Lady of Gondor Ch 4 - Remembrances
Please see chapter one for full header.
Sept 2996; Pavilion of the White Tree, Minas Tirith
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next afternoon, Farlin came to have lunch with Mellawen and brought her a dress to wear to the funeral. At the eleventh hour, Halbarath, a palace servant, came for her and escorted her to the Pavilion of the White Tree. It was a chilly late September afternoon, the hour before dusk fell. Winter seemed finally to have found its teeth. The weather, however, had not stopped a large crowd from coming out, even the most finicky of old ladies; quite the contrary, they had shown up in uncommon abundance.
Two tables of the finest ash had been placed on either side of the White Tree, and on each table lay a body wrapped in a white shroud. Between them stood Denethor, the only surviving male member of the House of Denethor. Mellawen walked over and took her place beside him, now Lady of Gondor. When her mother died, Mellawen became the last female of the House of Denethor, and so the title passed on to her, young as she was. Off to the side stood Borlin and Farlin, the only surviving family of Arabor, the brother of the Steward. Borlin wore the garb of the Tower Guard, and Farlin wore a grey wool tunic on which had been embroidered the Emblem of the White Tree; a band of silver and mithril tied his long locks back into a loose pony-tail. Farlin smiled, looking down at his fine clothes; he looked like one of the princes his father had often told him of. But then he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder and stopped smiling; this was a serious occasion, and he should look like it.
Mellawen wore a fine black dress, but no one could see it: by orders of the Healers she was to be wrapped in a fur to protect her fragile lungs, so her father ordered a cloak be made from a warg's skin, killed a few weeks prior. She shivered to think of it; wargs were very fierce, and many hunters had been killed by them, she knew. And now she was wearing a skin from one of those feared beasts. The cloak dwarfed her, and the rough hairs rubbed against her raw cheeks. Denethor himself wore the black garb of one in mourning under his old raiment of the Tower Guard that he wore at all state functions.
This was a private family ceremony in many ways, but it was also an event that interested people besides just the family. According to the custom of the land, a youth of the city took a stick and drew a circle roughly ten paces from the White Tree. The family stood in the circle alone, while the rest of the people stayed outside of it. Mellawen looked first over to her cousins standing just inside the circle, then out at the growing crowd all around her, her eyes gleaming with excitement to see all the people dressed in their finery.
After a respectful moment of silence, a man named Falastur stepped forward. He was short for a Gondorian at just over five feet, with deep, long jet black hair slicked back with bear oil, and he wore a simple black cloak, a tunic similar to Farlin's, and grey cotton trousers. He looked directly at Denethor, then lowered his head and said, "With your leave, my lord." Denethor nodded, and the man stepped inside the circle and faced the crowd.
"In the years of Ondoher, descendant of Elendil," he began, "the king's party was attacked by wild men, and the king and his two sons died in the ensuing fight. The crown then passed to Earnil, captain of the Southern Army, and on his death to his son Earnur. Earnur, if not for the interference of the Elf-lord Glorfindel, would have smote --"
"Now the right high Falastur will tell us of the death of Earnur, cousin, and the rise of the Stewards, of which Master Denethor is a descendant, and Miss Mellawen as well." The voice echoed from the back of the crowd, and everyone turned around to see Ioreth, who worked in the Houses of Healing, talking to some woman they didn't recognize as a native of Minas Tirith. Reluctantly they turned around to face Falastur, though they kept their ears trained on Ioreth.
People had begun to politely say she was a little old to still be serving the healers, yet she continued her work there. Her muscles were over-taut and her skin hung in flaps under her chin, and in other places, one would imagine, but she was always well-covered, even in the full heat of summer. She and her widowed sister lived together in the Fifth Circle, but Ioreth at least kept the low accent of those living in the First Circle. This made sense to those who knew her family: her father was a soldier who had proved valiant and as prize had chosen to marry one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Wife of the Steward at the time, Denethor's mother. So Ioreth and her sister were recently sprung from those ranks completely devoid of class.
