Chapter One: Just What the Healers Ordered
April 2996; South of the Pelennor
Mellawen looked out across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath. She was only seven so she'd never seen it, but she had heard her father Denethor describe it often enough. He talked about Osgiliath's beautiful buildings and wide streets, once greater than Minas Tirith's. Now, though, Osgiliath's impressive edifices were reduced to ruins. Part of that was Sauron's doing. When the ancient Númenoreans first built the city they thought that the Dark Lord Sauron was gone forever, but they were wrong. He had concealed himself in Mirkwood, and after the Elves and Wizards drove him off he returned to Barad-dûr, in Mordor. Mellawen had never seen Mordor, but if it was anything like the descriptions of Osgiliath she had heard from the soldiers, she didn't want to. Their descriptions of the way Osgiliath was today were very different from the way her father had described it to her: great piles of rubble everywhere you looked, deserted houses, and nothing but silence. No children running in the streets. No merchants shouting, "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!" No iron-toed boots scraping the stone walkways as the guards marched by.
Yet she wasn't going toward Osgiliath. Mellawen rode with her mother Finduilas and her father Denethor across the Pelennor, to the south. Her uncle had a farm there, just outside the Rammas Echor. The people here had suffered from Sauron, Mellawen's uncle not least of all, but somehow the land seemed untainted. The early April sun shone down on the endless fields. The occasional farmer plowed his land, but they were few and far between.
"Where are all the people?" Mellawen asked.
"Far away," her father answered. "No one wants to live close to Mordor, so they all left."
_Is that what lay across the river?_ she wondered. Mellawen could envision it. A dark land of smouldering volcanoes, rocky wastelands, and burned plains, full of ors and other hideous creatures. But she couldn't imagine that place being so close by. Here, the sun shone down across the fields and farms, the occasional tree dotting the horizon, perfect for climbing. Birds flew in the sky, squirrels looked down from the trees, and moles poked their heads up out of the ground to see the strange party riding by. Twelve horses: Mellawen and her mother on one, Denethor on another, and ten guards, their mail shirts glistening in the morning sun.
Finduilas hardly noticed the countryside, beautiful though it was. She hadn't travelled out here in twelve years, but it still felt like her second home. Not long after her sister Ivriniel had married Arabôr the newly-weds moved out to a farm. He didn't want to raise his family in the city, and Ivriniel agreed. At first Finduilas visited them often, maybe twice a year, helping her sister with her baby boy. Finduilas liked life at the farm and enjoyed helping with the cooking and cleaning, as she had sometimes been allowed to do growing up in Dol Amroth. But not long after Ivriniel's second son, Farlin, was born, orcs had attacked and killed Ivriniel. Denethor refused to let his wife travel outside the city after that, and Arabôr had to agree. Times were just too dangerous.
"I've missed this place," she mused. "It's beautiful out here." Denethor grumbled something under his breath. "Well, it'll do Mellawen good at any rate," Finduilas snapped. Denethor couldn't argue with that.
The whole trouble had started last fall around the harvest time. Gandalf had arrived from the West and introduced himself at court. Of course, Denethor already knew him. Years before, Denethor's father Ecthelion had named Thorongil, a ranger from the far northern country of Arnor, as his advisor. And Thorongil had been good -- a bit too good. This Gandalf had supported Thorongil, used him to try to take over Gondor, but then Thorongil left, and so did Gandalf. Denethor hadn't seen either of them since, until Gandalf re-appeared. Gandalf wanted to study Gondor's books; Denethor still didn't trust him but couldn't see the harm in allowing him to do that.
Gandalf had gone down to the libraries, followed by many of the city's children. Most soon lost interest, but Mellawen was fascinated. She had spent most of the winter in those dank basements with the wizard. By late January she'd developed a slight cough, and by mid-February the healers were starting to whisper pneumonia. "Too much book dust," they said. "Send her out of the city. This Gandalf will be the death of her."
"Ruddy traitor, that brother-in-law of yours," Denethor said at last, the edge in his voice revealing how much he loathed the man. "We shouldn't even be coming out here. He's the one who decided to leave. But he _is_ family, after all, and Mellawen _does_ need to get out of the city. If the cursed turncoat and his fresh air can save Mellawen ... well, I might as well give him the chance. Can't do much harm." He knew that Finduilas was right, that Arabôr could very well save his daughter's life, and that his wife loved the country out here. But that didn't change the simple fact that the man had betrayed Denethor both as an officer and as a friend, and the old wound still burned.
