The Secret of the Lost

by Miss Eureka Destiny

The classic girl-winds-up-in-Middle Earth fic as you've never heard it before. Unbeknownst to Middle Earth, on the other side of Arda, is secretly a "modern" country, complete with electricity and 21rst century culture. CHAPTER 3 UP.

2. Mirathil of Gondor

Author's Notes: O.K. Here we go. The real beginning.

Anyway, about this chapter: This first chapter may be a little different from what you were expecting after reading the prologue. But don't worry, this is going to be a long, long story. Pumped up for the shock effect of Middle Earth culture clashing with ours and exciting action? Don't worry, it's coming. I have just about a chapter-by-chapter outline for this fic; and in this chapter, I'm starting to set up what I think is a really neat idea for the plot.

Incidentally: This is NOT a Mary-Sue--really, I promise. It may seem to some as though it has some Mary-Sue elements right now, but this is why: A fair part of this story is going to be a mystery-so I'm setting up some strange and unusual things that will slowly be explained in later chapters. It's NOT going to be a silly little magical or romantic fling of overdone anomalies for one character or a fawning romance. This is a pretty serious, and later on, intensely themed, story-hence, the PG-13 rating.

O.K., so that said…Thank you for reading and reviewing; I talk to reviewers in the ending Author's Notes. And the preview for the next chapter is posted right before that. Also, I try to update every 1-2 weeks.

Miss) E.D.

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I

The moon hung low over Minas Tirith, its ivory rays softly reflecting off the white stone of the enormous city to create an eerily dazzling effect. All the shadowed streets lay empty and silent under the glittering night sky, their paved cobble stone relaxing from the busy patter of feet which had trampled over its surface only a few hours earlier. From within every small, stony house, set closely between two other nearly identical ones, no light dimmed, no faint sound echoed-except from one.

Through the narrow, open window of a small apartment on the third circular level, an unbroken strain of agonized cries was loudly piercing the night. After having flung open the faded wooden shutters, a tall dark haired man, his face pale with worry, rushed back to the side of the bed. "Do you feel the cool air? A breeze is coming in through the window now, Ilweth. Be strong, my Lady-it is almost past. Only a little longer…" Gently, he brushed back the sweaty light-brown locks of the woman lying on the low bed, straining with agony beneath her largely swollen stomach.

A slightly older woman shooed the nervous man aside. "You menfolk are nigh useless when it comes to bearing children," she spoke evenly, dabbing at the struggling woman's sweaty brow with a cool, damp cloth. "A drifting breeze does little to ease the pain of mothering, Eldoran. A maiden must simply endure her duty."

With a concerned countenance, the dark haired man gazed down at his wife. "Is the child nearly come, Mabril?" he asked.

"It is," the woman replied, kneeling beside the bed. "My firstborn came as such…yes," she spoke up quickly. "I can see the child, my Lord. Ilweth, do not cease to breathe! Spread your legs, wide apart; now push, Ilweth."

With excruciating effort, the ruddy woman on the bed did as she was told. Releasing a painful gasp, she forcefully began to contract her hips. As the seconds crawled by, a tortured scream ripped from her throat.

"I can nigh lay hands on the babe, Ilweth," encouraged the crouching woman. "Strive once more."

Her face crunched with strain, the pregnant woman pushed with all her might a final time-and then, suddenly, a shrill cry broke across the dim room. "It is over, Ilweth," smiled the midwife, slowly rising to her feet, a tiny, blood stained bundle in her arms. "You did well. Here-here is your child."

The woman's face lit up with a glow of purest joy, her taxed body wearily sinking into relaxation after the exhaustion of the difficult labor. "My child," she breathed softly. "Look, my Lord, it is our firstborn!" she weakly cried in excitement.

The man eagerly rushed upon the midwife. "What be it, Mabril?" he anxiously asked.

"It is a daughter," the woman calmly answered. "And what a beautiful babe she is-she will be a fair maiden someday," she smiled.

"Let me see her," cried the mother eagerly.

"Now, now, hold a moment, my Lord and Lady," the midwife spoke evenly, taking up some cloths. "She needs washing. I'll wrap her in this-a bit odd, this child of yours," she suddenly wondered, gazing down at her. "She bears neither of your likenesses-your daughter's hair is of gold."

"Gold?" puzzled the mother tiredly. "Do your eyes mislead you? Golden hair is not of either of our lines."

"Perhaps not, yet gold it is, nigh well white," replied the midwife, as she cleaned the blood from the infant's delicate skin.

The weary mother tilted her head, slowly blinking in curiosity. "What color are her eyes, Mabril? Are they such as mine or Eldoran's?"

"Her eyes still lay closed," answered the composed woman, wrapping the passive baby in a large grey cloth. "Let me try-oh stay, she's opening them. Oh, how swee-

The fondling woman suddenly ceased her affections, her face losing its placid expression of familiarity as its color grew pale. With widened eyes, the midwife nearly dropped the newborn as she let out a startled gasp. Her hands quivering, she brokenly faltered: "What…"

His face struck with worry, the father anxiously rushed to the midwife's side. "What is wrong?" he demanded fearfully. Upon throwing his nervous glance down upon the infant in her arms, however, the frantic man was also abruptly halted in speech and motion.

Her face grown white in alarm, the resting mother reeled up from the bed and nearly shouted at the two pallid, paralyzed people staring down at her child. "What is wrong?!" she cried. "What is wrong with her eyes?! Is she hurt?! Is my daughter hurt?!"

The two staring people made no answer, no singular responsive glance. With a desperate motion, the panicking mother tried to rise up onto her feet. "Answer me!" she tearfully pleaded. "What is wrong with my daughter?"

Finally snapping back to awareness, the midwife looked up at the frantic mother. "Ilweth, do not stand up!" she firmly verbalized. "It is well; nothing ails your child."

Unconvinced, the worried mother continued her attempt to reach her baby. "It is not well!" she cried. "Your faces speak ill!"

"Here, Ilweth, behold the child for yourself-but see if you are not taken aback for a spell," the woman spoke grimly, walking from the foot of the bed to hand the infant to its mother.

With a fearful countenance, the brown haired woman quickly snatched the bundled baby out of the midwife's arms. Wildly throwing her gaze down upon her daughter's tiny face, however, the frantic mother was instantly rendered mutely motionless. After a small space, she finally broke her silence. "What trick of sorcery is this?" she tremulously whispered.

Coming to her side, her husband gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "I know not if it be sorcery, my Lady," he spoke. "But my heart loves this child; and this strangeness it rejoices in as a gift all her own."

"My Lord, it must be sorcery!" his wife insisted in alarm. "How can you look upon this sight with calm countenance? No such eyes belong to this world, whether to Men or to Elves!"

The lady spoke not over concernedly-staring curiously up at her, out of a tiny, pallid face, were two saucer-like purple eyes, their large irises randomly flecked with little dots of subtle silver highlights. In themselves, the enormous, starry violet orbs were beautiful to the point of being breathtaking; but overall, however, set in the child's small ivory face, their appearance inspired an effect more unnerving than attractive.

With a worried breath, the mother spoke. "Surely, something is greatly wrong; some bewitchment lies over this house. It is not possible for mortal child to come into this world with such a strangeness, when not even the Firstborn bear the like! My daughter has been enchanted, by a power perhaps evil! A curse may come upon this house."

"Do not fear so, Ilweth," tried the older woman, though hesitantly. "Some there are who bear eyes of such shade-once I did see a lady of Rhun whose eyes were of deep violet-"

"Violet?! 'Tis a mixed color of lavender and blue!" the mother fretfully exclaimed. "Canst thou not see, Mabril? Not the faintest hint of blue is there in these unnatural orbs! Their shade is purple, purple as a queen's robe! If thou namest them violet, thou speakest not in thought of the said eye hue, but of the violet blossom itself! And what shall explain these bright specks of silver which lay scattered throughout their space? They verily shimmer as the sparkling gems of diamonds! How canst thou not see the magic which must surely be at work here?"

