A special thanks to all the new followers and reviewers, especially those folks who left suggestions last chapter! You know I love to hear from each and every one of you.
An extra special thanks due in this chapter to Cellorocket, who let me borrow her lovely little dwarfess Riva for this chapter. I hope I have done justice to the little scamp in Cello's story with my older and wiser version. If you'd like to hear more about her, you can read Cello's absolutely mindblowingly fabulous story The Toymaker and the Widow. You can find the story in my Favorites.
A capable wife who can find?
She is far more precious than jewels.
The heart of her husband trusts in her,
and he will have no lack of gain.
She does him good, and not harm,
all the days of her life.
-Proverbs 31:10-12
It was a banquet that for generations afterwards would be referred to with a fond glimmer in the eye of the story's teller, an event that would never be matched even by the most peerless of hosts.
That night, they feasted like the heroes of old, leaving no flagon undrained and no dish untasted. A party that signaled, in case anyone had missed the previous signs and portents, that the king was returned, and with him came prosperity, and plenty, and joy.
Bring us in our feast-time pleasure, food and song in ample measure, the saying went in Gondor. And such measures! They watered no wine, spared no expense. The gallery above the Merethrond was filled with minstrels, while in the hall below servitors ran to and from the tables, filled to the brim with the absolute best the kitchens of Minas Tirith could provide and the King presided over the whole room in general splendor.
Or rather, the King sat and took very quiet dictation from the woman at his elbow on this point of etiquette and that person's name and rank, while her husband sat on her other side and tried not to look cuckolded by this somewhat unorthodox arrangement. At least, that was what some of the city matrons imagined he must have felt. If they had bothered to ask Boromir, he would have quickly put their fears to rest and patted his young wife's hand with a proprietary assurance and gotten a beaming smile for his troubles. He, however, was content to let Rhoswen do what she did best and enjoy the party on his own terms, which for now meant watching his young cousins attempt to sing all twelve verses of an old Gondorian drinking song.
As for Rhoswen, she was sitting back in her chair a little and smiling at the obviously intentioned parade in front of her. "Well, they were quick about that. I daresay you've met all of the girls of marriageable age in the city tonight," Rhoswen joked lightly as yet another lord presented his wife, his young sons, and, predictably, his fashionably gowned and radiantly smiling daughter for his new king's inspection.
She meant it well, but Aragorn only smiled weakly and took a small bite of the elaborately piled plate in front of him, his eyes distant. He hadn't had much time to eat between greeting Gondor's nobles, but he did not seem to be hungry, either, picking at his food like a bird, or a nervous lover.
A nervous lover…
Finally, Rhoswen could place that look. She smiled, and leaned in closer to the king's ear. "I wish she were here," she said in what must have seemed a lover's whisper, just loud enough so that only Aragorn could have heard. The king turned to look at her with some surprise.
"What?"
"The woman you're thinking of right now," Rhoswen expanded. "I wish she were here, for your sake." And mine. Though I do not mind this endless parade, it is not really mine to queen over. Nor do I want it to be. Aragorn's smile widened a little.
"I wish that, too," the King said, but made no move to offer more on the subject. Boromir will know. Men talk of those things with other men easier than with women. I'll ask him of it later. She glanced around the room, taking in Amrothos and his friends deep in their cups and singing raucously with the Rohirrim, with Lottie down the table looking on with a kind of pale sadness in her eyes, no doubt imagining Lucan among the young men at her brother's side. Faeldes was midway down the hall with her own daughters, not quite high-born to have made the trip to the king's table to present them. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in the present company, and Faeldes was talking animatedly with the elderly woman next to her, who continued gesturing across the hall at a man who must have been her grown son and who, judging by his mother's growing interest in Faeldes, was either a bachelor or a widower with young children of his own.
"Go and enjoy the company," Aragorn said, catching her eyes wandering. "It is your feast as much as mine. I'll survive for an hour or so on Boromir's slight charm."
"What's that about my charm?" the Steward asked upon hearing his name, catching only that his king and his wife exchanged some kind of conspiratorial smile as Rhoswen rose from her chair for a circuit about the room, weaving in between pages carrying full flagons of ale and wine and elderly guildsmen looking for the garderobes and the odd pair of tipsy and tittering young women speculating on what passed for lovemaking in Rohan and whether the flaxen-haired warriors of the North wouldn't mind a bit of southern spice in their bedrolls tonight.
"Oh, and the king, too, I wouldn't mind having a pass at him, all tall and proud like a hero in a story," one such woman (scarcely out of girlhood, really) was telling her companion.
"I don't see him at table any more. D'you think he's gone already?"
"Better luck to her that got him! Here, there's one of his captains, let's go talk to him."
Rhoswen made a quick glance in the direction the women were pointing, to the high table and Éomer's vacant seat. Where had the King of the Rohirrim gone? Rhoswen was fairly sure it had not been to an out-of-the-way corridor with a lady in hand, but with enough wine, one never knew.
Somewhere above her head the minstrels were leading into a chorus of "Who Wished to Hunt" and the White Rose decided to make herself scarce before someone asked her to sing, and made her way through the crowd to the side halls outside the feasting chambers. It was considerably quieter out here, though if she headed in the right direction the sounds of a busy kitchen began making themselves heard. A few other sounds, too, out here in the half-lit hallway, a lot of feminine giggles and a male voice telling her to shush. Rhoswen rolled her eyes and headed in the other direction – only to find the very man the other women from earlier had been looking for.
Éomer looked almost forlorn in his festival clothes, quietly and slowly nursing the goblet of wine in his hands and glancing every so often over his shoulder back into the hall. He seemed surprised that anyone would find him out here, but he stood when he saw Rhoswen, bowing quickly (and somewhat awkwardly) in greeting.
"They look for you in the hall, my lord king," Rhoswen observed quietly. "And there is much… speculation about what made you leave."