"Mercy, but he likes to talk, don't he, cousin? I don't think those men he's naming took half as long to live as he does to talk of them. Well, you see that girl up there? Her name's Mellawen, and she's Denethor's daughter. And you see those boys there? Well, their blood's good enough, I reckon, but their manners -- did you know that until this very week, they'd never stepped foot inside this city? Of all the -- and they get to stand right up front in that High Circle and me, who's worked her whole life in the city, I'm stuck back here!"
The people, knowing Ioreth would be ranting for quite some time, turned their attention back to Falastur. Borlin stared attentively at Falastur, but Farlin dragged his boot through the dirt where he stood, spelling out his name, and Mellawen stifled a yawn. "For we are gathered here today," Falastur droned on, "to honour the memory of two of the House of the Stewards, and to mourn their passing. For Finduilas, wife of the Steward, has left our lord Denethor. And though fate took her before she could complete her great task of giving our lord the steward a son --"
"Well, I never! Cousin, don't you go thinking that all of us in the city are as uncouth as all that! Now this man's talking nothing but falsehoods . . . who's he talked to that gives him the right to say such things?"
"Denethor, I suppose," Ioreth's cousin answered.
"And as if one untimely death was not enough of a tragedy," Falastur continued, "the lord's brother died as well. Alas, he did not die defending, but in a river, far from all help and honour. Yet Calithor --"
"Arabor," someone muttered under his breath. It was Farlin. He had stopped drawing in the dirt and was looking straight at Falastur, a look of determination on his face. Denethor looked at him in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"
Farlin met his uncle's eyes. "My father's name was Arabor." Mellawen looked up at that; she was surprised that Borlin would allow her cousin to speak out of turn, but Borlin was not making any effort to constrain his brother's tongue.
Even the wind was still for what seemed like a very long time, and something glittered on the Steward's cheek. Was that a tear? The man who hadn't cried at the news of his own wife's passing, or of his brother's, was now crying at the mere mention of a name? But it appeared to be so.
"Now that boy," Ioreth commented, "hain't got no manners what I can see. They should keep folks out of the circle don't know when to be quiet." But Denethor looked at Farlin, walked over to him, bent down, and kissed him on the top of his head. Farlin looked up at his uncle, a grateful smile on his face. His uncle understood and would make everything right. Denethor turned to Falastur and affirmed, "My brother's name was Arabor."
Falastur didn't quite know how to handle this; he'd never heard the name before, since it hadn't been spoken in the city for years. He looked first to Farlin and Denethor, then to the steward's advisors just outside the circle. Perhaps this was some ill-timed joke? But the advisors looked just as confused as Falastur, and Denethor just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to proceed. He cast a last questioning glance to the minister of protocol, then moved ahead to the next part of his prepared speech.
"Yet regardless of how they fared in life, in death we remember them for who they were and are: members of an ancient house, last descendants of the noble men of Numenor. As such, we owe them all honour." Eight men, nobles from Denethor's courts stepped into the circle, and each stood at a corner of one of the two tables. They reached below the table surfaces and lifted the tops off the legs. Then those eight carried the biers out of the Pavilion and down Rath Dinen, the silent street, toward the ancient tombs.
No one spoke a word, not the eight carrying the biers or the family walking solemnly behind them, nor the other people in the procession. Each carried some offering, a loaf of bread, a piece of fruit, some small parcel of meat or a flask of wine. The eight carried the biers into the Steward's House, down the rows of enshrouded corpses from ancient years, to the tables beside Ecthelion and his wife. There they laid the bodies with their venerated family and came out again. Denethor then went in with his daughter and two nephews. They knelt in front of the bodies and laid boughs of evergreen at their sides. That tree came from Numenor, now under the sea but at one time the proud home of men, and even in these later days men who still remembered their ancient homeland often gave dead family members boughs of the precious trees to guide them to their home beyond death.
Denethor leaned toward his dead wife's ear and whispered, "Safe journey," then rose. Tears in his eyes, he stood by the door. At length Borlin also rose, his eyes downward-cast, and led Farlin over to the door. This was not the time for tears, Farlin knew, but he could not hold back the single drop now rolling down his cheek. Mellawen kneeled in front of her mother for a long time and in the end kissed her hand and exited the tomb with her family.
