Chapter IX: Vigil of the Wanting

'We've got a bond in common, you and I. We are both alone in the world.' ― Rebbeca, Daphne du Maurier.

Lothíriel paused outside the throne-room; erased her face into serenity, straightened her shoulders, smoothed her skirts, laid a tentative hand on her head, hoping her hair was still in its ornate crown of braids. She felt almost too angry for words, but words she must speak, and soon, and well.

She swung the doors open and proceeded through the high hall. It chilled her, like it always had and always would. The hall of her father was timbered, with many tapestries to soften the stone, but there was neither wood nor cloth to soften the high hall of Gondor. Monoliths of black marble rose like trees to meet the high-domed ceiling, and between those pillars marched a silent company of tall images, an avenue of long-dead kings. Delicate traceries of gold threaded the pillars and the ceiling, scenes that attracted and held the eye's attention, but the scenes were old and grand, telling tales of bone-cold history, not fairy-tales. Even the summer sunlight that flooded through the windows could not warm this long solemn hall.

On the long, many-stepped dais was a great throne, a cold marble cathedra, made with the best of smith's work. It was graceful and beautiful, and hard and grandiose. It belonged to the Hall, in the heart of Gondor.

But there was no throne for the Queen. Although the chair of the Stewards had been done away with, in some sickeningly symbolic act, Lothíriel was certain, a new chair had replaced it. At the foot of the dais, was a chair made from white wood, inlaid with delicate scrollwork tracery in silver, and piled high with white cushions. Queen Arwen sat there in a green damask gown, her skin clear and delicate as a rose-leaf, her wealth of black hair piled high on her head. Her beauty was a beauty was a beauty that went beyond song, something that Lothíriel could not translate into any words. It was a beauty to be thought of as one thinks of the stars, the moon, the sun, mountains mighty in majesty, snow subtle in beauty, flowers so perfect and rare one nearly weeps at their loveliness. Lothíriel smelled a perfume she could not name as she approached the Evenstar and curtsied low. It was like the fragrance of oranges and wild roses and something even deeper, even wilder, like a violet spring dusk. She hoped the Queen would not be offended by the cranesbill oil she had dabbed on her wrists.

"I beg pardon for being so tardy, Your Grace. I was writing a letter to my father," she said.

Arwen smiled and waved her hand, as if flicking away the words. "The court is not begun, so you are not tardy. I hope you found nothing to complain of in your letter?"

"Only the smallest of things," Lothíriel said, seating herself in the chair besides the Queen. It was less ornate, but, through the Evenstar's thoughtfulness, piled equally high with cushions. "But the smaller the complaint, the longer my letter must be, so that I am able to justify myself."

Arwen laughed, a sound as clear and lovely as silver bells. "Then I hope your letters are long enough to fill a library."

Lothíriel felt her anger bleeding away, and almost unwillingly, she let it go. The Queen seemed like a balm, with a warmth that could melt midwinter snow and a serenity like dew on leaves. Despite this, it was difficult to feel entirely at ease around her. Her eyes were kind, but too piercing. Her smile was lovely, but too knowing. Her words were like oil on troubled waters, but she would speak of one's inmost thoughts and dreams with disconcerting astuteness. Lothíriel fancied herself subtle, but she had known upon their first meeting that Arwen had read her as easily as a child's book. Despite that- Lothíriel did not flatter herself that it was because of that-she had become the Queen's makeshift advisor while the Elessar was away, teaching Arwen mannish customs and laws so the Queen could make fair rulings.

There was the needful amount of pomp and pageantry as Arwen began to hold court, and the petitioners approached, one at time, to seek the ruling of the King's Bench. There was a hunting mishap that led to a contested weregild, a dowry that had not been made good, a dispute over land. As soon as she was old enough to read, Lothíriel had sat on her father's driftwood bench when he held court, and so she had heard every case a thousand times over. She knew every law, every statue, every chink in the armor of the law. She knew every complaint a plaintiff would make and every argument the accused would riposte with. It was a tedium she knew by heart. So she folded her hands tightly and tried to feign interest. It would be different, she decided, if she was a Queen making her own rulings on her own throne, doing the labor so that her realm could bloom.

A letter from her father had come that morning, again asking about the King of the Mark. According to Imrahil, Éomer had been in Gondor briefly, and should return again in a few months.

Think of it, Lothíriel, he had written. The Swans and the Stallions. From such a union would come a winged horse, a beast of majesty and might.