"A king cannot feast as a marshal feasts," Éomer observed, taking another drink from his cup and leaning back against the wall. "Every time I pass by a mirror I stop and wonder what my Uncle will say when he sees me. And then I remember he cannot. The crown still does not feel right on this head."
"I understand that to be a common problem," the Gondorian affirmed with a smile. "A king's head is sometimes not his own to ornament – or to lose."
"Especially to lose," Éomer said, looking wistfully at the next flagon of ale going by and gesturing the pageboy away from his cup. "Nor … is his heart his own, either," he added, somewhat softer, his eyes glancing backwards for a moment into the hall.
Now, there's a telling set of words. "Does my lord have a question I might answer on the matter of hearts?" Rhoswen inquired lightly, studying Éomer's face with careful precision. When Éowyn spoke about her brother, Rhoswen's mind had formed the image of a man of wild and bold action, first into the fray and the last to leave, not overly cautious with his life and his limbs. But this person before her seemed a different man entirely – perhaps kingship and the sudden descent of the crown had made him choose his words and actions a little more wisely. Or perhaps boldness only takes a man so far in a foreign land among strange people.
"There is...a lady, with dark hair and sad eyes, who sits near the Lord Imrahil. I have seen her walking with you, and with Éowyn, and... and I would know her name. A man … can't ask his sister these things," The king asked, looking less like a king and more like a young squire, confused and tentative about the business of love. And Rhoswen knew exactly of whom he spoke.
"Her name is Lothíriel. She is the Lord Imrahil's daughter."
The king nodded, his lips tight as if a little overwhelmed by this. You are a king! It is not for you to be frightened of asking any man for his daughter! "Do you know why she is so grief-stricken?" Éomer asked, after what seemed an age's worth of silence. "I…I knew a woman with a look like hers, once, is all."
Rhoswen drew a deep breath, and it seemed a dagger to her throat. No one else has asked me to tell this story yet. I do not know if I can. "She was in love," she said, her voice shaking like a leaf. "His name was Lucan, and he was the third son of a poor house. Having no land to call his own, he took service with another lord, and gained renown in battle. Never immoderate, and always kind. He had a strong heart, and a strong voice. He loved her as a poor man loves a princess, with his whole heart and with no hope of rising to her station. She knew this as well as he did, but always dreamed that one day he might show his worthiness for her hand. He lost his mother early, but was always courteous to women. Especially his sister." She paused, and saw Éomer's expression was deep in the midst of concern. She felt a sudden wetness on her face, her hand flying up to blot at it in shame. "Forgive me," she begged, blinking back the unsought tear. "He was my brother, and he is dead."
"Forgive me, lady, for reminding you," Éomer King said hastily – the courtly manners of the south seemed strange on him, and Rhoswen had to smile a little, to see so mighty a man struggle with his words so.
"The time for grief will pass soon enough, and the time after that should be for love. The Lady Lothíriel is my good friend, my Lord King, and I would not see her stir too long in sorrow," she said, if he needed any more encouragement. "Once it was she who drew me out of melancholy, and if I could I would now do the same."
Éomer nodded. "Before …my cousin – before Théodred…" He seemed to be having trouble with his words, and paused a moment to take a breath and collect himself. "There was talk in my uncle's house of an alliance with Gondor, and the house of Dol Amroth. I suppose the thing will come to me, but…I did not think much on it until now." And his glance back into the room said, Until I saw the lady.
Were it from another man her hackles would have risen and she would have bid him never consider the matter again. But to see Éomer thus entranced, thus mystified – it won her over entirely. "The lady is proud, and her heart is a little bruised. But I think in time, she could see things otherwise." Rhoswen watched Éomer's eyes, lingering over where Lothíriel sat in the crowd of Amrothian courtiers, sitting by looking pale and withdrawn as those around her were laughing and chattering. "And her friends would welcome the effort. She is not often sorrowful, and she would lead a hall as merry as this one, if she had a strong heart to match her."
This suggestion seemed to unnerve Éomer, a little, but he bowed gratefully all the same. "I thank you for the advice, Lady."
Rhoswen stood for a moment, taking it in and then, quickly, turning to catch the king before he returned to the feast. "My lord Éomer!" He turned back to her. "Should you want more advice, I would be happy to give it. My door is always open to you."
The king smiled, nodded a second time, and then returned to the hall, his voice lost amidst the general din. Thinking twice on it, Rhoswen turned to watch him, following his path through the clamor up to Imrahil's chair. The Prince of Dol Amroth stood, sitting down as the King of the Rohirrim took the empty seat next to him, and the two men began talking.
Yes, that is good, Rhoswen thought to herself, smiling privately out in the hall. It is as a new age should be – full of promise. It would be good for Gondor, and for Rohan – and for the both of them, she realized. He is what one of Lottie's heroes ought to be, and she was made to wear a crown, or lead a country, or both. Now we have only to make her see it. But that will come with time. Perhaps when we're better settled the king can host a tournament, like the kings of old did, and the champion can crown a Queen of Love and Beauty…
She let the beautiful dream dwell in her mind's eye a while and let her gaze take in the rest of the high table – Imrahil and Éomer, Faramir and Éowyn locked in some private conversation of their own a few seats further down, Boromir and Aragorn talking to yet another lord and his winsome, sweet-eyed daughter. The last bit of the tableau was a curious study, both men wearing their most polite, politic faces as the father droned on his daughter's qualities and the maid herself blushed and smiled. Boromir's gaze, in a moment of true boredom, scanned the room, and somehow he found her in the doorway, a brief smile alighting on his face.
Rhoswen felt something inside her heart melt a little. I would not part with that smile if the heroes of this world or the next one asked it of me.
The night was young yet. There would time enough later in the evening to keep the smile all to herself. For now she would enjoy the party – and meditate a little on what Éomer had said.