Unpossessed of an answer, the midwife merely paled again and stared at the worried mother in helpless silence. The father, however, spoke firmly up. "Ilweth, I know not if a spell hang over this child as thou sayest; but one thing is certain-she is our firstborn, and to care for her is our duty, whether she carry a curse about her or no. Perhaps, this uncommon strangeness is the work of a high magic; perhaps, it is a sign of her unforeseen significance within this world. Nonetheless, be this the proclamation of a high doom or a mere strange whim of nature, she will suffer no grief of fear or exclusion within the walls of her own home. Our daughter will be at the least to us as any other brown or blue-eyed maid that dwell in Minas Tirith. She deserves this much from her own kin-to be uncursed from birth as a herald of sorcery and doom," he finished authoritatively.

With a slow swallow, the mother looked back down upon the weirdly startling gaze of her newborn daughter. Drawing a breath, she made soft answer. "You speak well, my Lord. I would take back my earlier words. I do not look upon this child as a doom. Yet all the same, my heart fears still-what be the secret meaning or purpose of this? It has not been seen before, this marvel-not as is known to Men."

"Truly spoken," assented her husband. "Yet fear not too greatly, Ilweth. It is at the least far from an unsightly marvel. The child's eyes are wondrous fair, even in their strangeness, once the startle of them has passed. We all three stood struck dumb by their spectacle-canst thou envision what havoc they will play with the hearts of the young lads of the city when their proud owner is grown to maidenhood?" he smiled.

That merry thought temporarily absolving her disquiet, the mother beamed down at the baby in her arms and spoke proudly. "She will be the fairest maid in Minas Tirith-my daughter, the damsel of the hair of the sun and the eyes of the violet."

With a laugh, her husband squeezed her hand. "Perhaps, Ilweth; she is a most fair babe."

"Yes," agreed the mother rapturously. "Yes, she is most fair…my Lord-we must give her a name," she suddenly realized.

"Indeed, you speak rightly, Ilweth," the man started. "What name would well befit her?"

"It must be an uncommon title and a lovely one, to match her person," the woman stipulated. Gazing down at her infant's large, violet eyes, she slowly pondered. As the child shifted its curious gaze to its father, the exquisite myriad of tiny silver highlights within its eyes caught and faintly reflected the soft shimmer of the moonlight streaming through the open window. Her breath catching in her throat, the mother slightly shivered at the unnatural spectacle. "An eerie sight, that," she murmured, still not entirely with pleasure. "Like the stars themselves-or a hoard of diamonds. Sparkling gems of silver in her eyes…" All at once, the musing mother abruptly started. "My Lord, what of that to be her name? 'Thil' bears the meaning of silver light, and 'mir' speaks of jewels. Her name should be Thilmir!" she exclaimed with delight.

The father slowly pondered. "I do not fancy the sound of that name," he finally spoke. "Let the name be turned about; call her 'Mirthil', instead."

For a moment, the woman thoughtfully considered that choice; then, she frowned. "My ears do not fancy the sound of Mirthil," she spoke. "The name is lacking of something-it needs of some final adornment."

With a blink, the midwife all at once chimed in. "Mirathil," she stated, almost to herself.

Both parents looked up. "What say you?" inquired the mother.

The midwife wonderingly met their gazes. "Mirathil," she repeated, a light suddenly dawning in her face. "It adds thy final fair adornment; and never before have I heard it spoken as a name for any other maid."

The father immediately frowned. "The Elvish root is 'mir', not 'mira', Mabril. 'Mirathil' is not a true name."

"With the fame her strange eyes shall surely bring, she can easily make it a true name, Eldoran," insisted the midwife. "It is a title both lovely and unshared by any other-flawlessly befitting of your daughter.

The man shook his head. "It is not a true name," he persisted. "We can not bestow it as though it is."

"Oh, Eldoran-

"Mabril, you are a midwife, not the child's mother," the man interjected firmly. Ignoring the glumness of the woman's face, he turned his head to his wife. "What other name doth come to your mind, Ilweth?" he asked her.

The reclining woman made no answer, however, lost in thoughtful pondering. "Mirathil," she softly murmured.

Abruptly, her husband started. "Oh, Ilweth, I pray you-

"Mirathil!" she interjected brightly. "Oh, Eldoran, my ears and heart love the sound of that name! My thanks, Mabril! It is perfect for her!"

The midwife beamed as the distraught man fervently protested. " 'Mirathil', in despite of its loveliness and its befitment, is not a true name, my Lady! Would you have her mocked for her title?"

"Some may mock, but I believe that Mabril speaks truly," declared the elated woman. "The uncommonness of her eyes' beauty will win her name's approval; and if it doth not, my heart still will love and desire the name that she bears. Verily, it is a perfect choice," she whispered.

With a defeated sigh, the man gave in to his wife. "Very well, my Lady, her name shall be as you say. I can not live with your despondence if your heart is denied its wish in this matter. Nonetheless, I hold the choice to be absurd."

"Oh, Eldoran, cheer thyself, in the name of the Valar!" the midwife spoke in annoyance, as she gathered up the cloths and bowl of water she had used to wash the infant, casting a warm sidewise glance at the enraptured woman affectionately doting on her child. "It is a strange and beautiful name, fashioned to be held by only your daughter. And a slight error of Elvish roots is scarce even noticeable by most in these days."

"Yes," the man reluctantly agreed, after a moment's silence. "I see that you do speak truly; Ilweth, sure are you that you will remain pleased by this name even if it doth not come to meet with approval?"

"Yes," his wife assured him, fondling her child. "Yet will I be glad in my choice of it, my Lord, have no worry."

With a warm smile, her husband crossed to her side. He knew his wife; if she spoke that she would never regret a thing, then it was so. Tenderly, he gazed down at the beautiful baby, whose bizarre eyes were now shut in sleep. Lovely as they were, to a small degree, the release from the overpowering sight of them was relieving. With a breath, the awestruck man whispered to his wife. "She is so beautiful, Ilweth."

"Yes," breathed the glowing woman rapturously. "Our daughter is the most beautiful babe in all the world. Little Mirathil," she sighed lovingly.

Her husband smiled, his eyes aglow with love and pride. "Mirathil…It is not such a foolish name after all, is it?" he finally admitted.

"No," his wife laughed softly. "No, it isn't. My pretty little Mirathil."

With a smile, the midwife finished her tidying of the room, and left the beaming couple to themselves. Stepping out into the cool night, she cast a long glance upward at the sparkling stars adorning the ebony sky, remembering the similar jewels of silver which faintly glistened within the eyes of her friend's child and had given rise to her unique and beautiful name. Even more vivid in her mind, however, was the indelible branding on her memory of the child's exquisitely unnatural purple shade of eye color. Never before in her life had she beheld anything so strikingly lovely, as simultaneously eerie as it was. With a soft murmur, the musing woman thoughtfully reflected upon the strangely beautiful infant girl. "Purple-eyed Mirathil."

II

With an enraptured smile, the two-year-old girl softly caressed the blue and white petals of the bunch of wildflowers which stood in the little brown mug on the little brown table that she leaned over, wobbly perched upon a tall wooden chair. Releasing a contented sigh, the little girl leaned down and tenderly kissed the fragrant blossoms, her pale golden curls falling past her lowered cheek to obscure her face.

"Mirathil," a moderately stern voice slowly called to her.

With a flustered start, the dreamy child awoke from her pleasant reverie and lifted her head up from the mug's lovely floral arrangement. Blinking, she turned around atop the high wooden chair to face the party which had addressed her.

Eyeing her authoritatively, her mother crossed her arms. "What have I told you about standing on that chair?" she reminded seriously.

