42 – THE RETURN OF THE KING

It was over. It was all over, and she was alive.

First there was doubt in Minas Tirith. The disappearance of the shadow could be temporary, people argued. It could be hiding in ambush, regathering its strength. But as the hours passed and the mountains in the East were bathed with afternoon sun, slow smiles began to spread over their faces.

In the evening, huge flocks of birds flew overhead back to Ithilien, seeming to sense that the evil was gone. The children around Tíniel stared up with open mouths, and then looked back at her, their eyes wide, unsure of what they had seen.

"It's over," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "It's over, little ones, and we are free!"

They began shrieking with joy, jumping up and down, shouting and singing Khandi victory songs with wild exuberance.

Tíniel sat there in stunned silence, her eyes still fixed on Mordor, tears dripping down her cheeks and half a smile fixed on her face. It was all over, and she was alive.

Messengers were sent to bring back the women and children who had evacuated before the siege. The remaining army was put to work rebuilding the city as best they could for the return of the king.

Tíniel spoke of her doubts to no one, but she couldn't celebrate until she knew who had survived. What if Tcharum was dead? What about Harûk, Mahaya and Remuil, and the rest of the Haedannen? Had Merry and Pippin survived? Had Legolas and Gimli?

Of course, the one she worried about most was Aragorn. She'd been hopeful at first, but as the days wore on, she began to despair. If he was alive, why didn't she dream with him at night? Why didn't the gods send her a sign as they had before?

"And why have they not returned yet?" she said to Anita. She was in the Houses of Healing, watching from her wheelchair while Anita made a foul-smelling poultice. The Healers had been busy preparing for the wounded to return, making up beds and rolling bandages. "This is longer than they took to march out, and surely they would be eager to get home."

"Because… I don't know," Anita sighed, brushing hair out of her face. "They're probably chasing orcs, or cleaning Mordor out, or… or sitting in a field making daisy-chains."

"Ha-ha," Tíniel said. "Not funny."

"Well how would I know whether or not they've returned?" Anita asked in exasperation. "I know as much and as little as you."

"Sorry," Tíniel huffed. "Sorry. I'm never good at waiting for people to come back."

"I know," the other woman replied wryly. "Remember when the Steward's sons went to Osgiliath? You were terrible."

"I'm always terrible. It just becomes more pronounced at certain moments."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

There was a silence for approximately three seconds while Anita kept working. Then Tíniel sighed. "I just think –"

"Tíniel! Shut up!"

"Right. Sorry."

"By the stars, you're annoying."

"I know. It would help a great deal if I could get out of this damned chair, but I can't."

Anita paused in her work and looked at her thoughtfully. "I've been wondering about that actually," she said. "Beregond once hurt his shoulder in training, and his arm didn't have full movement afterwards. They said it never would again. But I began massaging the muscles and working at it so that it would begin moving again afterwards."

Tíniel stared at her. "I never noticed a default in either of his arms," she said slowly, barely daring to hope. "So, he… he has full use of it now?"

"He does," Anita confirmed. "Listen, I cannot promise that you'll be like before. I cannot promise anything, actually. But don't you think it's worth a try?"

"Yes," Tíniel almost shouted. "Yes! Yes, I do. When could we start? How long will it take?"

"It'll take months, if not years, I guess," Anita said. "And you might not like me very much while it's going on. But come to my place tonight, and we'll make a start."

The 'start' was incredibly painful. Anita felt up and down her spine, pressing gently to feel what had gone wrong. She made various 'hmm' sounds, and tutted as she went.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Tíniel grunted, her voice muffled because she was lying on her face. "Is that good or bad? Ow!"

"Well, it isn't great," Anita said. "But it might be salvageable."

"I have – ow! – broken ribs, you know! Be gentle!"

"Gentle won't help you," Anita chastised.

"You take pleasure from this, don't you? You're a sick, sadistic – ow, Anita!"

"Don't bite your tongue. This is going to hurt."

The next day, Tíniel could sit fully upright with a lot less pain. It felt like a victory, even if it was small.