As bronze may be much beautified
By lying in the dark damp soil,
So men who fade in dust of warfare fade
Fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
Like pearls which noble women wear
And, tarnishing, awhile confide
Unto the old salt sea to feed,
Many return more lustrous than they were.
- As Bronze May Be Much Beautified, Wilfred Owen
It was a long time before the coming of the King felt like the beginning of a new age. If people had expected the mountains to fall and the hills turn to dust, they were disappointed. The Rohirrim had departed, leaving in the city the body of their fallen king, and many of Imrahil's people, too, had left to go back to the coast, though some of their womenfolk had stayed, to keep the Lady of the city company. Life went on much as it had before the coming of the king, though the upper levels of the city were more heavily occupied, and their leader, unlike Denethor the Steward before him, kept his doors open to all comers.
His Steward, too, was busy enough, keeping in good order the Tower Guard and the city courts and a dozen other small armies who kept the city in repair. But not tonight. Tonight, he was entertaining one of his friends. It was Gimli who was enjoying the privilege of being Boromir and Rhoswen's first formal guest as a married couple. Little had been seen of them since their wedding, and overeager gamesters were already laying bets about the nature of their first child, and how soon he (or she!) would come.
It had been a simple ceremony, their formal wedding, slipped covertly into the social calendar only a few weeks after Aragorn's coronation and carrying with it, in its air of general mystery, the certain cachet of high rank that some people love to gloat over. Those people, of course, had not been invited, for it was only a small gathering of friends and family, and the bridal pair, having been blessed with a generous amount of sensibility when it came to choosing friends, would not have tolerated the vain and blindly ambitious among their number.
So they had been away from the world of the city for a week together, enjoying their own company in Boromir's apartments, now very much committed to their role as a marriage chamber rather than bachelor's quarters. Gimli had been very quick to compliment the new decorations, including one very fine tapestry in a far corner of the room that depicted a hunter kneeling down to coax a deer out of a thicket of brambles, a compliment that made both husband and wife laugh a little and turn the talk to other things.
And now that the meal was over, all three of them were sitting before the fire, where Gimli was making good on his promise that he would tell Rhoswen stories of the dwarves. And in great quantity, too, jumping from stories of Gimli's childhood in Erebor to those he had heard growing up from his cousin Balin, including the promised tale of Clever Idunn and her Golden Apples, (which is now so commonly told we will not repeat it here) finally coming around to their trek through the dwarf Kingdom of Moria, about which Rhoswen had heard only a little from Boromir.
Both of them were learning that not only did Gimli have a great talent as a warrior, but also a prodigious memory, going through long stories spanning whole families on the genealogy tables with ease. And like all dwarves, that he loved a good meal and good company after.
"Has there been any word from Erebor regarding the king's request for ambassadors?" Rhoswen asked as Gimli raised his cup to his lips during a seldom-seen pause. She remembered that the next part of that particular story was not a very happy one for Boromir, and wanted to make sure Gimli didn't feel the need to tell it further.
The dwarf-lord set his cup down and nodded. "There was a courier – a week ahead of them, he thinks, it was to be two but he had a mishap with some goblins along the road. But they'll come! And the Lady Dís is with them, which should please your ladyship."
"The Lady Dís?" Boromir asked, glancing at his guest and his wife with interest and some measure of amusement, having being one of those little boys who spent a good deal of his childhood believing dwarves sprang out of holes in the ground without help of the mothering kind.
Rhoswen shot him a warning glance, but Gimli, at least, did not see his host's amusement,
"The daughter of Thrain and sister of Thorin Oakenshield! You could not ask for a nobler advocate to the king, Boromir, nor a surer sign of the King's intentions to honor Gondor. They would not send so high-born a lady easily."
"But surely there is much work for her at the Lonely Mountain that such a far-off embassy would take her away from," Rhoswen wondered.
Gimli's face fell a little. "There should be, Lady Rhoswen, and yet there is not. Dain's wife, Thorin Stonehelm's mother, is a formidable lady, and she governs well. There is little place in a kingdom for a dead man's sister, even if she is one of the line of Durin. If I know her at all, she volunteered to come."
But more about the mysterious Lady, Gimli did not freely offer, nor did Rhoswen pry. After all, what was a week of waiting? Other emissaries would come, too, from the Easterlings and from Harad and all the other tribes of men who had bent their knee to Sauron, who was ever a clever bender of ears and twister of hearts. From Aragorn, at least, they would be dealt a fair hand, and a fresh start, if they desired it. And while they were in the city, they would receive the best hospitality the King of Gondor could offer.
"Honestly, you'd think someone would have bothered to clean in here at least once a century!" Thariel complained loudly through the scarf tied over her mouth, waving her hand in front of her eyes to clear the air after she'd shaken an age of dust off of some truly terrible curtains.
"You would think, Thariel, but that has not been the case. We'd best take these down, they're more moth-hole than material at this point," Rhoswen said, climbing the ladder herself to unlatch the curtains from the rod on which they hung. "Someone might have use for the rags. Write down we'll need another set in the book there. The rugs look passable, though," she said, glancing down at the carpets beneath Thariel's feet from her vantage point on the ladder. "And the pattern's a good one."
"I'll note that it should be beaten out," Thariel said aloud, making Rhoswen smile behind her own scarf. We'll make a good housewife out of you yet, Thariel. "Carpets to be beaten, curtains to be rehung, room to be swept and lavender to be burned therein. Candles, mirrors, beds and trundles, new linens for each, chairs and tables, to be of dwarf-size and delivered by the carpenters soon. Is there anything we're forgetting?"
"Food and water and wine, to be ready for them after they've seen the king, and a groom to stand at the door should they need anything. Though I think they may send him away, they're an independent folk, and don't like to be behold to anyone but their own kin. I'd set some flowers out, too, but they won't like those. No, I think we're ready here." Rhoswen came down from the ladder, watching two very grimy groomsmen take the curtains away and shooed Thariel off the carpet so another pair could begin rolling it up so that it, too, could go outside. Rhoswen had convinced (sweet-talked, more like) the training grounds master to lend her his charges for the day, so that all five-score boys, from the littlest pages up through the brawny squires in their twenties, were setting their not inconsiderable strength to beating out her carpets, curtains, and tapestries.