They stood together on one side of the entrance to the tomb as the people entered solemnly, offered their food to the deceased and left. Since this was their first visit to Rath Dinen, Mellawen, Borlin, and Farlin were intrigued by the ancient houses and monuments to great men now long dead. Most other people, though, having seen the street too many times, were anxious to leave. When everyone had presented their offering they walked back to the Pavilion of the White Tree. After every one had re-assembled and observed a respectful moment of silence, Falastur continued.
"Yet when a family member is lost, a family member is gained, so our sages say. Many times we cannot see this right away; it takes years for a marriage or birth to replace the lost ones. Today, however, we have an immediate answer. In the circle here we have Borlin and Farlin, the two sons of Cal -- Arabor. They lost both their parents in service to Gondor, their mother dying as their father served the realm, and their father as he preserved the Steward's Line by saving Mellawen from certain death. As repayment in part the Steward --"
Just then, Denethor stepped forward, quite unexpectedly. The quiet conversations that had wafted through the crowd stopped. Denethor held up his right hand for Falastur to stop, then motioned with his left hand for Borlin and Farlin to join him in the heart of the circle. When they stood before him Denethor continued. "My boys, children of my brother -- become my sons. Kneel." He drew his sword and touched the broad side to Borlin's shoulder. Borlin recoiled slightly at the feel of the cold sword but quickly righted his posture. "You, Borlin, I re-name Boromir. According to the customs of Minas Tirith you are past the age of schooling, and it is time for you to answer the call to service. I commit you to the Tower Guard where you will learn the art of war and service to your country. Yet, you are also a man, and I wish you to learn the true meaning of that. Several hours each week, as many as your captain may spare you, you will spend with your brother studying the history of your people."
Denethor then turned to Farlin. "But you, boys your age still study. One day you will help your brother in his task of preserving Gondor, and I wish you to learn such skills as you may some day find useful. Keeping accounts, languages spoke in far lands and the protocols of foreign courts. I name you Faramir."
Then a most unexpected thing happened. Borlin and Farlin arose Boromir and Faramir and stood behind their new father. Mellawen had been watching the ceremony and, as her new brothers rose, a curious look entered her eyes. She wanted to be like Boromir and Faramir. Before Denethor could turn to walk away Mellawen ran up and kneeled in front of him. "I too have a new name," she informed him. "My name is Finduilas."
A hush swept over the crowd and the air seemed unbearably thick for the few seconds before everyone began talking at once. One voice was heard above the others: "Now don't that beat all! That pugnacious girl, she knows better than that. She knows her name, of all things, it's been told her oft enough, I reckon . . ."
Ignoring the murmurs of the crowd, Mellawen looked up at her father, longing for him to recognise that she too was stepping into a new role. "Mellawen," he said at last, "lone flesh of my flesh, I would give you anything you asked, if I could. But what you ask is beyond even my power. The name Finduilas is -- it is taken from us. But it is still taken." Mellawen's eyes fell. Denethor paused for an interminable moment before he continued, "But I do have a new name for you. I dub you Mellamir." A wave of dismayed whispers swept through the crowd. But Mellamir -- that was a boy's name! "Yes," Denethor continued, "I know of your desire to learn Elvish, and where in all Gondor would I find a tutor to teach a girl such things? For I have no female kin here in Minas Tirith, and I will not send you to Dol Amroth. I -- I need you here. You and Faramir will learn together, just as Arabor and I did. I hope it turns out significantly better." He then turned to address the crowd. "Now, if there is nothing else --"
"There is one thing," Gandalf said, stepping forward. "This is truly a noteworthy day. The Steward has always wanted a son, but never in anyone's wildest dreams, least of all his," and at this he chuckled, slightly amused, "never did he expect to find three sons in one day. Such an occasion deserves a fitting celebration. Your Lord Denethor has provided much of the harvest in a feast for all who will join him in honouring his departed kin and welcoming these three new sons to his house. For my part, I shall provide fireworks."