"Denethor, he lost his wife --"
"And that's my fault, how exactly? These are dangerous times, Finduilas. People die. If he was a true Gondorian he would have fought on, defended other men's wives. And she wouldn't have died anyway if he would have just stayed in Minas Tirith."
"Be that as it may --"
"I'm not having this conversation, Finduilas. He's a traitor, and it's his decision to stay out here. He could return any day; I'd take him back." But then Denethor looked over at his daughter, her eyes following a blue jay swooping through the air, and his face softened. "Whatever he's done, he can help Mellawen. But that doesn't mean I have to like him." He stopped his horse, and the others halted. "Lailagond -- ride with Finduilas and Mellawen to Arabôr's house. We will wait for you here." He wouldn't let his wife and only daughter ride unescorted even for a quarter league; it was too risky this close to Mordor. When Lailagond returned some time later, Denethor and his guards turned and rode back to Minas Tirith.
Finduilas and Mellawen stood outside of the house for a long time. Mellawen thought it fabulous. She had always heard that the truly fine people lived in the cities, especially Minas Tirith, where there were banquets, libraries, plays, recitations, and dances. But Minas Tirith only had two public gardens: one in the Houses of Healing, where those who weren't sick were chased off by the matrons; and the Pavilion of the White Tree, a series of statues, fountains, and flower bushes centred around a dried-up old phantom of a tree. The great families of the Seventh Circle sometimes had small private gardens, but they were nothing like this. Here she saw rolling fields, tall stalks of wheat and ears of corn, cows and sheep grazing, and far in the distance the Anduin. Yet what struck her most was the sunlight: it wasn't the sharp glaring white she'd seen in the city where it bounced off the marble buildings; instead here the warm yellow light settled lazily across the land.
Mellawen carried her quit, down pillow, carved eagles, toy horn, and everything else she had brought from Minas Tirith up to the attic. On her way back down she wandered through the house. Taking a flight of stairs down she came to a short hall. On one side she saw a messy room with two hastily-made twin beds, her mother's saddlebag lying against one of the walls. The room on the other side had a great four-poster bed, a writing desk, and a framed portrait of a young man and woman with their baby boy. She guessed the woman had to be her aunt Ivriniel and was surprised by how much the man reminded her of her father -- but then these old families often intermarried.
She walked down the hall and passed the stairwell into the wooden-floored parlour, twice as big as either of the bedrooms. In the far corner Mellawen saw a loom and spinning wheel next to a basket of odds and ends. A couch, arm chair, and two straight-backed oak chairs surrounded a low oak table that stood on a rag rug. On the wall was a large open fireplace. Both of the bedrooms had their own fireplace but much smaller than this great hearth.
After taking it all in Mellawen left the parlour. She knew that her mother was downstairs because she hadn't heard her come up, so Mellawen went down to the ground floor. At the bottom she saw three doors. One, she knew, went out to the yard. The second was a solid oak door and open just a fraction. She poked her head in and saw hay spread all over a packed dirt floor. A great store room lay towards the rear. It was almost empty but still held some fruit, left-over potatoes, and winter barley. On the back wall of the store room Mellawen found a giant stone box; she slid the lid away and saw ice and frozen slabs of meat. Imagine that, and with summer quick on its way! But no Mother, so she walked out, passing the chicken coop, the stalls where the cows and sheep must stay, and the wall with pegs holding a bit and bridle for the horse she had not yet seen, back to the hallway and through the third door. As soon as she opened it a wave of warmth hit her, and she saw her mother.
"Now this is a sight if I ever saw one!" Finduilas exclaimed. "Leave it to Arabôr to make a mess of things when there's no woman to look after him. Mellawen, dear, you finish cleaning off the table; I'm going down to the spring to wash out this cooking pot. Filthy!" She nodded over at the huge pile of dishes.
Finduilas returned a few minutes later with a clean pot filled with fresh water. "Now we will just set this to boil," Finduilas said. "There's some carrots, potatoes, and celery in the pantry; they'll make a good stew." Before long they had the water boiling and the stew thickening.