They were nearly done in this chamber, and the room would be swept soon anyway. Rhoswen and Thariel made themselves scarce as another few maids trooped in, brooms at the ready and hair tucked neatly up under caps and veils. They'd get the worst of the dirt and then scrub the floors after, and for that, they did not need extra feet to clean around. Instead, Rhoswen went to go survey the progress the boys were making on her textiles.
The carpets were getting cleaner, though the same could not be said of the boys. There would be baths tonight in the Boys' Quarter, she was sure. Bergil was with them, a new hair-ribbon of hers tucked into the pocket of his jerkin, telling stories and urging the younger boys on like any old commander. The older boys, meanwhile, competed to see who could make the biggest dust cloud or the longest stroke – trying all the harder, Rhoswen noticed, when Thariel came to make her rounds and attend the progress of the cleaning with her. Yet she did not speak to any of them, save Narthion, when he came bearing a bundle of rugs almost as big as himself. He stood a little taller as she addressed him, and spoke with a new authority to the other squires when she had gone.
"Bergil, how goes it?" Rhoswen asked, finally making out the figure of her page-boy amidst a sea of shorter, albeit no less grimy, little boys.
"Very well, Lady! We are almost finished with the hearth rugs, though Angamir put his beater through one and broke a great big hole in it," Bergil reported, casting an angry look at a smaller boy with pale hair.
"That is perfectly all right, Angamir, it was probably the end of its time," Rhoswen said, looking benevolently at the little boy, who looked like he was almost on the edge of tears at having been admonished in front of the company commander. "I would rather have them meet their end now, rather than when they are in our guest rooms. Well, I shall not detain you any further. Keep up the good work, boys!" she said, catching Thariel's eye and motioning towards the door. Thariel nodded, and came to follow without a single backwards glance towards the older boys, looking longingly after her for a moment.
"I think you may have made some admirers," Rhoswen observed casually as they went back upstairs.
"I didn't care for the way they were talking about you and Lord Boromir," Thariel said loftily. "I overheard them when I first came downstairs. They were not very courteous."
"Boys at that age seldom are. They'll come to it in time. We should probably call the kitchens for some water; I've got a good inch of dirt on me that needs washing off."
Their hard work paid off handsomely; Rhoswen was in the midst of a small debate, much in the style of the Courts of Love, with Thariel, Lottie, Merethel, and several others, when Narthion came in and bent his lips to Rhoswen's ear in private conversation. The rest of the room's conversation seemed to trickle to a halt, all eyes on the Steward's wife.
Rhoswen leaned back in her chair, surprised. "They're here already?"
"At the gates, lady, with the Lord Gimli," Narthion said, his voice no longer a secretive whisper. "Lord Boromir has gone to greet them, but their luggage is being sent up now."
"Ladies, you'll excuse me," Rhoswen said, rising from her chair with Narthion at her shoulder. "We have visitors I must see to."
"Surely someone else can go," Lottie complained. "We were just getting to the best part. Iorlas, tell her she can't go," she pouted to the musician, trying her best to get someone to persuade Rhoswen to her side. She'd picked the wrong ally, though.
"The Lady has a good sense of her duty – she must go where her husband has need of her," the poet said, his voice strangely toneless on the word 'husband.' And his eyes did not meet Rhoswen's, as if the privilege of catching her gaze were not permitted to him.
"Iorlas is right. We'll save my speeches for another time, Lottie." And having said this, she quickly followed Narthion out the door to where the dwarves were being quartered.
A small army's worth of boxes, trunks, and saddlebags were being unloaded into the corridor outside the rooms Rhoswen had set aside for the delegation from Erebor, and the small army responsible for them were busy carrying packages to and fro, under the direction of a very competent looking individual with an impressive ledger who was tallying the supplies as they came in.
"You'll be the lady Rhoswen? The steward said you'd be here. It is just this way, then?" the business-like individual with the ledger said, looking up from his reports.
"Yes, indeed," Rhoswen said, wondering why he even bothered to ask and putting it down to the peculiar politeness of dwarves. "If you have need of anything, please do let me know. We ask you please pardon the newness of some of the fittings. It is not often we have visitors of your race here in the city.
"Oh, quite cozy, this is. Not at all like we'd -" the dwarf stopped and checked himself. "Very kind of you to go through the trouble, mistress."
"The Lord Gimli gave me a little advice. You may thank him, if you must thank anyone."
"We'd thought to build a few houses of our own kind, but this will do quite nicely, for the time!" one of the passing porters said merrily. The head of the dwarves turned on his comrade and hissed at him in what must have been Khuzdul, the ancient secret language of the dwarves, chastening him. It must have been quite a tongue-lashing, for the younger dwarf went on his way hastily, not meeting Rhoswen's eyes.
"Yes, thank you, lady, we can get on from here. Ari and Lari, careful with that box!" the taskmaster exclaimed, watching as two of the younger dwarves started tossing a package between them like it was some sort of children's game.
"It doesn't weigh more than a featherweight!" one of them said, but they went back to simply carrying it all the same.
In a further corner of the room, another few dwarves, out of sight of their overseer, were unpacking a box, mirthfully throwing contents this way and that with skilled aim, to be caught by equally skilled hands. Not a single object ever touched the ground before its appointed time, even the heavy candlestands.
It was an attitude of playful abandon, and Rhoswen went on her way feeling a little lightened, knowing that the dwarves, too, found this exciting. They were young, or at least they seemed young, and this was to them one great adventure to a place many of them had never been. That was good, she thought. It would be an adventure for Gondor, too.