That afternoon, a messenger came galloping across the Pelennor fields. The people of Minas Tirith lined the walls as he drew closer, and children ran through the streets after him. At last he reached the citadel and dismounted, panting. Tíniel was waiting for him there with the now inseparable Faramir and Éowyn.

"My lord," he said, bowing to them. "My ladies."

"Hirgon!" Faramir said, grinning from ear to ear. "You're alive!"

Hirgon returned the grin. "Indeed I am, lord Faramir," he said. "Quite a few of us are, in fact."

"So it is true," Éowyn breathed. "The battle was won?"

"It was, lady," Hirgon said. "It was a strange victory, but certainly not unwelcome! But that story will be told again and again when they all return."

"And Aragorn?" Tíniel burst out, unable to contain the question any longer. "The captain from the North? Did he survive?"

"He did, lady Tíniel," Hirgon said. His eyes flickered uncertainly over the wheelchair, but in her relief, she didn't see him looking.

"What is the message you are to bring?" Faramir asked.

"The battle is won," the soldier announced proudly. "The army is camped in Ithilien on what is now called the fields of Cormallon. There they tend to their wounded, gather their forces and take their rest. They will prepare to leave in a few days."

"A few days?" Tíniel exclaimed. "What under the stars are they waiting for?"

"Many are injured," Hirgon shrugged. "I suppose they are waiting until they are well enough to be moved. I was told only the message, not the reasoning behind it."

"That's alright," Faramir said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Take some rest, my friend. You deserve it well enough!"

Hirgon bowed, grinned, and went away.

"So," Faramir said. "A week, perhaps more, before they return."

"That should be plenty of time to prepare the city for the return of the king," Éowyn said thoughtfully. "The rebuilding is going well, the birds are returning, and the gardens are flowering again."

"They expect me to wait a whole week?" Tíniel asked incredulously. Faramir rolled his eyes.

"Take up knitting," he said. "You'll be fine."

"I have a broken arm, you bastard," she muttered, ignoring his grin.

That week lasted an age for Tíniel. She spent time with her tribe and with her friends. She oversaw some of the rebuilding, and every night she went to Anita, who would work with her on trying to get her to stand. Many of the evacuees had returned to their homes, so Minas Tirith had begun to feel like its old self.

But with them came lords and ladies of Gondor.

"Remind me who's coming today?" Tíniel asked, staring moodily at the dead white tree.

"My cousin from Dol Amroth," Faramir answered. "Can you at least try a smile?" She bared her teeth at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Five-year-old."

"Why do I need to be here to receive these people anyway?" she went on, sighing heavily and looking back to the tree. "Who am I to them? Can't you do this by yourself? Isn't this your job?"

"You're a war hero at the very least," Éowyn said, the picture of regal grace with her hands folded in front of her pristine white gown. Tíniel felt shabby in the too-big Khandi tunic they'd found to replace her other one.

"You are a respected leader of Gondor," Faramir said. "And it will do no small amount of good for these dignitaries to meet the Khandi chief before they start spreading stupid rumours."

"You mean like when that lord from Lebennin started telling people that we were cannibals who fed only on white flesh?" Tíniel asked. "Alright. Fair point."

"Here they come!" Éowyn said, and Tíniel looked ahead. Rounding the corner was a party of seven, all dressed in the dark blue of Dol Amroth. At their head was a beautiful, dark-haired woman.

"What's her name again?" Tíniel whispered.

"Lothíriel," Faramir hissed back. "Now shut up, and look important."

Tíniel studied the woman as she drew closer and curtsied gracefully. She had sharp, dark blue eyes, and strong cheekbones that reminded Tíniel of Prince Imrahil.

"Cousin," she said to Faramir, smiling sweetly. "How good it is to see you again. You have been well?"

"Better than I was," Faramir answered, kissing her hand. "You grow ever more beautiful."

"And you more dashing. You are still unbetrothed, I gather?"

Tíniel's eyes widened slightly and she made a conscious effort not to look over at Éowyn.

"Uh, yes," Faramir said awkwardly. "Now, may I present Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and Lady Tíniel of Khand."

"An honour to make your acquaintance, my ladies," Lothíriel said, and she and all her party bowed.

"If you please," Faramir went on stiffly, "a servant will show your party to their quarters."