Her large purple eyes widening, the little girl carefully climbed down as fast as she could. Then, she scurried over to her mother, her grey dress softly rustling on the wooden floor. Hugging the folds of her mother's dress, she spoke in a high, apologetic tone. "I'm sorry, Mama; I can not remember."

With a helpless smile, the woman lost her disciplinary countenance and reached down to pat her daughter's silky golden head. "It is all right, Mirathil; but if you forget again, I will have to punish you a little. You must remember; it is dangerous for you to stand on that chair. You are very young, and you may fall off and hurt yourself."

"I know," the little girl replied in her high, clear tone. "But I forgot when I saw them."

"Yes, you saw the flowers," her mother smiled. "They are very fair, are they not, Mirathil?"

"Yes! I am glad he gave them to me!" the child giggled, burying her face in her mother's dress.

Blinking, Ilweth knelt down and gently tilted her daughter's face up to hers. The child's enormous purple eyes happily glanced up at her, their scattered silver highlights all asparkle. The mother tilted her head in confusion. "What mean you, Mirathil?" she asked.

"I like the flowers," her child replied. "When he gave them to me, it made me happy."

For a moment, Ilweth looked at Mirathil with a puzzled expression; then she smiled and playfully messed up her daughter's curly hair. "Oh, Mirathil, you teasing child! You know that I put the flowers on the table this morning," she laughed.

Mirathil laughed with her. "I saw you put them there," she told her.

"Yes, Child," the mother smiled, kissing her daughter's forehead. "So why do you tease that someone gave them to you? You know, you should not lie."

Mirathil smiled. "I never lie, Mama; I meant the other flowers," she stated.

Ilweth blinked. "What?" she asked.

"He did not give me your flowers," the little girl explained. "He gave me the other flowers that looked like yours."

Ilweth started. "Who gave you flowers, Mirathil?"

"I do not know," the little girl answered. "But he smiled at me."

"When did he give them to you?" questioned her mother.

"When I looked at your flowers," Mirathil replied. "I liked them on the table; and then, he smiled at me and gave me the same flowers as yours. And I was so happy, I climbed onto the chair to touch them."

"Where did you put the flowers, Mirathil?" Ilweth asked her.

Mirathil blinked; then, she pointed over to the table. "You put the flowers there, Mama," she told her.

"I know; Mirathil, show me where you put the flowers you were given," explained her mother.

Mirathil looked at her, puzzled. "Mama, he did not give them to me," she said.

Ilweth blinked. "Mirathil, you told me how someone gave you flowers," she reminded her.

Mirathil nodded. "I know, he did." She said no more.

Ilweth looked at her in confusion. "Then, where are they?" she asked.

"I do not have them," Mirathil answered her, also seemingly confused.

"Did you lose them?" her mother inquired.

Mirathil blinked, shaking her head. "No…he never gave them to me," she replied.

Ilweth's face became stern. "Mirathil, you make no sense. You are lying; stop teasing and speak the truth," she ordered.

Mirathil looked back at her blankly. "I never lie, Mama," she said.

"You are lying, Mirathil," Ilweth told her. "You told me that someone gave you flowers, and then you told me that you never were given any flowers; you are telling two tales. That is a lie."

Mirathil insistently shook her head. "He gave me the flowers, Mama. I was looking at the flowers on the table; and then I saw him and he gave the same flowers to me. So I climbed the chair because then I liked them more. But no one gave me flowers; I do not have them…but I do need to find that stone," she said.

Ilweth was both bemuddled and exasperated. "Mirathil, you are speaking lies," she spoke disappointedly. "Sit down in the corner; you can not play for the rest of the day."

Mirathil blinked in confusion. "But, Mama-

"Go," the mother ordered, turning her around in the direction of the corner by the fireplace. "I must teach you not to speak lies, Mirathil."

"I never lie, Mama!" Mirathil protested.

"Do not speak anymore," her mother spoke sternly. "You are lying now. Go to the corner and sit down; and do not move until I tell you you may."

With a puzzled expression, the little girl slowly crossed the room to the dusty corner and sat down. She looked back at her mother, but she had risen and turned away, beginning to sweep the floor. Blinking sadly, Mirathil pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on the coarse grey fabric of her dress. She never lied; why did Mama say that she did? She had told her what had happened; why could she not understand? Oh, never mind. Averting her large violet eyes to the wall, Mirathil began to daydream. Sitting still wasn't a punishment for her; all she had to do to pass the long day was to entertain the delightful fancies of her own imagination. And so, until her mother finally called her out of her corner for dinner, she did, never growing dull for a moment.

III

Even as Ilweth herself had done at her birth, there were those who upon beholding the unnatural eyes of Mirathil's face, paled in fear or at least apprehension and whispered among themselves that a strange bewitchment lay over the child of Eldoran and Ilweth. The distinct peculiarity of Mirathil's temperament and demeanor did not help in this matter; for although Mirathil was by no means a naughty child or even a mischievous one, she did possess in exceeding quantities odd and unusual mannerisms. Whereas other children, after a considerable time of observation, could have their general natures analyzed and comprehended, Mirathil seemed to be an unending, ever-expanding enigma. Even Ilweth herself, the girl's own mother, had at last wearily remarked to her husband that she was nearly at her wit's end in attempting to understand the child. Whatever one supposed that she would say or do in a certain situation, one was nearly always wrong; and regardless of observing her day in and day out in the purpose of learning her nature to the extent of being able to accurately predict her reaction in a given environment, when the test came, the girl would unfailingly react in a manner completely unforeseen by even those who knew her best-so much so, that sometimes, even those who were close to her and could say that they "knew her best" would wonder whether it were possible that any could know her at all. Indeed, there were some who whispered among themselves that Mirathil had truly had some mysterious spell laid upon her at birth, by Elvish sorcery or some other such inscrutable art, whereby she had come by such strange eyes and nature.

But, despite the general confusion that the oddity of her being created in those around her, Mirathil was often yet well liked; for she had such a joy in her countenance and gentleness in her bearing that people could often not help but smile upon her, amidst their doubt and apprehension. And, of course, the adorable charm of her beauty served to aid in this matter, as among most it always will.

Yet a few there were among Eldoran and Ilweth's peers who, notwithstanding her good characteristics, did not approve of their unearthly daughter; and one of these was their neighbor Morwen. Morwen was the wife of a man called Angon, who lived directly left to the house of Eldoran and Ilweth. It could be said of her that the only thing of herself darker than her long flowing tresses was her mistrust of anything which she deemed too great of a deviation from general normality to be acceptable; and Mirathil, with her eyes and her demeanor, was about the greatest and, in her opinion, the most unacceptable, deviation from general normality that she had ever encountered. Yet, Morwen held with Ilweth what for lack of a better word might be termed a friendship of sorts; thus, did she strive to tolerate Mirathil, though oftentimes, in beholding the child staring at her with her enormous purple eyes, she would secretly suppress a shudder, wishing that the girl might turn her unnatural gaze elsewhere.

At any rate, however, like her friend Ilweth, Morwen herself was also gifted with a daughter-a five year old girl whom she had named Finiel. Now Finiel, as was rapidly becoming known to the people of Minas Tirith's third level, was very like to her mother in her apprehension of things unnatural or uncommon to her experience; yet, unlike her mother, this sentiment was tempered by a possessed streak of curiosity. Thus, though Finiel was a bit unnerved by the daughter of her neighbors, the young girl strongly desired to play with Mirathil, to watch and see the strange things that everyone said she would do.

Thereby did she constantly beg her mother on this matter; and though Morwen was at first ill-disposed to the notion, in the end she yielded-at the final prompting of her husband who opinioned that she was irrationally suspicious of a mere two year old girl, who was the daughter of their neighbors and their friends, for the sake of the Valar! And so, Finiel at last received her wish; on a certain day, Mirathil was invited to play at the house of Angon and Morwen.