"Mother, that's a lot of food," Mellawen said. "How are we going to eat it all?"
"It's not so much for five."
"Five?" Mellawen asked. "Mother, you must be tired, there're only two of us."
"What?" Finduilas exclaimed. "Your father didn't tell you? No, of course not; he won't speak Arabôr's name. Mellawen, whose house is this?"
"Why, Father's, of course," Mellawen answered, a slightly confused look on her face.
"Yes, in a way," Finduilas replied. "All land belongs to the steward until the king returns. But who lives here? That's a different question. Arabôr's been farming this land for over fifteen years now. Started not long after Borlin was born. He --"
A door flew open. "Why, there's no fire in here, Farlin!" someone shouted from the entranceway. "You said you saw smoke!"
"Oh yes there is," Finduilas retorted, walking out the kitchen door. "There, on the hearth. Arabôr!"
"Finduilas!" Mellawen heard someone cry. A moment later Finduilas returned with her brother-in-law and two nephews.
Mellawen, who had been stirring the stew, now looked quizzically at the strange men standing in the doorway. "And this must be Mellawen," Arabôr said to Finduilas. "I'm sorry the house is such a mess; I wasn't expecting you until next week."
"Yes, but Mellawen's cough is worse," Finduilas replied. "The healers did not want her in the city another day." She smiled at the stranger, a twinkle in her eye. "And of course I wasn't going to argue with them. There wasn't time to send a letter. I hope you don't mind?"
"No, of course not," Arabôr answered. "My home is your home. Besides, eyes can see a woman's touch is needed around here."
"Indeed," Finduilas said, trying hard not to laugh.
"I will be moving my things up to the attic tonight, of course. You and Mellawen will be staying in my room."
"I assumed I would be staying in the boys' room and Mellawen in the attic," Finduilas answered.
"No," Arabôr replied, "I think it's better for you and Mellawen to be together. My house may not be as luxurious as those of the Seventh Circle, but I'll be damned if I'm going to send the steward's daughter to the attic."
"As you wish," Finduilas replied.
"Who are you?" Mellawen asked, eyeing the man suspiciously.
"I'm sorry, dear," Finduilas said, smiling. "In all the excitement I completely forgot you had never met him. Mellawen, this is your uncle Arabôr. Those boys are Borlin and Farlin, your cousins."
For the first time Mellawen noticed the two boys standing behind her uncle. Borlin her mother had called a boy, but he was really more man than child at seventeen. His brown hair hung limply on his shoulders, and the muscles he developed working in the field showed through his cotton work-shirt. Farlin on the other hand Finduilas called a boy by right. He was only twelve years old, and though he had always lived on a farm he didn't have his brother's build.
"There's a stew cooking," Finduilas said as she surveyed the boys, "and we've made some bread, but I'm afraid I don't have anything for after." Just then a wide smile spread across Farlin's face. He ran off into the barn and came back a few minutes later dragging a pail that was clearly too big for him. Arabôr walked over.
"A bit ambitious, aren't you?" he asked, smiling. "Think you can finish all those? But that's a capital idea. Fresh wild berries and cream will make a fine dessert."
Finduilas sent Arabôr, Borlin, and Farlin upstairs to wash up for dinner. When they came down ten minutes later their hands and faces were scrubbed clean, their hair was combed, and they had on fresh shirts. As they came downstairs the front door opened, and in came the farmhands Arabôr employed. They lived in a cabin not far from Arabôr's house and often took their meals with Arabôr and his sons. By the time the men arrived Mellawen had finished setting the table and Finduilas was dishing the stew into wooden bowls she had found in the cupboard. That evening they enjoyed their first meal as a family.
Time went on. At first Mellawen stayed inside most of the day, helping her mother around the house, but Finduilas tried to get her outside as often as he could: watering the cows that grazed nearby, gathering berries from the woods, bringing in firewood. Mellawen's mother, however, had a better outdoor treat planned for her and, as it happened, for Farlin as well.
"Arabôr, I was thinking," Finduilas said one evening over dinner. "Look at Farlin here, so worn out after a day of work. He's too small to toil like you and Borlin do."
"He's twelve years old," Arabôr replied.