Some adventures require good stout shoes, and others a reliable walking stick, and still others a sharp sword. But there are some where a rich dress and a goodly amount of jewels will not go amiss, and the adventure of greeting the rest of the Dwarves' delegation was certainly one of them. Boromir reported, when he returned from his meeting at the gates the night before, that several of the dwarves had not believed him to be the important man Gimli said he was, purely on the basis that his beard was short, he was entirely with jewel work on his person, and his belt was far too plain. "Not a mistake we'll make again tomorrow," Rhoswen said, going to find her husband's richest robes, his chain of office, and have the Treasurer pull a simple silver brow-band from the treasury so that he might look a little bit more princely beside the King with his crown and robes of state. "Though I cannot do anything about your beard," she added, which at least wiped the frown off his face for awhile.
For herself, there was the spring-green gown that had been sewn as her wedding dress, and a net of winking topazes that had been found in Finduilas' store of jewels. There had been other, heavier collars, with richer stones to match, but even Rhoswen had limits, and if being thought a pauper was the price paid for a neck that did not ache at the day's end, she'd pay it gladly.
They were all arranged in the throne room, Aragorn in his high seat, Faramir and Boromir at the bottom of the steps and Rhoswen standing with them, with all the nobles of the city filling the rest of the room save for the long aisle down the middle.
"The emissary of the Lonely Mountain!"
And as the doors opened, the assembled nobles turned almost as one body to see who was now coming to attend upon their king. Though the dwarves ventured further abroad than some other races, they had not been seen in numbers in Gondor for time out of mind, and only those nobles who had traveled to the far north, (a very, very small number) where many of the Dwarf Kingdoms still existed, had ever seen one in living flesh. Gimli had been an oddity to them, taken merely as a kind of shorter man with an unusually long beard and a penchant for stone. Now, however, everyone might see that he was one of many, a people set apart.
And they were very much apart. From the way they walked (strongly, with quick and determined strides, almost a proud sort of gait, as though they owned the place) to the way they dressed (darkly colored, brilliantly patterned, very angular and very much done over with gold and silverwork, with lovely heavy buckles and beltheads and hard-soled shoes) to the manner in which their eyes took in the room (meeting all gazes cast their way with daring, steady stares of their own, and measuring closely each onlooker with a mason's precision, and a jeweler's eye for value.) They moved almost as a battle formation, going forward in good order rank by rank.
"Ah, see," said Gimli, off to Rhoswen's left, whispering to no one in particular. "The Lady has come!"
The Lady! Even with this comment, it was hard for the untrained eye to see that there really were women in the delegation, for all the dwarves, male and female, were possessed of long, luxuriant beards that they kept braided and bejeweled as any female of the city might wear her hair for a party. Rhoswen searched the crowd in vain, finally touching on a few who seemed slighter of build than the rest, slimmer limbed and with a little more ornament to them then the men. Yet all carried some manner of weapon, and all were unafraid to meet the watching eyes around them.
One of the men (at least, Rhoswen thought it was one of the men) stepped forward and gave a short bow, his arm crossed over his chest in greeting.
"To Aragorn, son of Arathorn, called the Elf-stone, King of the Realm of Gondor and the White Mountains, from Thorin, son of Dain, Stonehelm, King of Erebor and the Iron Hills, greetings and blessings of Mahal be upon you! We have sent from among our people those smiths and craftsmen asked of us by Gimli, Gloin's son, to aid you in the rebuilding of your cities after the destruction and desolation caused by the Unnamed One. As we begin our own kingship, we ask to treat with you further on the closer friendship we would like to lie between us in the Mountain and you in the City.
"Accept then, king, this humble present from the King under the Mountain!" And with a flourish, the dwarf-herald beckoned some of the company forward, letting them unbolt their caskets and lay them at the foot of the king's chair, opening them up for all to see.
As soon as the contents were laid bare, a gentle and surprised hush fell over those able to see the insides, whose contents were throwing up a strange, luminous light like moonlight on a still river. "Mithril," Rhoswen heard Boromir whisper, awestruck. And so it was. Mithril, moon-silver, the greatest treasure the dwarves had to bestow, mined chiefly in Moria, where both men and dwarf dared not to tread. A vast quantity, more than had ever been seen before outside of the realms of the dwarves.
"That is a kingly gift, and well given," Aragorn said, letting the attendants close their caskets and retreat back into orderly formation. "We accept, gratefully, this present from our fellow king, and ask that you keep it safe for us until you have need of it in your work."
"Many other gifts we have brought with us, O Elessar, for yourself and for your household, as guest-right for our hostelling here. And an ambassador to treat with you. Allow me to present you, o Aragorn Arathorn's son, Dís, Thrain's Daughter, Durin's Heir."
As she stepped forward, Rhoswen could see now why Gimli spoke of her as he did. She was not the eldest of the dwarves who had come, nor the tallest or shortest, but Rhoswen thought that she could say with some certainty that she was the most regal of the folk of Erebor here present. Her hair, long and intricately braided, was a deep, steely gray, and she walked with queenly decision in every step, with no hint at all that she was well past two hundred years old, a venerable age even for a dwarf. She wore a longer tunic of deep, royal blue, the skirts embroidered over in silver thread with cunning designs, the belt at her hips also heavy with intricate metalwork, her boots of strong leather with clever little buckles at their sides. Yet, for all her foreign looks Rhoswen thought she saw a little bit of why this woman was considered a beauty among her own people, for her eyes were a vibrant, beautiful blue, and when she smiled they seemed to sparkle like sapphires in her lined, grandmotherly face.
"We bid you welcome here, Dís, Thrain's Daughter," Aragorn said, extending his hand in the gesture of hospitality, an open hand, held out towards the visitor.