Lothíriel nodded to gracefully to the men and ladies in waiting behind her, and they all filed away. The second they were out of earshot, she turned back to Faramir, a wide grin spreading across her face. "I was lying before. You're even uglier than I remember."

"And your likeness grows ever closer to that of a cave-troll," he replied happily. She laughed and threw her arms around him.

"I really missed you." She drew back quickly, her face suddenly grave. "I heard about Boromir and Valar, I'm so sorry. I always thought he would be the last of us to go, but now…"

Tíniel felt the familiar tears sting the back of her eyes as Faramir shook his head. "At least we will have the time to honour him properly after this victory," he said. "But for now, let us speak of happier things. You've met Éowyn, niece of Théoden King."

"And sister of the new king of Rohan," Lothíriel said, grinning and holding out a hand to shake. "Well met. I'm sorry about your uncle."

"Don't be," Éowyn said. "He died a glorious death."

"And this is Tíniel, the chief of the Maruvikh tribe who have fought with us these past few weeks. Oh, and my adopted sister."

"There's a story there, no doubt," Lothíriel said, shaking Tíniel's hand. "I can see the resemblance. You look exactly like my uncle Denethor."

Tíniel snorted. "So I've been told many a time," she said. "That little show of propriety that you two put on had me confused. I didn't think it possible for Faramir to be related to an actual polite person."

Lothíriel snorted. "Well, to my mother's chagrin, I am far from polite. Why are you in a chair?"

"My cousin likes sticking her nose in everyone else's business," Faramir muttered. "Lothíriel, couldn't you have waited five minutes before you started making people hate you?"

"It's alright," Tíniel said. "I broke… well, nearly everything in the battle for Minas Tirith. I struggle to walk at the moment. And stand." She forced her voice to remain cheerful and even.

"If it makes you feel any better, you still look very dignified sitting down," Lothíriel said gravely.

"A dignified sack of potatoes," Faramir agreed solemnly.

"Would you stop with the potato thing?" Tíniel said crossly.

"He's right though," Éowyn mused. "If ever a sack of potatoes were to acquire gravitas, it would look exactly like you in your wheelchair."

Lothíriel snickered. "I like her," she said, nodding at Éowyn. "Now. Where's the new king and all that?"

Two days later, Lothíriel had firmly established herself as likeable, trustworthy, and – somehow simultaneously – a complete nightmare to be around. Tíniel sat at the wall of the seventh circle, looking out over the plain. Today was the day that the army would come home.

"We've been here for hours," Lothíriel sighed. "Can they not march faster? Have they no regard for us?"

"None at all for you," Éowyn muttered. "Be patient and they'll be here soon enough. They've been sending messengers every day."

"But when will they be here?" Lothíriel groaned.

Tíniel shifted in her chair. She felt as impatient as Lothíriel. She couldn't sit still, and for the millionth time, she scanned the empty grasslands below. But somehow having someone to comfort made the waiting more bearable.

"Do you see that copse of trees?" she said, pointing East-North-East. "They'll come around a bend in the road around it, and we'll be able to see them. So keep watching there."

"I don't want to watch," Lothíriel snapped, jumping up onto the stone railing that separated them from a fall of more than forty feet and balancing along it, her arms spread wide. "I want them to hurry up."

"Get down!" Éowyn told her, watching anxiously. "They'll be here before you know it, and the last thing we want is to have to tell Imrahil that his daughter fell to her death minutes before he arrived."

"Ha! Father wouldn't be surprised. It's my mother you need to worry about."

"Is that why you behave in front of your ladies' maids?" Tíniel asked, tearing her eyes away from the copse to look curiously at the still balancing princess. "To please your mother?"

"Right on," Lothíriel said, jumping lightly down and sighing. "She's always scolding me, always shouting about how I should be a lady and not a savage… no offence intended," she added, nodding at Tíniel, who wrinkled her nose. "So she specially chooses my servants to spy on me and report to her."

"That sounds dramatic," Tíniel muttered, looking back out to the faraway trees.

"Oh, not for her, I assure you," Lothíriel said venomously. "It's a nightmare to live with her! I shall never live up to her standards. I have given up trying. She is never angry, she's just –"

"Just disappointed," Éowyn cut in, nodding wisely. "I know the type."