The crowd erupted into a stifled cheer; true, this was a funeral, but Gandalf's fireworks were legendary and had not been seen in Minas Tirith for many years. In that whole crowd only two people looked less than pleased. Falastur looked quickly at the minister of protocol, begging for instructions on how to handle this intrusion, but the minister of protocol clearly did not know how to handle it any better himself and was countering with some difficulty his desire to cheer the fireworks. At last Falastur sighed and resigned himself to not being able to control this most unusual funeral.
Denethor also looked unhappy about the wizard's announcement; in fact, he looked livid. _How dare this wizard announce my feast?_ he thought furiously. _This has gone on long enough. If he won't recognize my authority, he'll just have to leave._ Denethor was about to tell Gandalf so, but the wizard was already kneeling down in front of Mellawen and removing a leather pouch from his girdle. As the rest of the city made their way toward the tables laden with fruit, loaves of bread, pies, and roasted meats, Mellawen opened the pouch. She looked up at Gandalf, an excited and questioning look in her eyes, as she pulled out a pipe not unlike Boromir's but much finer. It was made from first-rate mahogany wood and had a silver mouthpiece, intricately carves with letters of the Common Tongue, though no man of the South would recognize the words.
"Gandalf," Mellawen asked, "what's a . . . mathom . . . ?"
"Shhh. Now isn't the time for questions," he replied, looking over at Denethor. "This pipe was given to me by an old friend from a land far away, but you'd laugh to see him because he's shorter than your Falastur but twice as great, at least. And the leaf . . . well, that will take some explaining as well. Perhaps, some day. But before you're ready for that tale, you will have to learn many other things, if indeed you are ever ready. Yet I see a spark in your eyes, Mellamir -- yes, though I laugh, that name suits you well, my lady -- a spark that tells me someday you will know the truth. Hmmm, riddles and quandaries I never expected to find here. Puzzles best left for the light of day. Run along, my dear, and enjoy your feast." As Mellamir ran off to find her cousins, nay, her brothers, Gandalf faced Denethor. "Master Steward, a private word, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea," Denethor said through pressed lips, nodding furiously toward the gate.
Please see chapter one for full header.
Sept 2996; Pavilion of the White Tree, Minas Tirith
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next afternoon, Farlin came to have lunch with Mellawen and brought her a dress to wear to the funeral. At the eleventh hour, Halbarath, a palace servant, came for her and escorted her to the Pavilion of the White Tree. It was a chilly late September afternoon, the hour before dusk fell. Winter seemed finally to have found its teeth. The weather, however, had not stopped a large crowd from coming out, even the most finicky of old ladies; quite the contrary, they had shown up in uncommon abundance.
Two tables of the finest ash had been placed on either side of the White Tree, and on each table lay a body wrapped in a white shroud. Between them stood Denethor, the only surviving male member of the House of Denethor. Mellawen walked over and took her place beside him, now Lady of Gondor. When her mother died, Mellawen became the last female of the House of Denethor, and so the title passed on to her, young as she was. Off to the side stood Borlin and Farlin, the only surviving family of Arabor, the brother of the Steward. Borlin wore the garb of the Tower Guard, and Farlin wore a grey wool tunic on which had been embroidered the Emblem of the White Tree; a band of silver and mithril tied his long locks back into a loose pony-tail. Farlin smiled, looking down at his fine clothes; he looked like one of the princes his father had often told him of. But then he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder and stopped smiling; this was a serious occasion, and he should look like it.
Mellawen wore a fine black dress, but no one could see it: by orders of the Healers she was to be wrapped in a fur to protect her fragile lungs, so her father ordered a cloak be made from a warg's skin, killed a few weeks prior. She shivered to think of it; wargs were very fierce, and many hunters had been killed by them, she knew. And now she was wearing a skin from one of those feared beasts. The cloak dwarfed her, and the rough hairs rubbed against her raw cheeks. Denethor himself wore the black garb of one in mourning under his old raiment of the Tower Guard that he wore at all state functions.