"That's not what I meant," Finduilas answered. "Look at him: he doesn't have the build for it. Your son's a dreamer, not a farmhand. You'll wear him out. And anyway, Mellawen needs more time out of the house; that's why we came here, after all. Would you let me plant a small garden near the house? Your own vegetable garden is nice, but we could have lots of fruit, and flowers, and a few herbs. I'm sure I could manage it if I had both Mellawen and Farlin to help me. And it's not too late in the year to start, is it?"
Arabôr pondered this for a moment. "No, it's not too late, but where in Ilúvatar's name will you get the seeds? You know I'm not allowed in Minas Tirith; that's why we didn't plant a garden years ago. And if you think I'm letting you go by yourself, in these dangerous times --"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Finduilas answered, a sly smile creeping across her face. "And besides, there's no need. I brought my own with me."
"Well, of all the -- why aren't they in the ground yet? And by all means, take Farlin if you think you can find a use for him. He really is too young to work in the fields, and half the time I don't know what to do with him. I only took him out there to begin with because he's too young to leave here all day by himself. And after what happened to his mother ..." His voice trailed off.
So that settled it. Life fell into a pattern they were all happy with. It was the beginning of June, and Borlin and Arabôr needed to be in the fields all day long, too far out to return for lunch. Finduilas prepared their meal the night before, and they'd be gone before Mellawen even woke up. She, Farlin, and Finduilas ate breakfast together. Then Mellawen and Farlin worked in their garden, first hoeing and planting and later weeding and chasing off the birds. Finduilas stayed inside doing all that had to be done to keep the house running smoothly. When Mellawen and Farlin saw smoke later in the morning coming from the chimney they knew they had an hour to play before lunch if their work was done. Most days it was.
After lunch Finduilas got out her books, hidden treasures from Minas Tirith. When the sun shone down on the fields they did their lessons sitting under a big tree on the stream bank, but on rainy days Finduilas taught them their letters in the parlour, sitting in front of the warm fire. Mellawen had seen letters when she watched Gandalf poring over the books in her father's libraries, but she didn't know what they represented. Farlin had heard his father read from books, but as he had never tried to see the pages he didn't even know what letters looked like. By harvest time, however, both Mellawen and Farlin could write their names and read the stories Finduilas wrote out for them at night.
April 2996; South of the Pelennor
Mellawen looked out across the Pelennor toward Osgiliath. She was only seven so she'd never seen it, but she had heard her father Denethor describe it often enough. He talked about Osgiliath's beautiful buildings and wide streets, once greater than Minas Tirith's. Now, though, Osgiliath's impressive edifices were reduced to ruins. Part of that was Sauron's doing. When the ancient Númenoreans first built the city they thought that the Dark Lord Sauron was gone forever, but they were wrong. He had concealed himself in Mirkwood, and after the Elves and Wizards drove him off he returned to Barad-dûr, in Mordor. Mellawen had never seen Mordor, but if it was anything like the descriptions of Osgiliath she had heard from the soldiers, she didn't want to. Their descriptions of the way Osgiliath was today were very different from the way her father had described it to her: great piles of rubble everywhere you looked, deserted houses, and nothing but silence. No children running in the streets. No merchants shouting, "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish!" No iron-toed boots scraping the stone walkways as the guards marched by.
Yet she wasn't going toward Osgiliath. Mellawen rode with her mother Finduilas and her father Denethor across the Pelennor, to the south. Her uncle had a farm there, just outside the Rammas Echor. The people here had suffered from Sauron, Mellawen's uncle not least of all, but somehow the land seemed untainted. The early April sun shone down on the endless fields. The occasional farmer plowed his land, but they were few and far between.
"Where are all the people?" Mellawen asked.
"Far away," her father answered. "No one wants to live close to Mordor, so they all left."
_Is that what lay across the river?_ she wondered. Mellawen could envision it. A dark land of smouldering volcanoes, rocky wastelands, and burned plains, full of ors and other hideous creatures. But she couldn't imagine that place being so close by. Here, the sun shone down across the fields and farms, the occasional tree dotting the horizon, perfect for climbing. Birds flew in the sky, squirrels looked down from the trees, and moles poked their heads up out of the ground to see the strange party riding by. Twelve horses: Mellawen and her mother on one, Denethor on another, and ten guards, their mail shirts glistening in the morning sun.