"Well, we all disappoint our parents," Tíniel said. "What else are girls born for?"

"Not me," Éowyn said cheerfully. "Mine are dead."

"Little ray of sunshine, you are," Lothíriel muttered.

"But you're right, Tíniel," Éowyn went on. "Girls win praise only for their looks, while boys are valued for what is in their heads."

"Not so in Khand," Tíniel interjected. "Since the birth of our tribes, women have been leaders and fighters."

"Until they have a child," Éowyn argued. "Then they are reduced to their wombs, reduced to the task of cooking and cleaning while the men, be they fathers or no, continue to fight and lead."

"Such is the fate of all women," Lothíriel lamented, scuffing her silken slippers in the dust mournfully.

"Then let's change it," Tíniel said. Both Éowyn and Lothíriel looked up at her and snorted.

"And how do you propose to do that?" Éowyn asked.

"Well, we are leaders," Tíniel said. "Sister of a king, daughter of a prince and a chief. We can sit here all we like and talk about it, but we also have real power to do something."

"As soon as I suggest anything to my brother, he will laugh it down," Éowyn said. "It isn't as easy as you say."

"You wanted to fight in the battle of the Pelennor, and they told you that you couldn't," Tíniel said. "And what did you do? You fought anyway, and won yourself renown beyond that of most men in Rohan. That's what I suggest."

"And what are you going to do to change things, hm?" Lothíriel asked, cocking an eyebrow at Tíniel. "Words are grand, but actions are harder to make."

"Change the laws, I suppose," Tíniel said. "Marriage and motherhood will make no difference. If a woman wants to fight, she'll fight." She grimaced a little. It was no small thing to change the law. She didn't even know if it was possible. The bamyë had already accepted the fact that she was a khaviga. Would they be willing to make more concessions?

"And you, Lothíriel?" Éowyn was asking. "What will you do?"

The young woman sighed. "I do not know. I am to marry some old, fat lord from Lebennin in a few months' time. I've only met him twice, but it is a suitable match. And then I suppose I shall fade into my role as a good wife and never bother anyone again."

She looked genuinely morose, and Tíniel felt a stab of pity. "I don't believe that you'd ever shut up long enough to become a good wife," she said. Lothíriel frowned.

"Well, I will."

"No, you won't."

"I could if I wanted to."

"Could not."

"I most certainly could!"

"They're here!" Éowyn exclaimed.

"Yes, I could – wait, what?"

Lothíriel and Tíniel both craned their necks, and in moments they saw what Éowyn had seen. The host was rounding the copse, the sun glinting off their helms and the tips of their spears. Tíniel could see flashes of blue on banners that were toyed with by the breeze. She caught her breath; they were here.

"Would someone push me to the first circle?" she asked, the excitement clear in her voice.

"I will!" Lothíriel said eagerly, and nearly upended the whole chair.

"Thank you for offering," Tíniel said, gripping the arms so hard that her knuckles went pale. "But… Éowyn?"

They finally arrived. Aragorn had been riding at the head of the procession, the standard of the king shining in early afternoon sunlight. He had felt relief when the war had ended, and some small peace, but that shattered now. Now he was to fulfil his destiny. He felt like turning around and galloping back to Mordor.

He held up a hand when they came within a hundred yards of the walls. The army ground to a halt.

"Aren't we going in?" Frodo asked from his pony beside Aragorn.

"Soon," he replied. "But there's a little more waiting to do first. I must stay outside the city for a while."

"Why so, Strider?" Sam asked. "I thought you'd be as keen as the rest of us for a proper hot bath and cotton sheets."

"I shall have them brought for you, Sam," he said, hiding his smile. "But it would not be proper for the king to simply ride into the city. There are ways that things need to be done, traditions we must observe." Understanding and awe dawned on the hobbits' faces, and he smiled. "I was with you at the beginning of your adventure," he said. "It is fitting that you are both here for the end of mine."

"This isn't the end of your adventure, not by a long way," Sam said. "This is just the beginning!"