This was a private family ceremony in many ways, but it was also an event that interested people besides just the family. According to the custom of the land, a youth of the city took a stick and drew a circle roughly ten paces from the White Tree. The family stood in the circle alone, while the rest of the people stayed outside of it. Mellawen looked first over to her cousins standing just inside the circle, then out at the growing crowd all around her, her eyes gleaming with excitement to see all the people dressed in their finery.
After a respectful moment of silence, a man named Falastur stepped forward. He was short for a Gondorian at just over five feet, with deep, long jet black hair slicked back with bear oil, and he wore a simple black cloak, a tunic similar to Farlin's, and grey cotton trousers. He looked directly at Denethor, then lowered his head and said, "With your leave, my lord." Denethor nodded, and the man stepped inside the circle and faced the crowd.
"In the years of Ondoher, descendant of Elendil," he began, "the king's party was attacked by wild men, and the king and his two sons died in the ensuing fight. The crown then passed to Earnil, captain of the Southern Army, and on his death to his son Earnur. Earnur, if not for the interference of the Elf-lord Glorfindel, would have smote --"
"Now the right high Falastur will tell us of the death of Earnur, cousin, and the rise of the Stewards, of which Master Denethor is a descendant, and Miss Mellawen as well." The voice echoed from the back of the crowd, and everyone turned around to see Ioreth, who worked in the Houses of Healing, talking to some woman they didn't recognize as a native of Minas Tirith. Reluctantly they turned around to face Falastur, though they kept their ears trained on Ioreth.
People had begun to politely say she was a little old to still be serving the healers, yet she continued her work there. Her muscles were over-taut and her skin hung in flaps under her chin, and in other places, one would imagine, but she was always well-covered, even in the full heat of summer. She and her widowed sister lived together in the Fifth Circle, but Ioreth at least kept the low accent of those living in the First Circle. This made sense to those who knew her family: her father was a soldier who had proved valiant and as prize had chosen to marry one of the ladies-in-waiting to the Wife of the Steward at the time, Denethor's mother. So Ioreth and her sister were recently sprung from those ranks completely devoid of class.
"Mercy, but he likes to talk, don't he, cousin? I don't think those men he's naming took half as long to live as he does to talk of them. Well, you see that girl up there? Her name's Mellawen, and she's Denethor's daughter. And you see those boys there? Well, their blood's good enough, I reckon, but their manners -- did you know that until this very week, they'd never stepped foot inside this city? Of all the -- and they get to stand right up front in that High Circle and me, who's worked her whole life in the city, I'm stuck back here!"
The people, knowing Ioreth would be ranting for quite some time, turned their attention back to Falastur. Borlin stared attentively at Falastur, but Farlin dragged his boot through the dirt where he stood, spelling out his name, and Mellawen stifled a yawn. "For we are gathered here today," Falastur droned on, "to honour the memory of two of the House of the Stewards, and to mourn their passing. For Finduilas, wife of the Steward, has left our lord Denethor. And though fate took her before she could complete her great task of giving our lord the steward a son --"
"Well, I never! Cousin, don't you go thinking that all of us in the city are as uncouth as all that! Now this man's talking nothing but falsehoods . . . who's he talked to that gives him the right to say such things?"
"Denethor, I suppose," Ioreth's cousin answered.
"And as if one untimely death was not enough of a tragedy," Falastur continued, "the lord's brother died as well. Alas, he did not die defending, but in a river, far from all help and honour. Yet Calithor --"
"Arabor," someone muttered under his breath. It was Farlin. He had stopped drawing in the dirt and was looking straight at Falastur, a look of determination on his face. Denethor looked at him in disbelief and asked, "What did you say?"
Farlin met his uncle's eyes. "My father's name was Arabor." Mellawen looked up at that; she was surprised that Borlin would allow her cousin to speak out of turn, but Borlin was not making any effort to constrain his brother's tongue.
Even the wind was still for what seemed like a very long time, and something glittered on the Steward's cheek. Was that a tear? The man who hadn't cried at the news of his own wife's passing, or of his brother's, was now crying at the mere mention of a name? But it appeared to be so.