Finduilas hardly noticed the countryside, beautiful though it was. She hadn't travelled out here in twelve years, but it still felt like her second home. Not long after her sister Ivriniel had married Arabôr the newly-weds moved out to a farm. He didn't want to raise his family in the city, and Ivriniel agreed. At first Finduilas visited them often, maybe twice a year, helping her sister with her baby boy. Finduilas liked life at the farm and enjoyed helping with the cooking and cleaning, as she had sometimes been allowed to do growing up in Dol Amroth. But not long after Ivriniel's second son, Farlin, was born, orcs had attacked and killed Ivriniel. Denethor refused to let his wife travel outside the city after that, and Arabôr had to agree. Times were just too dangerous.
"I've missed this place," she mused. "It's beautiful out here." Denethor grumbled something under his breath. "Well, it'll do Mellawen good at any rate," Finduilas snapped. Denethor couldn't argue with that.
The whole trouble had started last fall around the harvest time. Gandalf had arrived from the West and introduced himself at court. Of course, Denethor already knew him. Years before, Denethor's father Ecthelion had named Thorongil, a ranger from the far northern country of Arnor, as his advisor. And Thorongil had been good -- a bit too good. This Gandalf had supported Thorongil, used him to try to take over Gondor, but then Thorongil left, and so did Gandalf. Denethor hadn't seen either of them since, until Gandalf re-appeared. Gandalf wanted to study Gondor's books; Denethor still didn't trust him but couldn't see the harm in allowing him to do that.
Gandalf had gone down to the libraries, followed by many of the city's children. Most soon lost interest, but Mellawen was fascinated. She had spent most of the winter in those dank basements with the wizard. By late January she'd developed a slight cough, and by mid-February the healers were starting to whisper pneumonia. "Too much book dust," they said. "Send her out of the city. This Gandalf will be the death of her."
"Ruddy traitor, that brother-in-law of yours," Denethor said at last, the edge in his voice revealing how much he loathed the man. "We shouldn't even be coming out here. He's the one who decided to leave. But he _is_ family, after all, and Mellawen _does_ need to get out of the city. If the cursed turncoat and his fresh air can save Mellawen ... well, I might as well give him the chance. Can't do much harm." He knew that Finduilas was right, that Arabôr could very well save his daughter's life, and that his wife loved the country out here. But that didn't change the simple fact that the man had betrayed Denethor both as an officer and as a friend, and the old wound still burned.
"Denethor, he lost his wife --"
"And that's my fault, how exactly? These are dangerous times, Finduilas. People die. If he was a true Gondorian he would have fought on, defended other men's wives. And she wouldn't have died anyway if he would have just stayed in Minas Tirith."
"Be that as it may --"
"I'm not having this conversation, Finduilas. He's a traitor, and it's his decision to stay out here. He could return any day; I'd take him back." But then Denethor looked over at his daughter, her eyes following a blue jay swooping through the air, and his face softened. "Whatever he's done, he can help Mellawen. But that doesn't mean I have to like him." He stopped his horse, and the others halted. "Lailagond -- ride with Finduilas and Mellawen to Arabôr's house. We will wait for you here." He wouldn't let his wife and only daughter ride unescorted even for a quarter league; it was too risky this close to Mordor. When Lailagond returned some time later, Denethor and his guards turned and rode back to Minas Tirith.
Finduilas and Mellawen stood outside of the house for a long time. Mellawen thought it fabulous. She had always heard that the truly fine people lived in the cities, especially Minas Tirith, where there were banquets, libraries, plays, recitations, and dances. But Minas Tirith only had two public gardens: one in the Houses of Healing, where those who weren't sick were chased off by the matrons; and the Pavilion of the White Tree, a series of statues, fountains, and flower bushes centred around a dried-up old phantom of a tree. The great families of the Seventh Circle sometimes had small private gardens, but they were nothing like this. Here she saw rolling fields, tall stalks of wheat and ears of corn, cows and sheep grazing, and far in the distance the Anduin. Yet what struck her most was the sunlight: it wasn't the sharp glaring white she'd seen in the city where it bounced off the marble buildings; instead here the warm yellow light settled lazily across the land.