"And we accept your welcome, Aragorn, Arathorn's son," the woman said, her voice deep and resonant, words spoken in a measured, high-born kind of cadence. Like Gimli, she spoke without a trace of an accent, someone who has grown up speaking Westron alongside the ancestral tongue of her people. "We are honored that you would ask so great a task as the rebuilding of your gates to people who are not your own." But there was something in her voice, and her smile, too, which seemed to say to Rhoswen's mind We would have thought you very foolish indeed if you had not asked at all.
"Your people have already been given residence in my household, which you may keep for as long as you desire, or you may take up residence in the city, according to your wishes. You may speak with my Steward," he gestured here to Boromir, who met Dís' steady gaze with a respectfully steady gaze of his own and bowed in greeting, "who will be more than happy to assist with any issue arising from your stay here."
"The Steward has been a good servant to you already," the Lady said. "We will talk further of our main business at a later time."
And that was that. The audience was over, the ambassador had been received and the traditional gifts exchanged. The Dwarves bowed their way out and went the way they had come, in strict formation, leaving the Gondorians behind in the hall to gossip over what had just passed, while Aragorn descended the throne and withdrew to the council chambers behind the hall to let his squires attend to his court finery and put the crown back into the treasury.
Gimli, meanwhile, had disappeared, evidently to have further words with his kinsmen.
"Well," Boromir said, once the squires had left and shut the door behind them. "I thought that went well."
"Indeed," Aragorn said, rubbing at his shoulders where the heavy medallions on his court cloak had settled into his skin. "Though Gimli will tell us more. I knew few dwarves on my travels, and they are a secretive folk, and not given to easy negotiations with other peoples. And the Lady Dís is long of this world, and well schooled in its ways. She'll be a hard one to treat with."
"She is one of the dwarves of the Exile, is she not?" Faramir asked, and Aragorn nodded. "She would know something of the troubles of the world, then."
What the Exile was, Rhoswen didn't know – though she'd heard Gimli mention it once, in passing, the other evening. Evidently a very sad period in dwarf history that Dís had lived through. She left the men to converse at their own leisure, thinking at length about the expressions of the dwarves as they had glanced at the hall. Did they find it to their liking? Or will this all be ruined for want of more ornament.
She did not have to think too long on it – their account of the dwarves was coming back in quick time. "Gimli! How did our new friends find us?"
"They have agreed there is some hope for the city after all, if the king can command such a fine performance, though they are still giving great thought to the stonemasons of the city," Gimli reported. "It all seems a little too…elvish for them. But they'll treat fairly with you, of that I'm certain. You got that much respect, at least. The Lady said she'll meet with you whenever you require."
"Excellent. Hopefully the work on the gates will commence soon," Aragorn said, dropping back into conversation with Boromir and Faramir as the three men compared mental notes. Gimli, his reports delivered, drew closer to Rhoswen, his voice lowered as if what they discussed was a state secret or some such.
"I have spoken to her – she has agreed to meet with you. Tonight, if it is convenient. And I am to tell you the delegation will dine in their chambers, if that is agreeable with you."
"That is most acceptable. I shall come after dinner has been served." Rhoswen was already mentally running through what the kitchens had been told to prepare for their guests. Meat, and plenty of it, though root vegetables were also acceptable, and the strongest beer the brewers of the city could provide, though they did not mind wine, once in a long while.
The apartments Rhoswen had set aside for the dwarves were in the interior of the city, less desirable rooms for Men, who loved light and windows and the promise of open air, but perfect for dwarves used to dwelling in the deep places of the earth. They had been quite a merry group, when bringing their luggage inside, but the rooms were strangely silent now, most of their occupants busy, no doubt, with craft of one kind or another.
"My Lady Dís," Gimli said, and a figure in the firelight turned, rising to come and greet them. " Lady Rhoswen, my lady Dís of Erebor, Queen under the Mountain, Durin's Heir, Mother of the Faithful, Thrain's Daughter. Lady Dís, the Lady Rhoswen, wife of the Steward of Gondor."
A few more titles than the ones we heard from the herald, Rhoswen thought to herself, though the Lady did not seem to think very much of them, for she gave a short little snort and looked askance at Gimli. "Not a queen," the Lady Dís correctly with a kind of amused sternness. "At least, not officially. And this the Lady of Minas Tirith about whom no one can speak ill, it seems." She looked Rhoswen over with a skeptical eye.
"I did not know I had that reputation, Lady, but I shall work hard to deserve it. It is truly an honor to meet you," Rhoswen said, bowing and taking the dwarf's hand in her own. "I am told the dwarves knock heads together in greeting – please allow that I do not think my own could take it."
Dís laughed, a deep, full-throated sound that filled the room and made Rhoswen feel all at once warm and safe inside. "You have a great respect for the customs of others, it seems, Lady. My people are grateful for that. It is not in every house that we receive such a welcome as we have had here."
"It is my duty to welcome all who come to the City. I do as best I can."
"The folk of Durin value hospitality, Lady Rhoswen. And we would tell you if we felt you had done us a slight where home and hearth are concerned. You spread a good table and lead a merry hall, and for a dwarf to compliment you on those is no mean thing. Please, sit," she said, gesturing to the chairs nearest the fire. Rhoswen composed herself onto one of the dwarf-sized stools, trying not to seem out of countenance in this somewhat diminutive world. "Gimli, a measure of that mead we brought, for the Lady, and for me. Gimli was telling me at dinner that you liked our story of Clever Idunn," Dís said, as Gimli went to pour drinks for the three of them.
"He said that you knew her, when you were a child," Rhoswen said, inching her stool closer to where the older dwarf sat.
"Gimli knew her when he was a child, too, though he would not remember her well. She was my nursemaid, and one of my dearest friends. Always very good with children, Idunn was. She would have had the keeping of my own boys, if she..." Dís took the cup that Gimli offered, smiling at him for a brief moment before staring back at the fire. "No matter. Those days are long gone, and my sons with them. That is a mother's burden, to lose her sons. Have you any children?"