With great cheerfulness did she arrive, for she loved the promise of fun; and Finiel, she soon decided, was a worthy companion. Indeed, being remarkably intelligent for her age, Mirathil had soon found that she grew rather bored in trying to play with the two year old children of her own age; thus, in the more mature company of five year old Finiel, she was refreshed and stimulated.

Finiel, for her part, was not stimulated in the companionship of Mirathil so much by friendship as by a kind of curious fascination. The little purple-eyed girl who consistently lost herself in a state of daydreams or spoke some queer, nonsensical thing which caused her mother to grimace in annoyance was a subject of most intense interest to young, inquisitive Finiel. And upon interacting with her, Finiel found that the adults of her parents' circle had spoken truly; Mirathil was indeed in every way completely unpredictable, even to the degree that it could verily become annoying.

One day, as the two girls were playing on her mother's bed, Finiel made a grave announcement concerning her future. "When I am grown, I will have seven children-four daughters and three sons. My sons will be great warriors, and my daughters will be fair maidens, each with raven black hair, such as my mother's." As she spoke, her blue-green eyes lit up with a keen pride.

Tilting her golden head, Mirathil blinked at her companion. "No, you will not," she said.

Finiel glanced at her in surprise. "Yes, I will," she reiterated. "Why do you say that I will not?"

Mirathil began idly twirling one of her golden curls around her finger. "I know you will not," she answered evenly.

"How do you know?" Finiel questioned.

"You have two sons," replied Mirathil. "And one of them is a soldier, but the other is a carpenter. And you have one daughter; she is a fair maiden, but her hair is brown, not black. I am happy for you!" Mirathil suddenly exclaimed, reaching over to hug her friend.

Finiel, however, drew away in annoyance. "Mirathil, you can not know what my children will be," she spoke condescendingly. "Stop speaking so childishly."

Mirathil blinked. "But I know, Finiel," she insisted.

"How?" the five year old asked her.

"I saw your children-well, I think they are your children because they were talking to someone, and they spoke that their mother was Finiel," Mirathil mused.

Finiel flipped a lock of her brown hair back in annoyance. "Mirathil, you did not see my children. They are not born yet," she spoke.

"I saw them," Mirathil insisted.

Finiel crossed her arms in irritation. "You did not see anyone; there is no one in this room but us," she stated practically.

Mirathil nodded. "I know; but I saw them," she repeated.

Aroused to aggravation, Finiel lashed out at her two year old companion. "Mirathil, you are a liar!"

"I am not!" Mirathil shouted indignantly.

"Yes, you are!" Finiel retorted. "You lie all the time about seeing things; you should be punished!"

"I NEVER LIE!!!" Mirathil shrilly screamed at the top of her lungs, her huge purple eyes filling up with tears.

At that moment, Morwen suddenly threw open the door of her bedchamber and rushed into the room. "What is happening in here?" she demanded.

Honestly upset by the verbal attack against her dream, Finiel, along with Mirathil, burst into tears. "Mirathil says I will not have children!" she sobbed.

"What?!" her mother exclaimed.

"That is not true!" cried Mirathil. "I said that she would have three children, but she wanted seven, and she is angry with me!"

Ignoring Mirathil's words, Morwen took her weeping daughter up into her arms. "Shhh," she whispered soothingly. "Finiel, it is all right."

"Why are you sad, Finiel?" Mirathil implored her friend, endeavoring to restore a state of peace. "Three children is good."

"I can seven children if I want to!" Finiel shouted back. "Mama, tell her that I can!"

"Of course you can, Finiel," her mother soothed her. With a hard countenance, Morwen turned to Mirathil. "Mirathil, you should not say how many children Finiel will bear. You do not know that," she rebuked her.

"But I do know!" Mirathil protested. "I saw them; she has three children, two sons and one daughter!"

"I do not!" Finiel shouted, lifting her head back from her mother's dress to glare at the two year old girl. "You can not know that! I have three sons and four daughters! You are a liar!"

Mirathil's little face flushed a shade of scarlet, her anger at last aroused by her friend's unjust accusation. "If I can not know how many children you have, then how can you?!" she struck out.

"I want seven children, and I will have them!" Finiel shouted back at her.

"No, you will not!" yelled Mirathil.

"Yes, I will!"

"No, you will not!"

"Yes, I will!"

"No, you will not!"

"YES, I WILL!!!"

"NO, YOU WILL NOT!!!"

"SILENCE, MIRATHIL!!!" Morwen shouted. Immediately, both girls ceased their quarrel at the adult woman's angered tone.

Blinking up at her, Mirathil tried to make Finiel's mother understand. "But-

"I said to be quiet, Mirathil!" Morwen ordered sternly. "I am telling you to stop this nonsense! You have not seen Finiel's children!"

"But I have!" Mirathil sobbed, breaking down into tears.

"You are a liar!" Finiel angrily accused.

"Yes, you are!" Morwen spoke harshly.

Snapping her head up, Mirathil furiously glared back at both of them. "I AM NOT!!!" she loudly screamed.

Setting her daughter back onto the bed, Morwen reached down and slapped Mirathil across her mouth. "You will not scream in my house," she spoke sternly. "And you will not speak lies to and upset my daughter. I am taking you home, Mirathil. Get down off the bed."

With a tremulous expression, Mirathil obediently slid down off of the bed onto her feet. Looking up at Morwen, she tried again to explain what she had seen; but before she opened her mouth, the glowering woman pointed her hand towards the doorway. "Walk with me," she ordered.

Blinking fearfully, Mirathil did as she was told; Morwen led her out of the house and around to that of her parents. Rapping smartly at the door, Morwen silently simmered as she waited for it to be opened. When Ilweth finally answered it, a few streaks of dishwater staining the front of her dress, Morwen reached down and pushed Mirathil inside. "I do not know how you are rearing your daughter, Ilweth," the raven haired woman spoke coolly. "But it would be well if you began to teach her the evil of a false tongue. Your child has deeply upset my daughter with her nonsensical lies, and until she has learned the art of speaking the truth, Finiel will not see her again. I do not want my daughter to acquire the practice of tale-telling from yours." With that, Morwen unceremoniously turned away and began walking back to her house.

Her face possessed of a startled expression, Ilweth called after her. "Morwen!" But her voice was cut off by the loud shutting of Morwen's door. Her offended neighbor gone, Ilweth looked down at her daughter in bewilderment. "Mirathil, what did you say to anger Finiel's mother so?" she inquired.

Mirathil trembled. "I only told Finiel that she would have three children, not seven as she said she would; and she grew angry with me," the little girl related.

"But, Mirathil, neither you nor Finiel could know how many children either of you will bear," her mother told her, leaning down to brush away her tears.

"But I did know," Mirathil insisted. "I saw her children!"

"What?" Ilweth exclaimed, ceasing her motherly comfort.

"I saw her children, Finiel had three!" Mirathil emphasized, aggravated that that truth had been so many times denounced. "There were two sons and one-

"Mirathil!" her mother spoke sternly, standing up and crossing her arms. "I have warned you about making up tales; now I am going to have to punish you."

Mirathil started. "But, Mama-

"Go inside the house," Ilweth ordered.

An hour later, Mirathil was sitting dejectedly in the corner beside the fireplace, angry tears sliding down her cheeks. She had told the truth; and no one believed her. No one ever believed her! Everyone always said she was lying, even Mama-Mama spanked her for it. Mirathil sniffed. Maybe she should stop telling people about the things she saw; maybe she should stay quiet all the time, so she wouldn't be punished. But Mirathil didn't think she could do that; when she saw something, she felt as though she had to tell it-as if she was supposed to tell it. If people would only listen! She still couldn't fathom it-why could they not understand? It made perfect sense: She saw something; and when you see something, of course it is real; and so, she told people about it. What was so strange and impossible about that?