"Now that boy," Ioreth commented, "hain't got no manners what I can see. They should keep folks out of the circle don't know when to be quiet." But Denethor looked at Farlin, walked over to him, bent down, and kissed him on the top of his head. Farlin looked up at his uncle, a grateful smile on his face. His uncle understood and would make everything right. Denethor turned to Falastur and affirmed, "My brother's name was Arabor."
Falastur didn't quite know how to handle this; he'd never heard the name before, since it hadn't been spoken in the city for years. He looked first to Farlin and Denethor, then to the steward's advisors just outside the circle. Perhaps this was some ill-timed joke? But the advisors looked just as confused as Falastur, and Denethor just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to proceed. He cast a last questioning glance to the minister of protocol, then moved ahead to the next part of his prepared speech.
"Yet regardless of how they fared in life, in death we remember them for who they were and are: members of an ancient house, last descendants of the noble men of Numenor. As such, we owe them all honour." Eight men, nobles from Denethor's courts stepped into the circle, and each stood at a corner of one of the two tables. They reached below the table surfaces and lifted the tops off the legs. Then those eight carried the biers out of the Pavilion and down Rath Dinen, the silent street, toward the ancient tombs.
No one spoke a word, not the eight carrying the biers or the family walking solemnly behind them, nor the other people in the procession. Each carried some offering, a loaf of bread, a piece of fruit, some small parcel of meat or a flask of wine. The eight carried the biers into the Steward's House, down the rows of enshrouded corpses from ancient years, to the tables beside Ecthelion and his wife. There they laid the bodies with their venerated family and came out again. Denethor then went in with his daughter and two nephews. They knelt in front of the bodies and laid boughs of evergreen at their sides. That tree came from Numenor, now under the sea but at one time the proud home of men, and even in these later days men who still remembered their ancient homeland often gave dead family members boughs of the precious trees to guide them to their home beyond death.
Denethor leaned toward his dead wife's ear and whispered, "Safe journey," then rose. Tears in his eyes, he stood by the door. At length Borlin also rose, his eyes downward-cast, and led Farlin over to the door. This was not the time for tears, Farlin knew, but he could not hold back the single drop now rolling down his cheek. Mellawen kneeled in front of her mother for a long time and in the end kissed her hand and exited the tomb with her family.
They stood together on one side of the entrance to the tomb as the people entered solemnly, offered their food to the deceased and left. Since this was their first visit to Rath Dinen, Mellawen, Borlin, and Farlin were intrigued by the ancient houses and monuments to great men now long dead. Most other people, though, having seen the street too many times, were anxious to leave. When everyone had presented their offering they walked back to the Pavilion of the White Tree. After every one had re-assembled and observed a respectful moment of silence, Falastur continued.
"Yet when a family member is lost, a family member is gained, so our sages say. Many times we cannot see this right away; it takes years for a marriage or birth to replace the lost ones. Today, however, we have an immediate answer. In the circle here we have Borlin and Farlin, the two sons of Cal -- Arabor. They lost both their parents in service to Gondor, their mother dying as their father served the realm, and their father as he preserved the Steward's Line by saving Mellawen from certain death. As repayment in part the Steward --"
Just then, Denethor stepped forward, quite unexpectedly. The quiet conversations that had wafted through the crowd stopped. Denethor held up his right hand for Falastur to stop, then motioned with his left hand for Borlin and Farlin to join him in the heart of the circle. When they stood before him Denethor continued. "My boys, children of my brother -- become my sons. Kneel." He drew his sword and touched the broad side to Borlin's shoulder. Borlin recoiled slightly at the feel of the cold sword but quickly righted his posture. "You, Borlin, I re-name Boromir. According to the customs of Minas Tirith you are past the age of schooling, and it is time for you to answer the call to service. I commit you to the Tower Guard where you will learn the art of war and service to your country. Yet, you are also a man, and I wish you to learn the true meaning of that. Several hours each week, as many as your captain may spare you, you will spend with your brother studying the history of your people."
Denethor then turned to Farlin. "But you, boys your age still study. One day you will help your brother in his task of preserving Gondor, and I wish you to learn such skills as you may some day find useful. Keeping accounts, languages spoke in far lands and the protocols of foreign courts. I name you Faramir."