I have thought of it, Father, she had said in her own letter. And I have come to the weighty conclusion that you are once again stretching your parables too thin. Besides, it does not make a thimble of sense. Swans mate for life, while a stallion has a herd of mares. And, as you so poetically wrote, I am a swan, and not a broodmare.

She had written with such violence that she had spilled the jar of ink before she could mention that, as a rule of nature, swans rarely bred with stallions. Her letter had been rendered soaked and unreadable. Now she realized that was just as well. She would write in a day or three, when her anger had cooled enough that she could be civil.

Lothíriel realized her smile had slipped when the plaintiff, now an older man, glanced worriedly at her. She donned it again quickly, but inside she frowned, and Lothíriel Eiphonnen's frown was a fierce thing.

Inwardly, she tallied up the eligible princes and kings of all Gondor's fiefdoms and allies. If the High-King Elessar had indeed been able to ally with Harad, perchance there was an eligible Southron Prince. She would be able to see the red deserts and rainwoods of the South, even look upon an Oliphaunt. Gweston, eldest son of Forlong the Fat and the King of Lossarnach, was still unwed, as was his younger brother, Munhil. She had met them a handful of times, and found that they were tall, silent youths with shaggy black hair and little of their father's girth. Munhil was so shy he was nearly furtive, Gweston more confident, most likely from the shadow of a new beard that darkened his jaw. Then there was Dervorin of Ringló Vale, prince in name, King in all other ways, who had sallied out to war unwed. Although there had been no word of marriage, Lothíriel listened to enough of the palace chatter to know that a pretty girl from the Houses of Healing had accompanied him back to the Vale.

And there was Rohan. She felt certain Rohirric men could be to her fancy. At the least, the one she met had been, but the troublesome point was that she could not marry just a man. He had to be a king. And that would not do.

"Lothíriel."

She started at the whisper. Arwen was looking at her curiously, waiting for an answer, and Lothíriel waded through her thoughts. She had early learned the knack of tucking immediate memories away, so she could look them over if need be. It let her daydream in peace. She found the memory quickly; two men squabbling over a ewe.

"It is customary, your Grace, for the thief to restore the loss double, and then give the man he has wronged five days hard labor." Her tresses had somehow managed to come loose from its moorings, and she flicked a fresh fall of black hair off her forehead.

The plaintiff was a tall man, with the sun-browned look of a farmer and a close-cropped beard. The other also seemed a farmer, and although he was smaller in stature, he was barrel-chested, with fists the size of hams. It was no great wonder the plaintiff had decided to settle their argument in court.

"This is my ruling," Arwen said, and Lothíriel watched the heavy brows of smaller man collide in anger. "You will restore the ewe you killed with two of the choicest sheep from your flock, and you will repay the man with ten days hard work, because you chose to take your argument to the King's Bench instead of heeding the ruling of the Borough Court, making the man you wronged squander his time traveling here."

"Your Grace," the shorter man managed through a clenched jaw, "I would gladly accept your rulings to be fair, should Dramuron's claim be true."

Arwen looked at him, and Lothíriel had the impression she was looking through the man, lifting the veil of flesh and bone and studying the soul. The man seemed to feel it too; he held her gaze for as long as he could, but it was his eyes that dropped first.

"There is conviction in your words," Arwen said at last. "At the least, you believe what you say. But the most dangerous of lies are the ones we weave for ourselves."
"I am not lying to anyone or anything, Your Grace."
Arwen acknowledged that with a faint nod. "So your grievance goes beyond the loss of a sheep. There is a long standing feud between you and Dramuron, is there not?"

"He thinks I stole his woman, Your Grace," the shorter man admitted gruffly.

Confusion flickered across Arwen's face, and Lothíriel leaned over to whisper, "Both men were courting the same woman."

The Queen thanked her with a smile, and turned back. "So you both fell in love with the same woman, but Belegon wed her?"
The shorter man nodded, while Dramuron looked bitterly spiteful.

"And she wed you of free will, and you now live in happiness?"

"The happiest we have ever been, Your Grace," Belegon agreed.

"Very good. And what do you believe happened, Belegon?"

"I believe that Dramuron killed one of his own ewes and burned it on my land, so that he could drag me through trials and dishonor, Your Grace," he answered with iron certainty.

Dramuron's mouth twisted with fury, and Lothíriel suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for him. She had no doubt he was guilty-every twitch of his muscles betrayed him, but he clung to his story with a dogged stubbornness. If a man has lost the woman he loved, the only thing he has left is his pride, and if his pride is stripped from him, what then?