Mirathil mused tearfully. Mama had told her that she must tell Finiel she was sorry and that she did not know how many children she would have. But she had told her mother earnestly that she could not do that-it would be a lie because she did know. Her mother had spanked her again and then told her to go do what she had said; but, of course, she had had to again refuse. Mirathil blinked sadly. She loved her Mama, and she wouldn't disobey her; but, of course, she couldn't tell a lie, even if Mama told her to-it was wrong, she knew in her uttermost soul that it was. Everyone called her a liar, but she hated lying more than anything else she knew, she would never do it! But Mama hadn't believed her; and neither had Father. When spanking her, to their great surprise, had not made her obey them, they had sternly declared that she would sit in the corner by the fireplace and not eat with them until she had done as they said and told Finiel that she had not seen anything about her children. And so, here she was.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Mirathil buried her damp face in her rough brown dress. She would have to stay here forever; she could never lie about seeing Finiel's children. That would be horribly wrong, and she would never do it, not even if she never got to leave the corner again.

Thus, to Eldoran and Ilweth's astonishment, Mirathil did not cry out to them at dinnertime that she was ready to obey them. With a concerned countenance, Ilweth turned to her husband. "Eldoran," she spoke, "shall we really not feed the child? She is young, and perhaps this punishment is too harsh for her body to endure. I expected that when we voiced our threat, she would change her mind; but now that it comes to it, her mood is entirely unchanged. I wonder if we should forego this punishment and let her eat."

"No," Eldoran answered. "Her mood will change when she beholds us eating, Ilweth; we must not let our daughter's will prevail over ours. That will only encourage her further in rebellion."

So, the husband and wife sat down at the wooden table to eat their dinner. Glancing over to the corner, they looked at their daughter. Mirathil was eyeing them miserably but silently. "You may eat your dinner when you obey us, Mirathil," Eldoran told her. Mirathil stared back at him blankly. Eldoran frowned. "Are you ready to tell Finiel and her mother the truth-that you did not see anything?" he asked her.

Mirathil shook her golden haired head. "I can not do that," she stated sadly.

Both her parents blinked in surprise. "Are you not hungry, Mirathil?" Ilweth inquired.

Mirathil nodded. "Yes," she answered, "but I can not tell a lie; so I can not eat." She thought for a moment. "Does that I mean I will starve, Mama? Will I die?"

Poor Ilweth was actually taken aback and stammering for an answer; she felt flooded with guilt at her daughter's pitiful question and was nearly ready to relent, feeling as though she were a cruel monster. But Eldoran was not thus so easily influenced. "No, Mirathil, you will not," he answered her evenly, "because you will not continue to act in this way. When you grow hungry enough, you will decide to obey us."

Mirathil sadly shook her head. "No, I will not," she somberly told her father. "I can not; but I still need to find that stone."

Ignoring his daughter's solemn vow and final nonsensical statement, Eldoran turned his head away from the corner and resumed eating his dinner. Ilweth hesitated a moment, holding her child's tearful gaze a bit longer; then, she too went back to her dinner. And Mirathil sighed and looked away from both of them, trying to take her mind off of her hunger with the conjuring of a blissful fantasy.

The next morning, Ilweth and Eldoran were again both astonished when their daughter, awaking in her solitary corner, forewent her breakfast, still refusing to submit to their word. With a worried expression, Ilweth again turned to her husband. "She still will not yield, Eldoran," she spoke. "I fear for her health; please, though I agree she should remain in her corner, may we not relent on the matter of the food?"

But Eldoran emphatically shook his head. "She will yield, Ilweth," he assured her. "She is but a child. Give her time, and you will see."

So, the couple went on with their resolve; but throughout the day, they were increasingly amazed to find that Mirathil also went on with hers. At lunch, dinner, and several other times in the long hours of the day, they would ask of her if she was ready to obey them, reminding her that she could leave her corner and eat as soon as she was. But each time their offer was given, it was just as instantly as the prior time refused; and when the sun had set, Ilweth again approached her husband in great concern. "My Lord," she said worriedly, "I know it be a frail thing for a parent to give in to the will of a child; but in this matter, I feel I must urge it nonetheless. Our daughter is too young to suffer this manner of chastisement; and I fear that, in the peculiar oddness of her nature, she will not yield, as would other children, 'ere her health has suffered. I implore you-allow me to feed the child, before she grows ill!"

Eldoran, however, would not be swayed. "She-will-yield, Ilweth," he maintained emphatically. "No child, however strong willed, will continue to prevail against hunger so long that their parents are thus compelled to give in."

"I do not know that it be she is so strong willed, my Lord," Ilweth worried, gazing at her daughter. "It is rather something that touches only on this particular matter-lying. For all her practice of tale-telling, I have come to believe that somehow, she truly believes she is right in denying that she has done wrong; and that thus, strangely convicted, she will not yield, holding, as she sees, to some resolution of goodness."

"I deem you place too high a value on our daughter's loyalty to goodness, let alone her acquired maturity," Eldoran smiled. "Beside that-if she were thus so pure, she would ne'er have spoken lies, Ilweth; but stay on-I hold that she is wondrous stubborn, and will 'ere long yield her will to ours. You will see."

Thus, did the day pass; and the next; and the one after that-until finally, Eldoran did at last begin to falter in his conviction. To his mounting incredulousness, he beheld his two year old daughter growing paler and weaker every day-but yet, no weaker in her defiance of their command, though her voice itself grew steadily frailer. Though they allowed her water, they withheld all food, thinking that no child could have it in their young heart to go on forever, that surely soon her will would break; yet ever Mirathil looked back at them with the same maintained determination in her violet eyes, the same stubborn resolve.

And finally, an hour came when a pale-faced Ilweth rushed upon her husband with a terrified scream. "Eldoran!" she cried. "Come with haste-our daughter has passed into darkness in her corner!"

Dropping his work, Eldoran dashed back to the room where abided his disciplined daughter; and there, within the dusty corner by the fireplace, even as his wife had shrieked, lay Mirathil, unconsciously slumped against the wall. In beholding her wan, pale little face, drawn with hunger and weariness, Eldoran was all at once overcome by a flood of guilt and worry. Rushing over to her, he scooped his young daughter up in his arms and hurriedly carried her to the bedroom. "Bring warm milk, Ilweth!" he called over his shoulder. "And hot broth!" As his wife scurried off to fetch her instructed foodstuffs, her hand cast fearfully over her mouth, Eldoran gently laid his daughter down on the bed, worriedly stroking her pale golden hair.

Over the next half-hour, Eldoran and Ilweth slowly revived their daughter, alternating between pouring milk down her throat and spooning into her mouth a steaming broth from a small wooden bowl. At last, Mirathil re-awoke to a steady state of consciousness; but she was far from well. For the next few days, Mirathil could barely manage to keep anything down other than water, quivering with sweat when she knelt over a designated pot. At last, however, her body recovered from its ordeal of starvation, and her face regained its fullness and color.

Then, Eldoran and Ilweth were filled with amazement at the fortitude of their young daughter and spoke to one another in astoundment. "Never have I seen such a child!" Eldoran declared. "Her will is as strong as the stone of this city; it is a wonder which ought to be sung! Did any ever hear of a child so young prevailing against the will of their parents in the face of starvation? What manner of child is this that you have borne, Ilweth?"

But Ilweth answered: "It is not a will of strength nor stubbornness which kept her unyielding through the trial of hunger, my Lord. This child, I will hold, for all her lies, yet believes in her deepest heart that she is the one of right somehow and we the ones of wrong. In this matter, I fear we may never prevail; for if her fortitude is such as this in the days of her earliest youth, who can foresee to what unfathomable extent it will grow in the waxing of her years? I say this: Punishment is dealt out thus to effect change. Therefore, if no change will be effected therefrom, it is futile to continue to employ it. I counsel that we chastise Mirathil no more in this odd matter, but seek rather to learn the cause behind it-to come to understand the reason for which she holds to this mad habit of tale-telling with such unshakable resolve, and thereby, come to know how thus to fashion an end of it."