Then a most unexpected thing happened. Borlin and Farlin arose Boromir and Faramir and stood behind their new father. Mellawen had been watching the ceremony and, as her new brothers rose, a curious look entered her eyes. She wanted to be like Boromir and Faramir. Before Denethor could turn to walk away Mellawen ran up and kneeled in front of him. "I too have a new name," she informed him. "My name is Finduilas."
A hush swept over the crowd and the air seemed unbearably thick for the few seconds before everyone began talking at once. One voice was heard above the others: "Now don't that beat all! That pugnacious girl, she knows better than that. She knows her name, of all things, it's been told her oft enough, I reckon . . ."
Ignoring the murmurs of the crowd, Mellawen looked up at her father, longing for him to recognise that she too was stepping into a new role. "Mellawen," he said at last, "lone flesh of my flesh, I would give you anything you asked, if I could. But what you ask is beyond even my power. The name Finduilas is -- it is taken from us. But it is still taken." Mellawen's eyes fell. Denethor paused for an interminable moment before he continued, "But I do have a new name for you. I dub you Mellamir." A wave of dismayed whispers swept through the crowd. But Mellamir -- that was a boy's name! "Yes," Denethor continued, "I know of your desire to learn Elvish, and where in all Gondor would I find a tutor to teach a girl such things? For I have no female kin here in Minas Tirith, and I will not send you to Dol Amroth. I -- I need you here. You and Faramir will learn together, just as Arabor and I did. I hope it turns out significantly better." He then turned to address the crowd. "Now, if there is nothing else --"
"There is one thing," Gandalf said, stepping forward. "This is truly a noteworthy day. The Steward has always wanted a son, but never in anyone's wildest dreams, least of all his," and at this he chuckled, slightly amused, "never did he expect to find three sons in one day. Such an occasion deserves a fitting celebration. Your Lord Denethor has provided much of the harvest in a feast for all who will join him in honouring his departed kin and welcoming these three new sons to his house. For my part, I shall provide fireworks."
The crowd erupted into a stifled cheer; true, this was a funeral, but Gandalf's fireworks were legendary and had not been seen in Minas Tirith for many years. In that whole crowd only two people looked less than pleased. Falastur looked quickly at the minister of protocol, begging for instructions on how to handle this intrusion, but the minister of protocol clearly did not know how to handle it any better himself and was countering with some difficulty his desire to cheer the fireworks. At last Falastur sighed and resigned himself to not being able to control this most unusual funeral.
Denethor also looked unhappy about the wizard's announcement; in fact, he looked livid. _How dare this wizard announce my feast?_ he thought furiously. _This has gone on long enough. If he won't recognize my authority, he'll just have to leave._ Denethor was about to tell Gandalf so, but the wizard was already kneeling down in front of Mellawen and removing a leather pouch from his girdle. As the rest of the city made their way toward the tables laden with fruit, loaves of bread, pies, and roasted meats, Mellawen opened the pouch. She looked up at Gandalf, an excited and questioning look in her eyes, as she pulled out a pipe not unlike Boromir's but much finer. It was made from first-rate mahogany wood and had a silver mouthpiece, intricately carves with letters of the Common Tongue, though no man of the South would recognize the words.
"Gandalf," Mellawen asked, "what's a . . . mathom . . . ?"
"Shhh. Now isn't the time for questions," he replied, looking over at Denethor. "This pipe was given to me by an old friend from a land far away, but you'd laugh to see him because he's shorter than your Falastur but twice as great, at least. And the leaf . . . well, that will take some explaining as well. Perhaps, some day. But before you're ready for that tale, you will have to learn many other things, if indeed you are ever ready. Yet I see a spark in your eyes, Mellamir -- yes, though I laugh, that name suits you well, my lady -- a spark that tells me someday you will know the truth. Hmmm, riddles and quandaries I never expected to find here. Puzzles best left for the light of day. Run along, my dear, and enjoy your feast." As Mellamir ran off to find her cousins, nay, her brothers, Gandalf faced Denethor. "Master Steward, a private word, perhaps?"
"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea," Denethor said through pressed lips, nodding furiously toward the gate.