Mellawen carried her quit, down pillow, carved eagles, toy horn, and everything else she had brought from Minas Tirith up to the attic. On her way back down she wandered through the house. Taking a flight of stairs down she came to a short hall. On one side she saw a messy room with two hastily-made twin beds, her mother's saddlebag lying against one of the walls. The room on the other side had a great four-poster bed, a writing desk, and a framed portrait of a young man and woman with their baby boy. She guessed the woman had to be her aunt Ivriniel and was surprised by how much the man reminded her of her father -- but then these old families often intermarried.
She walked down the hall and passed the stairwell into the wooden-floored parlour, twice as big as either of the bedrooms. In the far corner Mellawen saw a loom and spinning wheel next to a basket of odds and ends. A couch, arm chair, and two straight-backed oak chairs surrounded a low oak table that stood on a rag rug. On the wall was a large open fireplace. Both of the bedrooms had their own fireplace but much smaller than this great hearth.
After taking it all in Mellawen left the parlour. She knew that her mother was downstairs because she hadn't heard her come up, so Mellawen went down to the ground floor. At the bottom she saw three doors. One, she knew, went out to the yard. The second was a solid oak door and open just a fraction. She poked her head in and saw hay spread all over a packed dirt floor. A great store room lay towards the rear. It was almost empty but still held some fruit, left-over potatoes, and winter barley. On the back wall of the store room Mellawen found a giant stone box; she slid the lid away and saw ice and frozen slabs of meat. Imagine that, and with summer quick on its way! But no Mother, so she walked out, passing the chicken coop, the stalls where the cows and sheep must stay, and the wall with pegs holding a bit and bridle for the horse she had not yet seen, back to the hallway and through the third door. As soon as she opened it a wave of warmth hit her, and she saw her mother.
"Now this is a sight if I ever saw one!" Finduilas exclaimed. "Leave it to Arabôr to make a mess of things when there's no woman to look after him. Mellawen, dear, you finish cleaning off the table; I'm going down to the spring to wash out this cooking pot. Filthy!" She nodded over at the huge pile of dishes.
Finduilas returned a few minutes later with a clean pot filled with fresh water. "Now we will just set this to boil," Finduilas said. "There's some carrots, potatoes, and celery in the pantry; they'll make a good stew." Before long they had the water boiling and the stew thickening.
"Mother, that's a lot of food," Mellawen said. "How are we going to eat it all?"
"It's not so much for five."
"Five?" Mellawen asked. "Mother, you must be tired, there're only two of us."
"What?" Finduilas exclaimed. "Your father didn't tell you? No, of course not; he won't speak Arabôr's name. Mellawen, whose house is this?"
"Why, Father's, of course," Mellawen answered, a slightly confused look on her face.
"Yes, in a way," Finduilas replied. "All land belongs to the steward until the king returns. But who lives here? That's a different question. Arabôr's been farming this land for over fifteen years now. Started not long after Borlin was born. He --"
A door flew open. "Why, there's no fire in here, Farlin!" someone shouted from the entranceway. "You said you saw smoke!"
"Oh yes there is," Finduilas retorted, walking out the kitchen door. "There, on the hearth. Arabôr!"
"Finduilas!" Mellawen heard someone cry. A moment later Finduilas returned with her brother-in-law and two nephews.
Mellawen, who had been stirring the stew, now looked quizzically at the strange men standing in the doorway. "And this must be Mellawen," Arabôr said to Finduilas. "I'm sorry the house is such a mess; I wasn't expecting you until next week."
"Yes, but Mellawen's cough is worse," Finduilas replied. "The healers did not want her in the city another day." She smiled at the stranger, a twinkle in her eye. "And of course I wasn't going to argue with them. There wasn't time to send a letter. I hope you don't mind?"
"No, of course not," Arabôr answered. "My home is your home. Besides, eyes can see a woman's touch is needed around here."
"Indeed," Finduilas said, trying hard not to laugh.
"I will be moving my things up to the attic tonight, of course. You and Mellawen will be staying in my room."
"I assumed I would be staying in the boys' room and Mellawen in the attic," Finduilas answered.
"No," Arabôr replied, "I think it's better for you and Mellawen to be together. My house may not be as luxurious as those of the Seventh Circle, but I'll be damned if I'm going to send the steward's daughter to the attic."
"As you wish," Finduilas replied.
"Who are you?" Mellawen asked, eyeing the man suspiciously.