"And what is your rebuttal, Dramuron?" the Queen asked. Her voice was also kind, a kindness that disarmed the bitter farmer and left him defenseless. He stammered, his face collapsing in on itself in cruel mummery, tears making his eyes glassy. Belegon looked away.

"I did it," he admitted softly. "I did it."

"And what form of redress do you desire?" the Queen asked, addressing Belegon. The man looked suddenly uncertain.

"None, Your Grace," he managed. "He did not harm any of my flock."

"But your time has been wasted, a time that you should have spent hoeing your fields or shearing your sheep?" the Queen insisted gently. "You want no compensation, even for the calumnies put upon your name?"

"Nothing has been harmed," Belegon repeated. He turned to Dramuron, who stood with his shoulders hunched, the portrait of defeated misery. "By your leave, Your Grace, shall we ride back together?"

Dramuron's eyes were at first suspicious, then sad. They left the high hall, and when the massive doors had closed behind them, Lothíriel said, "Belegon's chest is of noble proportions, but I think his heart can scarcely fit inside it."

"Yes indeed," the Queen murmured. "Dramuron is a fortunate man, whatever he might believe at the moment." She turned and smiled at Lothíriel. "The sun is high. Do you fancy luncheon?"

A serving-boy brought a platter of cold meats and fresh fruit, and flushed wildly when Arwen thanked him by name. As he slipped out through the doors, Lothíriel could see a crowd of petitioners already gathered, and groaned inwardly.

Arwen took a cluster of grapes and drifted over to one of the great windows. Unsure of whether she should join the Queen, Lothíriel nibbled at a slice of ham. Sitting in a chair honed her hunger in a way riding never had, but she did not wish to offend the Queen's no-doubt delicate sensibilities.

As if Arwen had read her thoughts, and for all Lothíriel knew, she had, the Queen turned from the window and smiled. "Eat your fill, child. Do not starve yourself on my account."

Lothíriel flushed a crimson almost as bright as the servant-boy. "I-I did not want to appear a glutton, Your Grace."

"I am not here to judge you."

Lothíriel rose, and when Arwen's back was once again to her, she raised her arms and stretched, then picked up an apricot, sinking her teeth gratefully in the ripe flesh. It tasted like golden summer days.

"Do you know the names of all the servants, your Grace?" she asked, when the silence become too worn and threadbare for her to stomach.

"Most of them, yes," Arwen agreed. She turned back to Lothíriel. "Why the interest?"

"I met a…...a man," the girl faltered. "He was a stable-hand. At the least, I think he was."

Arwen arched a dark eyebrow. "I will need a few more details to answer your question."

"He was tall," Lothíriel began, warming eagerly to her task. "Clean-limbed and well-muscled. Eyes blue and clear as mountain lakes and a mane of golden hair past his shoulders. He had a fine face and-" She broke off suddenly, realizing what she was saying, and her cheeks burned. But Arwen's smile was kind, and she regained some of her courage.
"He was very comely and very kind," she finished primly. "He wore grey breeches and a green linen tabard with a white horse emblazoned over his heart."

"We have no Rohhiric stablehands," Arwen said thoughtfully, although Lothíriel thought the Queen cast her a curious glance.

"Oh. Well, he is not here now, but he said he would be back. I thought perhaps he was a squire or a banner-bearer for the King of the Mark?"

"I am afraid I do not know," Arwen answered. "You must acquaint me with him when he returns. Then we may solve this little mystery."

They finished their luncheon in silence. With gentle hands, the Queen pinned Lothíriel's hair back into place and a servant, a maid this time, brought a bowl of rosewater to clean their hands, then conjured both the platter and the bowl away.

There seemed no end to the afternoon, and no end to the petitioners. By the time Arwen cleared the courts, both Lothíriel's legs were fast asleep, and when she tried to walk, it was if she was wearing shoes made of pins and needles. She went out of the high-hall as fast she could, the thought of seeing more stone making her acutely ill.

She had learned early that Minas Tirith was a city of marble, and not of greenery. There was only one pleasure-garden in the capital, built by Denethor for his homesick wife, Finduilas, the sister of Imrahil, who had died a year before Lothíriel's birth. In the hearts of her brothers, gentle Finduilas had become nearly a goddess, and they brought her sacrifices of their grief, which had never faded. From the tales Lothíriel had heard, Finduilas had been a woman of surpassing loveliness, a pale sea-flower sculpted by the hands of heaven, who wore blue silks and white garlands and looked out at the sea as if her blood was salt-water.

