of sorts while the Company rested in Lothlórien."

Áine frowned and turned towards her friend. "I…no, it was Aragorn, the Ranger…from Imladris? Lord Elrond's ward?" Faelwyn's smirk widened at Áine's confusion. The young mortal took another look as they drew closer, and her heart stuttered. It…it can't be…him?! He is Arwen's betrothed?! He was much cleaner and more put together than when last they saw one another, but it was most definitely her late-night friend from Lothlórien.

The Elven handmaiden laughed softly as she watched her charge struggle with this realization. "No one ever told you?"

"Narry a word," Áine replied woodenly, still in shock.

"Well, I can understand why, seeing as it was to be kept secret from the Enemy. Even so, I am surprised not even Lady Arwen mentioned it." She fell silent as the House of Elrond broke away from the main group and strode forward, their gait measured. The king followed suit and stepped down towards the approaching family; trailing behind him were several men, some dressed in robes and others bearing ceremonial armor. Áine noticed with a start that among them was a Halfling.

Once the two parties met in the middle of the courtyard, just to the left of the grassy circle, they began to exchange speeches. They spoke loudly, but Áine had trouble hearing most of it due to the wind noise from this height. She watched Aragorn smile politely and nod, appearing just barely able to keep a kingly mien in spite of his joy. The moment Arwen's hand was placed in his, trumpets sounded and both the crowd of Elves and the Gondorians put forth a great cheer. Lord Elrond was pulled into an embrace by his soon-to-be son by law, and the twins began shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with those behind the king.

As the higher-ranking members spoke and laughed, the remaining Elves and Áine returned to their steeds to unpack. From several side-streets came a company of Gondorian women and men, all dressed well, who began delegating who went where. Obviously, Lord Elrond and his sons, Glorfindel, and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel were all to be given private rooms within the Citadel, while the entourage would be housed on the sixth and seventh circles.

Faelwyn, Áine, and Lagorwen all began unloading from the same cart, each taking a small load and following several other servants to a simple three-story house set into the eastern wall. Modest furnishings were tucked into the otherwise cramped abode, some even bearing thin vases with a single long-stemmed flower tucked inside. The head attendant, an older woman with dark hair and eyes, relegated those in her command where to put this and that. "Cots and blankets in the main room! Trunks go two high against the back wall! You, stack the pillows in the bedrooms, and be quick about it!" Her no-nonsense attitude proved amusing to the Elves, though the other servants seemed harried.

Áine had just put down her load when someone grabbed her shoulder and whipped her around. Her arms were suddenly full of unfolded blankets and a few pillows. "Take these to the washers at Grey's Alcove, and be quick about it!"

"I-I am not…my lady, I –"

"I said, be quick about it!" The woman gestured wildly and turned towards a new trio of servants arriving with the Elves' trunks.

Reeling a bit from the unfamiliar brusqueness, Áine meekly exited the house and looked around for any of the others who might be carrying a similar load; upon finding a gaggle of women all touting various bundles of cloth heading down the street, she hurried up and fell into step with the group as they marched towards this "Grey's Alcove."

"Gods above, there's so many o' them!" one of the maids groused as she adjusted her grip. "What'd they do, empty the entire city? How do they expect us to house 'em?"

Another woman snorted. "Steward says we put them where we can, and that's that. Wonder how long they'll stay."

"Hope the men stay longer," a younger lass sighed, eliciting a slew of conspiratorial giggles from the rest of them.

"Aye, got me eye on one of them yellow-haired ones. S'like cornsilk, that."

"Wonder if it's just as soft." The banter continued on for a little while longer, Áine finding the entire encounter secretly delightful.

Winding through some remote alleyways and into a back room, they entered a large room filled with massive washing tubs. Steam hung in the air like fog, and the smell of lye burned her eyes and throat. The women all greeted those within and deposited their cargo onto a large mound off to the left of the doorway. Being the last in the group, Áine was forced to wait, all the while trying not to devolve into a violent coughing fit. Finally able to relieve herself of her burden, she turned and blindly made her way out of the room and into the street, only to find that none of the other women were there.