"None, yet," Rhoswen said. "Though I hope to, soon, someday." She smiled and took a sip of the mead Gimli had pressed into her hand, pleasantly surprised by the warm taste of the honey.
"Take care your husband does not rob you of yours when their time comes," Dís said darkly, sipping at her own cup. "Mine were hardly grown when my brother decided they should go with him on his quest. And for that they call me Mother of the Faithful, for so they were, until their end, and his."
Rhoswen did not know that tale as well as others, but she remembered, distantly, in Dol Amroth, perhaps, hearing some bard of Dale tell the story of the retaking of the Mountain, how Thorin Oakenshield in his pride and vanity had closed his gates against the men of Dale and the elves of Mirkwood even as the Goblins closed in about them, and how many fell for that pride. His nephews, it seemed, had been among those at the battle. She'd have to hear the tale again some time. I'd like to know more about this woman's sons. Or her brothers!
"But they were his heirs," Dís said, remembering. "And they did not know Erebor as we did, and he thought it fitting that they should know the hardships it would take to win back the kingdom of thier fathers. My youngest, Kili, scarcely had his beard when they left. How they would joke with him about it! Kili of the Longbeards, with only a boy's scruff. At least my brother never said anything – that would have slain Kili. But Thorin wore his beard short, too. Until he reclaimed Erebor, he said, he would not wear the honors denied his fathers – or marry Idunn until he could make her his Queen." She looked at Rhoswen and smiled knowledgeably at the Gondorian's confusion. "No, he never married her – though I think Gimli tells the story somewhat differently," she accused, looking pointedly at her younger kinsmen.
"I tell it as I heard it from Balin!" Gimli defended vigorously.
"And Balin loved a tale with a good ending," Dís remembered. "Always something of a storyteller, he was. How did the story begin?"
Rhoswen was silent for a moment, expecting Dís to begin telling it, then, realizing that it had been a question for her to answer, struggled for a moment. "It began with a king…and a summons. He was looking for a wife."
"Thorin was scarcely a dwarf grown when my grandfather called for the contest – it was for Thorin's name-day. And it wasn't to find him a wife, either – my grandfather thought of that later, after Idunn had won. Did the story say that Thorin hated Idunn? Oh, yes, he did – or I should say he sincerely disliked her. I was never sure why before the contest – though after it was quite plain it was because she had made him look a little foolish, and Thorin hated to be thought a fool. It wasn't until many years after the sack of Erebor that he came to love her. But my brother was proud, and he would not take her to wife until he could make her the queen she had been promised she would be. Not that it would have mattered to Idunn. She was a woman of simple joys. Quick to smile, quick to laugh, quicker still to comfort. My brother needed that more than he knew."
"When did she die?"
"A goblin raid. She took an arrow…" Dís trailed off. "But what does it matter? It was a quick death, and a noble one, too. That was what drove my brother quicker to his quest. He felt that he'd betrayed her by waiting too long. It was hard for him to bear, more than most deaths are."
Rhoswen remembered Lottie, weeping for Lucan, and her heart plummeted in sympathy.
"I think that's a better story – but Balin would have disagreed. And he was our loremaster. I remember listening to his stories in the Blue Mountains when I was a child, during the Exile. He had a marvelous voice – for speaking or for singing. After we returned to Erebor, he made my brother sound more noble every time he told the tale, until I hardly knew the Thorin he would speak of. I suppose that is what comes of kings fallen in battle before their time."
Or knights, or lovers, Rhoswen thought to herself, thinking again of Lucan and Lottie. "I'm sure they will write equally wonderful stories about you," she said diplomatically. "I'm sure you broke a few hearts in your day."
"And still break them!" Gimli supplied, making his lady laugh a little grimly.
"Ha! Leave love poetry to the very young, and the very foolish!" Dís declared. "Better if my sons had grown up with stories of the wise mothers and fathers of the Longbeards, rather than the warriors who went off to battles to prove themselves to fair maidens."
"Love does make fools of men and women both," Rhoswen agreed. "I know that I have been a fool many times over. And shall probably be again."
"Save your love for your sons and your city," Dís counseled. "It does precious good to anyone else otherwise. But enough of that. To business! What thought you of the court's proceedings today?"
I am no diplomat, and she means to treat with me! Rhoswen realized with a shiver of surprise. Yet this is what Ivriniel and Heledirwen do, and I must learn to dance the steps as they do. "I was wondering, lady, what you meant when your herald spoke of 'a close friendship between the mountain and the city.' Surely you did not speak only of sending smiths to us, though we could not measure how helpful they have been thus far."
"I knew when I saw you that you listened well," Lady Dís said astutely, and Rhoswen felt a little relief that she could accomplish that little bit of statecraft. "In my grandfather's time we took boys and girls of the village of Dale for fosterage in the Kingdom under the Mountain, and taught them our arts, our songs. Perhaps it can be so again."
"Daughters, too? What would you teach daughters?"
Dís looked a little incredulous that this should even be a question. "What do they teach women in Gondor? Among the dwarves a woman may have any craft she desires – to be a smith, a carver of runes, a brewer of ales or a singer of songs. A mother, if she so chooses, though that is not as common as it is among the race of men. And that is no ill mark against her. Idunn's craft was drafting and drawing, though she was an uncommon good goldsmith, too, when the mood was upon her. My mother was an excellent weaver. I have several women in our company here. Riva over there is a member of my personal guard. Riva –" she said, calling to another of the dwarves sitting across the room, deep in conversation with the others. "What was your mother's profession?"
"She was a smith, Lady, and none finer," the woman said, rising from her chair with pride. "She made my blades, when first we came to Erebor."
"Yes, Riva came to us from the Blue Mountains, where they are not so free with their crafts," Dís said, looking on at the younger dwarf woman with the same kind of half-hidden pride a mother does, her smile barely there. "The farther the dwarf families moved away from the Kingdom of Durin, the more they forgot the ways of their fathers and mothers of old. But we do not speak often of them, do we, Riva?"