Lothíriel pushed through the gate, hidden by a curtain of pale ivy, and into the circular garden. A single fountain splashed and sang, and it fell into a great basin of silver, from which a clear stream ran. From the mossy lawn rose up lilies, white trumpets gazing towards the eye of the day, and violets ran in streams and torrents, beating against the lily-stems in waves of purple-blue. But fairest of all were the roses with their tender beauty, pale pink and white and gold, taken from the flower-fields of Imloth Melui.

Lothíriel gazed there, in the lingering blue of evendim, feeling the fragrant breeze that stirred living leaf and blooming flower. But most of all she looked at the statue that sat enthroned in the center of the glass-clear pool, so lovely it took her breath away. It was a woman seated on a pedestal, her head turned Southwards, and around her feet pale waterlilies bloomed like floating moons. A last memorial for Findulias and her forgotten sorrow.

She moved to the stone likeness of her aunt, looking at the upcurled marble hand that lay open to the falling rain of the fountain. She perched on the rim of the basin and reached out to touch it, as gently as if it were living flesh.

Loneliness knotted her stomach, and she ached for home even as her fingers brushed the stone. Home was a palace where all the terraces and windows looked out to the sea. Home was a white strand of sand and cliffs of stone as pale as ruel-bone. Home was the sea simmering with stars, or the sea in the afternoon, bright green waves laced with white foam. Home was a salt breeze as one ran barefoot across the shingle, and home was the eternal thunder and roll of the ocean. Home was coming out from a great belt of trees to stare suddenly at a gleaming expanse of water. Home was watching flying fish spread their wings. Home was the warm mauve smell of the sweet-lilac that clung stubbornly to the cliffs. Home was walking up from the cove to be confronted by another sort of sea, where bluebells would rise in battalions from the young bracken, their smell earthy and bitter-sweet, like woodsmoke. Home was Amrothos teaching her to juggle oranges and Erchirion tugging at her hair. Home was finally breaking Elphir's mask of world-wise maturity, and laughing madly as he gave chase. Home was the Bay of Swans and the sailors that would tell her tales of far-away lands and strange seas and sorcerers and magic creatures. Home was where she would dress as a common girl and go down to the harbors and be jostled by the crowds of dockhands and salt-folk. Home was where she would watch the pearl-divers farm their oysters, peering at them through water clear as a looking-glass. Once, she had tried to dive for her own pearl, and although she was a good sailor and the finest swimmer in all her sea-seasoned family, she had nearly drowned. She had begun to be light-headed, then all the urgency had been sapped from her movements, and she had been content to sit the reef, admiring the shifting waters and the light that came through, all the colors of tourmaline. She had reflected on how beautiful it was and how peaceful she felt, utterly content to let herself drown. Her lungs were empty, lying like wilted butterflies inside her chest, but that hardly mattered.

Then a man had dived in, going like a quarrel loosed from a crossbow, grabbed her by the nape of the neck and hauled her up. She had crawled onto the beach, choking and vomiting sea-water, and he hit her on the back until she could breath again.

A smile brushed Lothíriel's lips at the memory. He had been an old man, with braided white hair that reached past his shoulders, his beard a long snowfall. After she had begun to breathe easily again, he had shook her like a mastiff shakes a rat, telling her she was the most fantastic of fools, that the divers were born and bred for pearling, and that she was not. Then he had stalked away, before Lothíriel could say a word, either of thanks or of indignation. She had never seem him again.

Even the thought of another person made the loneliness return. It gripped her like a giant's hand, constricting her throat so tightly she could not even weep. After a minute, the intense ache was gone, but the grey sadness remained, a quiet, quilted melancholy. She wanted to share this beauty, share this garden that had been a secret too long. She wanted to share the sight of that sad-eyed statue looking forever Southwards with someone who would understand.

She thought the golden-maned man she had met in the stables would understand. He had been so quiet, yet something about him seemed so kind.

"Most fantastic of fools," she whispered, echoing the old man's words. She was building a foundation off of sweet lies, fashioning a castle from illusions and mists, the only solid thing a single, short conversation. It was the daydream of a lonely, homesick girl, understandable, perhaps, but hardly allowable.