"I'm sorry, dear," Finduilas said, smiling. "In all the excitement I completely forgot you had never met him. Mellawen, this is your uncle Arabôr. Those boys are Borlin and Farlin, your cousins."
For the first time Mellawen noticed the two boys standing behind her uncle. Borlin her mother had called a boy, but he was really more man than child at seventeen. His brown hair hung limply on his shoulders, and the muscles he developed working in the field showed through his cotton work-shirt. Farlin on the other hand Finduilas called a boy by right. He was only twelve years old, and though he had always lived on a farm he didn't have his brother's build.
"There's a stew cooking," Finduilas said as she surveyed the boys, "and we've made some bread, but I'm afraid I don't have anything for after." Just then a wide smile spread across Farlin's face. He ran off into the barn and came back a few minutes later dragging a pail that was clearly too big for him. Arabôr walked over.
"A bit ambitious, aren't you?" he asked, smiling. "Think you can finish all those? But that's a capital idea. Fresh wild berries and cream will make a fine dessert."
Finduilas sent Arabôr, Borlin, and Farlin upstairs to wash up for dinner. When they came down ten minutes later their hands and faces were scrubbed clean, their hair was combed, and they had on fresh shirts. As they came downstairs the front door opened, and in came the farmhands Arabôr employed. They lived in a cabin not far from Arabôr's house and often took their meals with Arabôr and his sons. By the time the men arrived Mellawen had finished setting the table and Finduilas was dishing the stew into wooden bowls she had found in the cupboard. That evening they enjoyed their first meal as a family.
Time went on. At first Mellawen stayed inside most of the day, helping her mother around the house, but Finduilas tried to get her outside as often as he could: watering the cows that grazed nearby, gathering berries from the woods, bringing in firewood. Mellawen's mother, however, had a better outdoor treat planned for her and, as it happened, for Farlin as well.
"Arabôr, I was thinking," Finduilas said one evening over dinner. "Look at Farlin here, so worn out after a day of work. He's too small to toil like you and Borlin do."
"He's twelve years old," Arabôr replied.
"That's not what I meant," Finduilas answered. "Look at him: he doesn't have the build for it. Your son's a dreamer, not a farmhand. You'll wear him out. And anyway, Mellawen needs more time out of the house; that's why we came here, after all. Would you let me plant a small garden near the house? Your own vegetable garden is nice, but we could have lots of fruit, and flowers, and a few herbs. I'm sure I could manage it if I had both Mellawen and Farlin to help me. And it's not too late in the year to start, is it?"
Arabôr pondered this for a moment. "No, it's not too late, but where in Ilúvatar's name will you get the seeds? You know I'm not allowed in Minas Tirith; that's why we didn't plant a garden years ago. And if you think I'm letting you go by yourself, in these dangerous times --"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Finduilas answered, a sly smile creeping across her face. "And besides, there's no need. I brought my own with me."
"Well, of all the -- why aren't they in the ground yet? And by all means, take Farlin if you think you can find a use for him. He really is too young to work in the fields, and half the time I don't know what to do with him. I only took him out there to begin with because he's too young to leave here all day by himself. And after what happened to his mother ..." His voice trailed off.
So that settled it. Life fell into a pattern they were all happy with. It was the beginning of June, and Borlin and Arabôr needed to be in the fields all day long, too far out to return for lunch. Finduilas prepared their meal the night before, and they'd be gone before Mellawen even woke up. She, Farlin, and Finduilas ate breakfast together. Then Mellawen and Farlin worked in their garden, first hoeing and planting and later weeding and chasing off the birds. Finduilas stayed inside doing all that had to be done to keep the house running smoothly. When Mellawen and Farlin saw smoke later in the morning coming from the chimney they knew they had an hour to play before lunch if their work was done. Most days it was.
After lunch Finduilas got out her books, hidden treasures from Minas Tirith. When the sun shone down on the fields they did their lessons sitting under a big tree on the stream bank, but on rainy days Finduilas taught them their letters in the parlour, sitting in front of the warm fire. Mellawen had seen letters when she watched Gandalf poring over the books in her father's libraries, but she didn't know what they represented. Farlin had heard his father read from books, but as he had never tried to see the pages he didn't even know what letters looked like. By harvest time, however, both Mellawen and Farlin could write their names and read the stories Finduilas wrote out for them at night.