"Indeed we do not, Lady, and good riddance to them."
"You are a warrior?" Rhoswen asked, peering at the younger dwarf woman, who had by now joined them at the fire. The woman Riva nodded in greeting and agreement, and in the firelight, Rhoswen could see, now, the tools of her trade, the outlines of her weapons glinting at her hips with muted ferocity. Like all the dwarves she was strong shouldered, but her intricate braids were arranged differently than Dís's, looped back as if to keep them out of her face, and with only minimal ornament. But Dís is a stateswoman, and this woman is a soldier. It would not be fitting to let her hair hang loose, Rhoswen reminded herself.
"And you, Lady? What is your craft?" Rhoswen asked, turning back to Thrain's daughter.
She thought she saw Dís' eyes flicker with sadness, the question taking her aback. "I am of the Line of Durin," the woman said, after a moment's hesitation, a new steel in her voice. "My craft is what is required of me." There was a tense, brief silence, the Dwarf Queen staring into the fire as if she might be remembering something she did not care to. I am woman enough to know what that answer means, even the ways of the dwarves are different than ours, Rhoswen thought to herself. How strange the lives of women are! And how much the same! What did she give up, for her family's sake?
If she had looked, Dís would have seen that it was not only Rhoswen who paid close attention to her answer, but Riva as well. The moment passed, and her gaze drew away from the flames as if the question had never been asked.
"Yes, we have among our womenfolk all manner of professions. There's none finer with a pair of knives in a close fight than Riva here. Her father helped my brother take back Erebor. A great storyteller in his time, too, when I stop to think about it."
"He was that, Lady," Riva said, her solemn expression breaking a little to let a smile peek through. "We would have been glad to have him with us on the road here."
"There was…something else, too, that he did. Remind me."
"He was a toymaker, lady. A skill he could never teach me, though he's had hundreds of apprentices since."
Thrain's daughter nodded sagely. "So there you are. Your children could learn woodcraft, smithing, weapons, song. We would welcome the sons of the Prince with open arms. Or the sons of the King, when they come."
"If there is one thing these embassies has taught me, Lady Dís, it is that the wisest women and men know something of their neighbors near and far. I would not deprive my children of a chance to gain such wisdom. And I think the King would feel the same." For did he not spend his childhood among the elves? And there was talk, too, of his having been to Rohan in his youth as well.
Dís smiled, and nodded. "You seem to have a deal of wisdom about you, Rhoswen of Gondor, for all that you're a young little thing. I hope the Lord Boromir knows what a gem he's gotten with you. Tell him so, from me."
"I shall, Lady," Rhoswen said, rising from her chair sensing that the audience was at an end. "Thank you for the mead. It was delicious."
"You'll have a bottle sent to you before we leave," Dís promised, rising from her chair as well, though with less dexterity than Rhoswen had, her face contorting for a moment into a grimace. Out of the corner of her eye she saw both Gimli and Riva move to help her, and the elderly dwarf matron stop them both with a quick gesture of her hand so she could rise under her own power, albeit slowly. They love her dearly, Rhoswen realized. She is their queen, in all but name. Mother of the Faithful. They act like her children, taking care of her as they do. And she is like a mother to them, as much as she can be with her sons gone.
She stopped woolgathering long enough to take Dís's hand in farewell, bowing in the accepted fashion and accepting Gimli and Riva's escort to the door.
"The lady – her back… does it pain her?" Rhoswen asked, glancing for a moment back at the fire and the outline of the Lady, dark in front of the flames. She knew that the Lady would not look for help for it, so she would offer it where it might – might! – be accepted.
"Often," Riva said strongly, before Gimli could silence her, her voice quiet so her mistress could not hear. "A lifetime of shouldering other people's burdens," she added bitterly. "Though she will not readily admit the pain." She ignored the other dwarf's muted frown of displeasure and focused her intense gaze on Rhoswen, who nodded. I know a little of that.
"I may have something for it. I'll give it to you before you leave – don't let me forget." Riva nodded, and made her bow, leaving Gimli and Rhoswen at the door. I wouldn't want to face her in a fight, Rhoswen mused, watching her go. Thank goodness I have no enemies among the dwarves. And I think I've chosen my ally well. She doesn't seem to care whether it will lessen her dignity to ask help of an outsider – if only her Lady is helped by it.
"She liked you," Gimli said matter-of-factly before leaving her in the hallway. "The Lady. It may not have shown, but I know her ways, a little. She didn't think she would."
"I am sure I have you to thank for that, Lord Gimli. Thank you for convincing her otherwise," Rhoswen said genuinely and, on a whim, giving the gruff warrior a peck on the cheek. "She is lucky to have dwarves such as you in her domains."
And, letting Gimli color for a moment in peace, she turned and left, returning down the hallway to her marital suite.
Boromir was already in bed, though far away from sleep with a large and ponderous volume spread out on the sheets in front of him. "How was your meeting with the Lady Dís?" He asked, pulling back her side of the bedsheets as she untucked several pins from her hair and set about getting ready for bed.
"What would you say to sending our sons to be tutored at the Lonely Mountain?" Rhoswen asked, peering at him over her shoulder a moment as she shrugged out of her dress and into her nightgown.
"I'd remind you we don't have any sons yet," Boromir said blandly, setting aside his book and blowing out the candle at his side of the bed. "Though I'd welcome the opportunity to further discuss the matter when they do come to that age. For now I'll set for a discussion on how best to get them," he said, leaning over Rhoswen to kiss her.
Later, when their lovemaking was over and Boromir was sleeping silently beside her, Rhoswen couldn't help thinking back to what Dís had said concerning sons. Take care your husband does not rob you of yours before their time.
It was an uneasy sleep she found herself in that night.