And Eldoran, in listening to his wife's counsel, judged that it was good and wisely spoken. So, did Ilweth and Eldoran lay punishment on their daughter for her falsely given tales no more; and Mirathil rejoiced, thinking that perhaps, her parents at last had come to understand. But from then onward, did Eldoran and Ilweth begin to carefully observe their daughter in all activities of her life, sometimes putting far-reaching questions to her, in a steady attempt to discover the obscure reason of her habitual invention of imaginary tales.

IV

If the neighbor to the left of the household of Eldoran and Ilweth henceforth maintained a well-expressed disposition of coolest contempt toward their strangely peculiar daughter, it could be warmly appreciated by the discouraged couple that the neighbor to the right of them found it in her nature to express an even more keenly felt disposition of the completely opposite attitude toward Mirathil-when, in need of encouragement, the wearied couple could always turn without worry to their old friend, Mabril the Midwife.

Mabril, the middle-aged woman who had helped to deliver Mirathil on the night of her birth, was a good-natured, ruddy-cheeked woman who, as previously stated, lived just to the right of Eldoran and Ilweth-and being a bit further along in years than her acquainted neighbors, had a bustling family of five, all joyfully rambunctious boys. Her husband, a rather stern kind of man by the name of Belmog, was a skilled carpenter, whose keenest desire in the world was that all of his sons should be thus dutifully trained so as to carry on his noble trade in their manhood. Though Mabril was unfalteringly devoted to her husband and children, it was often the case that her keenest desire in the world, however, was for a spell of peace and quiet; and thus it partially was that the good midwife so enjoyed the company of Mirathil. For Mabril being necessarily a woman of great patience, she was little troubled or even unnerved by the odd whims and vagaries of a two year old girl, however peculiar they may be. And moreover, the often exasperated midwife found in her neighbors' passive, obedient little daughter a welcome refreshment from her own unruly children.

Thus it was that oftentimes, Mirathil would go together with her parents to pay a visit to the bordering house of Mabril; and coming to awareness of the genial midwife's affection for her, it was not long 'ere a happy Mirathil was permitted to make short calls to her on her own. Indeed, Mirathil grew to love such visits to the little house which stood to the right of her own; when she arrived, Mabril would always fly to greet her, her oval face glowing with color, her hazel-brown eyes sparkling with delight. Scooping her up in her arms, the cheerful midwife would always tell her how she was the prettiest little girl she had ever laid eyes upon, and the sweetest too, and then planting a kiss on her cheek, proceed to carry her over to where her younger boys played on the floor.

This aspect of her visits, however, came to be the only part of them which Mirathil dreaded. As much as she adored Mabril, she did not adore her five boys. Oh, on her first encounter with them, she had thought them nice enough and been open to their friendship; however, she had soon discovered that every one of them was considerably less open to hers. For some reason which she could not comprehend, the five boys were ill-disposed to play with a girl, most particularly a girl so young, whom they condescendingly pronounced "a baby." And truth be told, though initially put off by the rejection, in a short while, Mirathil came to regard it as a merciful provision for her sanity; for after observing the rough, often foolhardy games which the troop of boys were fond to engage in, the little girl decided that she would not much enjoy playing with them anyway and was thankful of the fact that they never asked her to.

They did, however, often delight in teasing her for a brief spell of her visit, namely when she first arrived; with loud hoots and howls, the five boys would pull out her golden curls from her head and then rapidly release them, fascinated by the smart bounciness with which they immediately sprang back into place. Mirathil endured this generally tolerably and with no malice toward Mabril, who did nothing to quell it; for Mirathil understood that the scurrying woman was only too busy to notice everything that went on around her, and before long, the boys would at last tire of their annoying game and disperse outside to frolic in the fresh air and sunshine. And it was then that, with the raucous boys outside and Mabril finally sitting down at her freshly-scrubbed brown table to take a moment's well-earned rest, that Mirathil would happily approach her for a rich outpouring and receiving of affection.

To Mirathil, Mabril became almost a second mother; and the good midwife even went so far as to assure her parents that if anything ever happened to them, they need have no cause for worry-she would look after their daughter. And truly, the warmest manner of friendship did exist between Eldoran and Ilweth and Mabril the midwife-and even her husband on occasion, though he was not so congenial as she. Often was the occasion that the young family of Eldoran would make long visits to their neighbor's cheerful, if chaotic, household, to eat, to laugh, to sing, and to make talk long into the hours, as a troup of merry friends delights to do such things.

Thus it was that on one day, in the course of one of the longest visits which had ever been paid to the house of Mabril, Mirathil began to be greatly confused; looking about her, she saw the faces of her parents and her beloved neighbor's dull and downcast, and heard their voices devoid of any ease or joy. Instead, they three were speaking one to the other in low, seemingly rueful, and utterly serious tones, their expressions betraying a matter of great importance and grief. In the very next moment, Belmog, Mabril's husband entered the small room, the same somber countenance etched on his characteristically disinterested face. Now Mirathil knew that it was indeed a matter of deepest importance, for Mabril's husband made conversation so rarely with the rest of the adults, that his presence must signify an issue so great it pertained to practically everybody.

Inquisitively tilting her golden head, Mirathil scurried up to the two couples just in time to behold her mother wipe a glistening tear from her eye. Stunned, Mirathil earnestly inquired into the deep, pervading sense of grief which had utterly taken them all. "What is wrong?" she asked in her high, clear little tone. "Why do all your faces look so sad?"

With a sigh to the others, Ilweth took Mirathil up into her arms. "Mirathil," she started, "do you remember what we taught you about the rulership of Gondor?"

Mirathil blinked. "Yes," she answered. Drawing her little body up into the most somber stance, she evenly recited with an air of much practice: "Our Steward is the Lord Denethor who rules and protects us; his wife is the Lady Finduilas, the Lady of Gondor; his eldest son…Oh…I can not remember…but there are two of them-

"Yes, Mirathil, that will do," her mother said, smiling for a moment despite herself; but in the next moment, the smile was gone. "There is a grave matter in all the city now, Mirathil-the Lady Finduilas is become very ill. And perhaps, it may be that she will even die."

Mirathil's violet eyes widened; for a moment, she was silent. Then, strangely softly, she spoke: "Is that the lady who lies all alone in the dark in the great black bed-and whose face grows paler and paler-and who cries in the night because her sons are not allowed into the dark room to see her?"

All four adults abruptly started. "Mirathil…" Ilweth breathed. For a moment, she looked at her daughter with a sudden, strange expression, almost somehow-a fearful one. Then, with a swallow, she regained her even countenance. "Where have you heard of the Lady Finduilas's illness, Mirathil? Did Finiel speak of it to you 'ere we came here?"

"No, Finiel loves me no longer," Mirathil spoke with a sad shake of her head. "I saw her; I saw her all alone, and it made me sad so that I could not play. She is in pain, Mama; and I still have not found the stone," she added tearfully.

Again, all four adults faltered, a strange expression momentarily aroused in each one of their eyes; but again, in the next moment, the heavy silence was broken, this time by Eldoran. "My Mirathil has the gift of so keen a mind, that often, in the telling to her of a thing, she may conjure forth an impressive description of it. The grief of the matter is that, of a child's dream though it be, I fear such rue falls not too far from the truth. Gondor may only hope that her Lady grows well again-and be strong and fair once more." The other three adults nodded in somber agreement, their eyes displaying a faint hint of pride.

But Mirathil's violet eyes filled with tears and with purest sorrow, she gently shook her head. "Nay," she whispered. "It is sad-the Lady is fair and gentle-but she shall die. And everyone will weep that night." At that, the little girl began to softly cry, as if foreshadowing her mournful statement.