Aragorn glanced back at the city walls, and his jaw tightened. "Well, there may yet be a battle to fight for me," he said darkly.

He nodded over the hobbits' heads at Imrahil, who smiled back and began leading the Gondorian troops into Minas Tirith. The cheering was tremendous. Aragorn watched, the faint smile creeping back onto his face.

Despite himself, he began to feel excited. He'd fought against unbelievable odds for this, and he'd won. There was a tremendous task ahead of him, the same one that had always been ahead of him, but this time he could pour all his energy into it.

He dismounted and patted his horse on the nose. Halbarad approached him, grinning and shaking his head.

"So, here we are."

"Here we are."

"Did you ever think we'd make it?"

"Not in the slightest," Aragorn said wryly. "And yet… here we are."

"You don't want to go in yet?" Halbarad asked.

He shook his head. "No. Set up tents for the Grey Company outside the walls. Fly all the banners we have and post a four-man guard. It's time to put on a show."

"As you say," Halbarad replied. He clapped Aragorn on the shoulder and went away.

It was time for the Khandi tribe to enter the city, but for some reason, they were unmoving. The entire march home, they had been singing joyous victory songs in their language, but now... they were utterly silent. Aragorn slowly stepped forward, watching them with a frown. Something was wrong.

Then he saw her. Éowyn wheeled the chair into the empty gateway, then walked back out of sight, leaving Tíniel sitting alone before her army of thousands. Her eyes flicked over him, and he felt his heart lurch, but she looked away just as quickly. And then she stood.

He could see the effort it cost her, the suppressed pain beneath the stony mask on her face. But she stood, gripping the arms of the chair and pushing herself upwards. She took one step forward, and then a second one.

And then she began to speak.

Tíniel stood before her people, silent. She looked down at them, arrayed on the plain before her. None of them would meet her eyes. No one made a sound, and she could feel the gaze of the old and young that had been left behind, standing up on the walls behind her and looking down at the scene.

She felt her legs begin to tremble with the strain of standing, and she decided the silence had gone on long enough.

"Look at me," she said, her voice loud enough to carry. There was a ripple of heads rising, and the gazes of her tribespeople met hers. She looked down at Tcharum, who stood before all of them. The guilt was written plainly in his face, but he said nothing.

"You know what you have done," she said simply. She could hear the cold bitterness in her own voice. "You have made yourselves khaviga!"

They remained silent, but at her final word, some among them beat their breasts with remorse. Tíniel took one more agonising step forward, and her face twisted into a grimace. "You have betrayed me!" she shouted. "Each and every one of you who left. Each and every one who stayed behind. A Khondyë with no bamyë, with no khopyë, is nothing! You have made me nothing!"

There was utter silence. Tíniel breathed rapidly, trying to ignore the tremors of pain that ran through her body. At last, Tcharum walked forward and faced the bamyë with her.

"We all made our decision to betray our Khondyë," he said, his voice thick. "We made ourselves khaviga. And the penalty for betrayal is death." He paused and drew in a deep breath. "But I was your leader."

He unsheathed his mithiri and handed it to Tíniel. Then he knelt before her and removed his vadi from around his head. "Let justice be done," he said.

A murmur went up from the Gondorians watching the scene as Tíniel placed the curved sword to her brother's neck. He stiffened, but his gaze remained resolute.

"It is only right, sister," he said, only loud enough for her to hear. "The Law is above all else."

She stared down at him. "You're right," she whispered back. "But over these past few years, I've come to be of the opinion that our Laws have forgotten about love." She raised the sword high as if to bring it down on his head, but as it reached its apex, she dropped it in the dust.

"Betrayal for betrayal," she said, raising her voice again to be heard. "I escaped punishment once, and so you all shall too."

Hundreds of heads raised. Cautious hope flickered in hundreds of faces, and Tíniel smiled slightly. "Sing our songs again!" she called. "You have done great deeds and returned victorious! Smile, be triumphant, for we are free for the first time in all of our lives!"

Tcharum got to his feet and took her hand, raising it into the air. "Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!" he bellowed. The answering cry was like thunder rolling from a storm.

"Khuma Tchakhura Khondyë!"