Oh no…where do I go now? With a strained whimper, Áine looked all around her for anything vaguely familiar, only to find that everything looked exactly the same: white stone buildings streaked with soot. There were two paths leading in opposite directions away from the washroom, and both looked equally viable. She could not remember which way they came in, and she was so exhausted from the walk. Well…I guess I'll go…somewhere… Heaving a dejected sigh, she turned right.

The various side-streets wound about in so many directions, some leading to dead ends while others curved into new ones. After what felt like several hours of walking, Áine finally found herself on a main road of sorts. She cast a quick glance at the sky to ascertain which way was north and started stumbling that way. Her eyelids were so heavy, and her limbs felt like stone. Just…get to the house…sleep there…She sidled away from an incoming cart, barely aware of the driver cursing her as he ambled on. Get back home…

She was not sure how, but somehow, she found herself standing before a wall with an open archway which led to a quaint little garden with a trickling fountain and some cushioned benches tucked away under stone awnings. With the grace of an hours-old foal, Áine stumbled down the stairs and sat down on the closest bench. "I'll just…sit here for a minute…catch my breath," she murmured to herself, feeling exhaustion start to drag her down towards the soft padding lining the seat. "So tired…close my eyes for a moment…"

When Áine opened her eyes, it was far darker than she remembered. That's odd…wasn't I – A yelp escaped her lips as she launched herself upright and wildly looked around. "Oh gods!" she exclaimed, hands covering her mouth. "I fell asleep! Oh gods!" Panic drove her to her feet and out into the nearby street. Where are all the guards!? Several minutes of frantically searching left her empty-handed. "Damn it all, can't anyone help me!?" She heard voices waft by and, like a bloodhound, raced down the street after the sound.

A few locals were milling about a small marketplace talking and laughing – and a bit further down were a pair of guards loitering by a small bonfire, talking quietly among themselves. She breathed a prayer of thanks as she hurried over to the pair. "If you please, sirs, where might I find the living quarters for the king's Elven guests?"

The guard on the right looked at her critically. "What's it matter to you?"

"I'm part of the entourage and I got separated during the moving in. Could you give me directions?"

The second guard snorted noisily and glanced over at his fellow. "That's a new one, eh, Sevren?" As the one called Sevren chuckled modestly, the other leaned in, green gaze mocking. "You been drinking, lass? Cuz there ain't any humans in the 'entourage'." He snickered at his own words as he straightened up. "Git on now."

"Be kind, Thorley," Sevren scolded mildly. "She's clearly lost her head, but there's no need for cruelty." He turned to her and nodded encouragingly. "Do as he says, miss."

Áine looked back and forth between the two men, starting to feel a bit worried about the direction this was heading. "I swear to you, I'm not from here. I came with Lord Elrond from Rivendell, and I'm here for the wedding. Could you please tell me where to go?"

Sevren took a step forward, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "If you please, miss, be on your way."

"I swear to you – "

"PISS OFF!" snapped Thorley as he too stepped forward. "Jus' because you're wearing fancy clothes doesn't make you anyone special! Now git!"

Tears began to well up as she got the sinking feeling that she would be stuck here in the slums for a while. Out of sheer frustration, she snapped, "Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul*, faeg yrch*!"

Their eyes widened at this unknown speech and they looked at one another before laughing. "A few hours in a cell will sober you up, I wager," Thorley chortled, reaching for her.

"Don't touch me!" she retorted as she rocked back a few steps. A second insult died on her lips as her gaze was immediately drawn to just over Sevren's left shoulder. Áine felt the breath leave her lungs and her body go cold.

…Boromir?

A/N: As it always is with me, I get about two chapters written, struggle with the pacing, leave it for a month or three, and then realize, "OH! I just need to break it up!" And then suddenly, all my issues vanish, and the roadblock is overcome. Still working on Ch. 37, but I wanted to publish something for y'all on Christmas Day as a thank you for being here with me and helping me along with this little project. I've quite enjoyed the feedback, and I hope this tale continues to entertain and entice until its bittersweet end. Merry Christmas!

Dwarvish/Elvish translations

~[D] Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul: I spit upon your grave

~[E] Faeg yrch: Worthless Orcs