Ilweth, however, was honestly angered. "Mirathil, this is not a time to weave tales," she firmly rebuked. "We must all speak in hope that the Lady Finduilas will grow well; it is a shameful thing for you to say that she shall die."

Mirathil, too distraught in her genuine sorrow over her tragic monologue, for once did not give even a slight care to her mother's chastisement of her "tales". Instead, she merely shook her head again and morbidly remarked: "The Lady does not grow well; she dies. She leaves those who love her in anguish and loneliness. And everyone weeps."

"Mirathil, stop this now!" Ilweth nearly shouted. "Do not spin tales about your rulers and do not say that you do not lie!" she cut her off as she started to open her mouth in protest. "Go and play by thyself until we call you."

And so, with a glum face, Mirathil did. Her parents, more than a little embarrassed by their daughter's apparent lack of respect for both them and her sovereign, by lengths at last managed to restore their sense of calm and ease among their friends. But when they arrived back at their own home, Eldoran and Ilweth came just short of spanking Mirathil for her egregious dishonor towards her ailing Lady; recalling, however, their resolution to refrain from combating their daughter's moral flaw in that way, they merely forbid her play for the next week and sent her to bed.

The next few weeks were some of the most dismal that Minas Tirith had ever known. A brooding cloud of worry hung over the entire city; and people strolling along the white streets would often pause to look in each other's faces, silently united by a common rueful anxiety. Most of the people held that the Lady Finduilas would grow to better health as time bore on-after all, were not the healers of the White Tower the finest and most readily skilled in the land? Yes, surely, any day now, word would come from the Steward's halls to the streets that their beloved Lady was on her way to recovery; but never did any such word come.

Like gradual drips in a bucket, the days slowly bore on, piling one on top of the other, changing first into weeks and then, into months; and now, it began to be whispered in rumors that the Lady Finduilas was not growing well at all, but rather quite the contrary-she was waning worse and worse each day, languishing-dying. And while the people outside her window would lament in mournful tones the ill health of their Lady and speculate as to whether or not she might truly die-and while her mother and father would gaze one to the other in a silent, growing worry-Mirathil would turn her little head away from the poor, anxious crowd and her poor, anxious parents and release a soft, sad little sigh, curiously carrying both the sound of youth and wisdom.

And finally, one cold moonless night, the sound of a herald was heard running throughout the silent, empty streets, wailing at every door and window, waking the sleeping masses with his mournful message-the Lady Finduilas, the beloved Lady of Gondor, was dead.

V

Do things in this world happen for a reason? Some, generally optimistic, would earnestly insist that they do; others would sigh with condescension upon this collective group and somberly pronounce that, regrettably, they do not. The Lord Denethor, more closely affiliated with the latter division of people in this world, would have said that what happened on a certain autumn's day in his halls happened for the reason that his eldest son Boromir, in roughly galavanting about as was his wont to do, somehow succeeded in thoroughly and utterly destroying the fine black tunic which was to have been worn for his mother's funeral. If the high Steward of Gondor was accurate in his pragmatic judgment, that all the events of that day were mere chance and whims of reality, or whether there was subtly something more to it all than that, may be left to be judged by the listener at the end of this strange and mysterious tale.

It was on a cool, clear afternoon in mid-autumn that Eldoran, together with his young daughter Mirathil, was walking homeward bound from the seventh level of the city after delivering the last of his day's crafts to a particularly fussy customer. Eldoran's trade was that of a tailor; and today it had been the special case that Mirathil, insatiably curious about everything, had been permitted to accompany him on his errands of delivery. At the moment, Eldoran was in rather a weary mood; his last patron had been relatively wealthy and thus, relatively difficult to please in the manner of his daughter's dress. And unfortunately, his currently aroused irritability was not being soothed by Mirathil's incessant bombardment of questions, which had been coming at him in high, excited tones all the day long without cease.

"Father, what was that rolled white object that the lady held?" she inquired curiously as they approached the great descending stairs of the current level.

"That was a scroll, Mirathil," her father absently replied.

"What were the strange pictures upon it?"

"Those were not pictures, Mirathil; they were letters."

"What are letters?" she asked with a blink of her purple eyes.

"They are markings by which high people may read," her father answered.

Mirathil's face shone. "May I learn to read? Even if I have not yet found the stone?" she asked hopefully.

"No, Mirathil," Eldoran sighed wearily. "The reading of letters is above our station; and what is this stone that you are always speaking of?"

Ignoring his question, Mirathil started at his statement concerning reading, acutely upset. "But I love to learn," she protested. "Why can I not be taught to read?"

"The common people are not schooled in learning, Mirathil; that is a practice of the rulers and the nobility-or the wealthy," he explained to her.

Mirathil moaned in disappointment. "Then, what am I to be schooled in?" she inquired.

"By your mother, you will be taught to cook and to weave and to look after a household, Mirathil. When you marry, you will have to know how to perform such duties for your husband and your children. Reading is not a skill you shall ever need," her father stated.

Mirathil gave a little pout. "Will Mabril's sons be taught to read?" she inquired.

"No," Eldoran replied with the subtle trace of a perceiving smile. "Son or daughter, the common folk do not study the art of letters, Mirathil."

Mirathil pondered for a moment; she was about to question why when suddenly, at the head of the stairs, they were met by a finely garbed man who abruptly halted her father. "Father, why-

"Are you the tailor Eldoran?" the richly dressed man inquired.

"I am," her father answered with a tone of surprise and immediate respect.

"I am a herald of the Steward," the man announced. "Lord Denethor wishes to see you at once."

Sharply startled, Eldoran was stricken dumb for a moment; then, tremulously he inquired, "Myself? Wherefore?"

"I would judge it pertains to a matter of your trade," the herald theorized. "Walk this way with me." With widened eyes, Eldoran at once began to follow; then he briefly hesitated. Motioning to Mirathil, he humbly asked, "Is it meet that my daughter accompany me? If such a matter offend, I shall carry her back home 'ere going before our Lord."

The herald absently waved his hand, resuming his path away from the ivory stairway. "It matters not," he replied. "Only see that she is silent."

"Yes, my Lord," the tailor respectfully answered, swiftly following after the herald. Looking downward to Mirathil, who was hurriedly scampering along beside him, her large purple eyes full of excitement, he whispered, "Ask me no questions and speak not a word, Mirathil, until we have left the Steward's halls. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Mirathil eagerly assured him, nodding her curly, golden head as she scurried along, a rather comical sight to observing passers-by.

After the herald they went, back around the city's seventh level until they came to a great ivory stair; and then, up and up they stepped. And coming above the last white step, Mirathil beheld a vision of magnificence and beauty such as she had never in her life seen before-there, before her enormous purple eyes, was the great palace of the Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, and above it, the lofty White Tower-Minas Tirith, for which the city, her home, was named.

Quivering with awe, Mirathil followed in enraptured silence as her father led her up the great walkway that cut through the spacious green lawn up to the royal halls; but a short way from the door, she was suddenly wont to pause. Issuing up from a well-tended plot was an altogether dead and dismal tree. Staring at its grim, crooked state, Mirathil vaguely wondered what it meant and wherefore it was left there; but she had scarcely begun to contemplate this 'ere the very next second saw her hurriedly pulled from her rooted stance on the white walkway and firmly led up another great ivory stairway-the stairway into the Steward's halls.

Slowly gazing upward, Mirathil was immensely impressed by the size and height of the two iron doors which loomed at the top of the stairway; but nothing could have prepared her for the splendorous sight within. As the great doors were swung heavily open before them, her breath was instantly taken away, so that she could not have uttered even the first word of a question if she had tried. The enormous hall stretched back as it seemed to her young, peasant eyes forever; the spacious chamber rose in height to a degree that was positively unnerving; and at the end of it was a marble throne, seated atop a small flight of ivory steps.