She pulled her hand away from the statue and stepped down, finding her dress was wet with fountain-spray. It was a gown of pale purple silk, its bodice slashed with silver, and neckline hemmed with seed pearls. It had been one of her mother's. A gown like this cannot be bought for love or for money, her father had warned, and now it was most likely stained.

Lothíriel had seldom felt so alone. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wet silk clinging to her skin, and hung her head.

Someone screamed. Her breath caught in her throat, then she sprinted for the garden gate, wrenching it open. The pelinune moon hovered in the sky, fat and full, shedding an argent glow on the world, and by its light Lothíriel descried a crumpled shape on the pathway. She hurried towards the form, only to stop and stare.

The Queen was crouching on the paved pathway, clutching her head in a vice-grip. The pale light that surrounded her only showed how white her face was and how wide her eyes were, how faraway and how blind. Uncertainty, Lothíriel laid a hand on Arwen's shoulder. "Your Grace?"

When the Queen made no answer, Lothíriel shook her by both shoulders. It was like shaking a quintain. Arwen's head snapped back and forth, but her eyes did not change nor clear.

This time Lothíriel slapped the Queen's cheek. She was trembling, gooseflesh covering her arms and legs although the night was warm. A red rose blossomed on Arwen's waxen face, but there was nothing else.

"Your Grace!" she shouted, and slapped her again, far harder. This time, Arwen's lips thinned with pain. Her eyes, a clear pure shade of grey, seemed to see again. She groaned low in her throat, letting her hands fall to her side. The pale, smooth skin of her cheeks was now aflame, and Lothíriel feared that on the morrow, the Queen would wear a bruise as well as a crown. She took Arwen's arm and tugged it around her shoulder, lifting the Elf to her feet. The Queen was slender, but tall as a knight, limp and shivering, and Lothíriel stumbled under her dead weight as she tried to walk.

"Lothíriel, enough. Let me go. Lothíriel…...child….enough."

The Queen's voice sounded close by her hear, breathy, sharp with fear, and Lothíriel shivered at the words.

"You are not well, Your Grace," she answered, keeping her voice calm. Her mind was leaping ahead, bouncing like a stone a child has skipped across a pond. "I am going to take you to the Healers."

"You will do no such thing." Arwen's voice was a stab of ice. "Neither will you speak of this. Do you comprehend, Lothíriel?"

The Queen's tone was akin to a slap in the face and Lothíriel felt her stomach tighten with hurt and fear. "Of course, Your Grace." Her voice was nearly a whisper; she felt sure it would break if she spoke any louder.
"Help me to a bench, child." Arwen's voice was softer, but its edge was dulled with distraction and not remorse.

Hesitantly, Lothíriel did as she asked, pushing aside the garden gate with its tangle of pale ivy and leading the Queen into Findulias's garden, silver and soft with moonlight. The Queen sat on the edge of the pool with a sigh of relief. Her long hair trailed behind her, dark as a raven's wing, to float on the water.

"Are you well, Your Grace?" Lothíriel asked softly. She stood like a rebuked child, her hands folded tightly behind her back.

Arwen looked up as if she had forgotten Lothíriel was still with her, and then she patted the rim of the pool in invitation. "Sit with me for a while, if you wish."

Lothíriel did so, training her eyes on the vast moon, hoping the Queen would not notice the glassy patina of tears in them.
"When your father rode to war, were you ever frightened for him?"

The question seemed so strange Lothíriel frowned. "Of course, Your Grace. I love my father."

Arwen nodded. She was looking at the sky as well, but she was looking at the stars. "I know. But did you know ever feel that he was in danger?"

"As far as I know, war is two parts danger to every one part of courage." Lothíriel glanced guiltily at the Queen before saying, "What I meant to say, Your Grace-"

Arwen waved her hand, dismissing the excuse. "I understand you. But I doubt you understand me."

"I don't, Your Grace. Not at all."

"Aragorn is in pain at this very moment," Arwen said. "I feel it. I feel his pain inside me, in my bones, in my mind, in my blood, even as I sit here talking to you. I am trying to take as much of it as I can upon myself." Her voice was growing strained again, and her fingers were laced over her stomach, as if she was trying to keep its contents in place.

Lothíriel looked at her, pale and confused. She groped for words that did not come, floundering like some poor beached fish. "Perhaps you have a fever, Your Grace. Sore-flies will sometimes leave the marshes and bring agues with them," she managed stupidly.

Arwen slipped down from the pool's basin to sit on the mossy ground. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool stone of the basin. Lothíriel sat still, and the clear, sad eyes of the night watched them both.