Drawing in a deep breath, she began to sing. The bamyë swiftly joined in, and they began to enter the city. They parted around the twins standing in the gateway, saluting as they passed.

Tíniel reached out to hold onto Tcharum. "My chair, brother?"

"Of course," he said, and lifted her into the chair a short distance away. "I should have known better than to think you'd go through with it."

"You certainly should. The day I do things the way they should be done will be a strange day indeed."

"Where are we off to this time?"

"Second circle," she said, relaxing back into the chair.

"Are you sure? It's just…" He hesitated. "You haven't spoken to Aragorn yet."

She didn't meet his eyes. "Nor will I. Let's go."

"Tchakhura, you can't forgive your tribe for leaving you behind and continue to blame him."

"It isn't just that," she said quietly. "There are other reasons I would rather not see him. It makes things easier for both of us. Now, let's go."

Tcharum pursed his lips and pulled his dark blue vadi back up over his hair. "As you say, then."

She disappeared in the swarm of people moving into the city. Aragorn stood there, waiting for the crowds to subside, hoping she would still be there, sitting in the gateway. But she was gone. His face fell.

"Aragorn!" came a call, and he looked over quickly. It was Faramir, smiling broadly, and Éowyn beside him.

"You're looking a fair sight better than when I last saw you!" Aragorn said, clasping his hand and returning the smile. "And you as well, my lady."

"We're glad you're back," she said warmly. Aragorn's eyes flicked down to see her arm in Faramir's, and he frowned slightly before shaking it off. A question for another time, he decided.

"I cannot stay for long," Faramir said. "As the Steward, I shall not meet the King until he enters the city. But I thought I could come relatively unseen for now, in the chaos."

"Is there something urgent, then?" Aragorn asked. "Why have you come?"

"Just to bypass the messengers," Faramir said. "Is there anything that needs to be done before you enter the city?"

"I trust your judgement," Aragorn said. "Do things as you see fit. But a date will need to be set for the coronation, perhaps in a few weeks to allow time for people to travel to Gondor. That will be the day that I enter the city."

"It shall be done, then," Faramir said. "And preparations made for the biggest party Middle-earth has seen for a hundred years. It's good to speak with you, Aragorn. And I'll see you – properly see you – soon."

"Wait," Aragorn said suddenly. "Before you go… have you spoken with Tíniel?"

Faramir and Éowyn exchanged an unreadable glance before Éowyn replied. "We spoke with her just after she woke," she said. "And we have both spent time with her since."

"And…" he cleared his throat. "How is she?"

There was a long pause, and then Faramir answered. "We thought she was going to be angrier when she realised that she'd been left behind," he said. "And she was, of course. For a few minutes she was furious. But then she was more distraught."

"She was just… broken," Éowyn said quietly. "I never saw a person in more distress than she, that night. She wasn't herself for a long time afterwards. I don't know if she is yet, even now."

"And has she spoken of me at all?" Aragorn asked, abandoning all attempts at subtlety.

Éowyn shook her head. "Not once that I have heard of," she said. "I am sorry."

He nodded, a little too quickly. "Well, thank you," he said. "I should let you get back before you're seen by someone who cares."

"Right," said Faramir, looking worried. "Right. Well, if you ever need anything…" he shrugged awkwardly and patted Aragorn on the shoulder.

Aragorn looked back to the gates as they left, the hollowness in his chest quickly being replaced with determination. Well, he thought, it had never been easy with Tíniel. But he wasn't going to give up now.

I promised an earlier update in exchange for reviews, and we hit 300 (!) so I felt obliged. Thank you all so much for reading – reviewers and quiet readers alike!

To name a few of you – pineapple-pancake, Pyo-Kiyo, LH Wordsmith, Elemmire98, choirbandgeek, Diarona, Anna Maria, MairiMcKennaO'Brian, Lady Istalri, Fox out of Time, Komakipureblood and guests: you're all bloody rippers.

I also wanted to say: yes, the story is coming to a close, and yes that's sad – but it's also exciting, because there's another story coming very soon! It's going to be a bit shorter and a bit more of a nail-biter (if I do it right!), so if you haven't already, follow my profile so that you can have a read when it goes up.

S