Walking alongside her father, Mirathil recognized the soft rustle of her dress on the marble floor as nearly the only sound in the immense hall. Looking to her right and to her left, she beheld in awe many tall, skillfully crafted statues somberly lining the several high windows of the chamber atop great marble pillars. With amazement, she gazed down at the intricately crafted designs upon the floor; and when she looked back up, it was with admiration.

But upon reaching the throne at the end of the impressive hall, Mirathil was surprised to note that no one sat upon it. Instead, a tall, stern-looking man was regally seated at a humbler chair at the bottom of the ivory staircase. Beside him stood a young boy, about ten years of age, with brownish gold hair and grey-blue eyes. Immediately, young though she was, Mirathil realized these two richly dressed individuals to be the Lord Denethor and one of his sons; and together with her father, she nervously paid a silent motion of homage, awkwardly dipping in a little curtsy. "My Lord Denethor," her father spoke reverently.

His elegant grey robes flowing about him, the Steward slowly, majestically arose from his seat; but his attention was not fixed on the tailor which he had called for but rather on his young daughter. For a moment, the sternness of his countenance was transplanted by a startled expression of wonder, as was likewise that of his son. At last, in a tone somberly authoritative, the steward spoke: "This is your daughter?"

"Yes, my Lord," Eldoran answered quickly. "I ask your pardon for her presence, but I was met by your herald on the street and commanded to bring her along."

Denethor blinked. Never in all his life had he beheld a child so exquisite. Her great beauty was apparent even at this early age and seemed as though it ought rather to belong to a princess than to this lowly peasant, in her plain grey little dress which so sorely complimented the sweet loveliness of her face. But shocking-yes shocking-to the very core of oneself were her eerily enormous pair of deep violet eyes, speckled with tiny highlights of faintly twinkling silver. They were literally breathtaking and yet at the same time, nearly chilling. "Her eyes are most-uncommon," he finally stated in a rather stunned tone.

Eldoran blinked. "Yes, my Lord," he affirmed. Inwardly, he felt a small swelling of pride at the fact that his daughter's eyes had turned the gaze of even the Lord Denethor himself and his eldest son. What a tale that would make for among his neighbors in the merry hours tonight!

For her part, however, Mirathil was rather uncomfortable under the prolonged scrutiny of the regal man. Trying not to fidget, she looked back at him a bit puzzled-he did not seem to hold much of the air of a man who had just lost his wife, and his stoic demeanor unnerved her a little. But finally, the noble steward regained his even countenance and, thankfully, turned his piercing gaze back to her father.

"I have need for the skills of a tailor," he explained. "It was spoken that you were of the highest mastery of your trade, and thus have I called you here." Pausing to allow Eldoran a respectful bow, he then continued. "My son has need for a black tunic-a fine, well-woven one, which must be finished by tomorrow evening."

Inwardly, Eldoran started-by tomorrow evening? He would be working incessantly all through tonight and tomorrow to accomplish such an order on time. But to weave an article for the House of the Steward was the honor of a lifetime-and undoubtedly, the tunic was for the Lady's funeral. Reverently, he nodded in servitude to his sovereign. "As you say, my Lord. I will require your son's measurements," he added.

"Yes, of course," Denethor assented. With a swift motion, he bid the young boy at his side go forward.

Mirathil blinked. For some reason or other, the boy approached them with a significantly uneasy expression on his face. As he stepped toward her father, he seemed reluctant to allow his right arm to stray too far away from his side. While her father carefully began to take his measurements, Mirathil curiously tilted her head at his right hip; did something ail him there? Then, suddenly, she noticed a small, brown lump of something barely peeking out from underneath the bottom of his shirt; instantly, she started, her whole face lighting with curiosity. Was he hiding something? Before her two-year-old mind had time to give it the wisdom of a second thought, Mirathil inquisitively reached over and firmly pulled the tiny brown lump down from under the boy's shirt; and then, in the very next moment, her high-pitched scream could be heard ringing off of every cornered wall in the spacious, aforetime somber, chamber.

Rapidly dropping the thing from her hand, Mirathil fearfully jumped away. Hurriedly scampering across the marble floor was a baby squirrel, its bushy brown tail feverishly twitching behind it. With a loud cry of distress, the ten-year-old boy immediately dashed after it, running from the throne room in a panic. His face flashing with anger, his father, the Lord Denethor, shouted for him at once to return; but the boy apparently being out of earshot, the furious man turned and stormed after him. Eldoran stood startled and altogether perplexed for a moment; but then, casting his glance downward toward his hand and realizing that the raucous boy had run wildly off with his best marking pin embedded in his shirt, he immediately started up and, forgetting his daughter, dashed after the pair of them. And Mirathil, blinking in bewilderment, now stood all alone in the enormous, empty chamber.

For a few moments, she merely stood rooted to the floor in shock. Then, suddenly hearing the cries of her three previous companions echoing from beyond the throne room in some adjoining chamber, Mirathil at once started and began to scurry off in the direction of the noise-but then suddenly, she paused. All at once, in realizing that she was alone, an incredible burst of wonder and curiosity possessed her. Here was she all alone in the great palace of the Lord Denethor? She? And…free she was left to explore any part of it that she chose! With a face all alight, Mirathil swiftly turned from her present course; and casting a fleeting, mischievous smile toward the path the others had taken, she raced off in the opposite direction.

Exiting the spacious throne room through one of several corridors, Mirathil happily skipped down the narrow ivory hall. Rounding a corner, she then came to a flight of stairs, which she decided it pleased her to go up. Then, came another corridor, then another corner, then more stairs, then another corridor, then another…and soon, Mirathil was so merrily lost that she could not have returned at her father's call even if it had been sounding. With a glowing smile, she turned round another corner and nearly danced down the ivory hall; but passing one half-closed door, she suddenly paused her merry expedition. From within the partially sealed-off room, came a sound. Her little ears pricked as slowly, she recognized it-it was the sound of crying.

With a curious blink, Mirathil gently pushed the door open just enough for her to see inside. Peeking into the room, she saw a young boy sitting curled up against the only wall with a window, facing to the left with his knees pulled in to his chest. Almost instantly, Mirathil's sweet little heart was struck with compassion. Silently slipping through the crack of the doorway, she stealthily crept up to the crying boy, unnoticed-until, with a slightly trembling hand, she softly touched his shoulder.

Amidst his sobs, the boy suddenly threw up his head and gasped. Quickly, he spun around to see who was there with him, expecting to behold his brother or a servant. At the sight of a tiny little girl, he blinked in surprise-and then, for some odd reason, he slowly blinked again, all of a sudden ceasing his crying. The strange little girl blinked back at him, her face looking as though she had somehow been unexpectedly stunned. With a sniff, the boy confusedly let his eyes flicker over her; and all at once the thought strangely came into his mind of how pretty she was-her delicate, creamy face, her pale golden curls-but most of all, her enormous starry violet eyes, that stared at him with an inscrutable expression of mixed surprise and confusion. Rather suddenly he felt a little strange looking back at her-as if, for some reason, he was not quite himself. With a swallow, he in turn eyed her in confusion.

With slowly widening eyes, Mirathil blinked at the boy in timid uncertainty. His blondish brown hair hung in a rather stringy manner around his pale, wet little face, as if he had been crying for a long time. Looking out at her from his sad, damp face was a pair of keen blue eyes, behind of which, she could somehow sense that thoughts were racing, as ever they were in her mind. Gazing down at the boy, Mirathil suddenly felt a strange little twist inside her, that seemed to thrill and hurt at the same time. Wondering at what was somehow different about this boy from all the other raucous ones she had ever encountered, Mirathil gently broke their silence with the only question she could think of: "Why do you cry?"

The boy blinked at her tearfully. "My mother is dead," he answered sadly.

Mirathil's eyes widened a little more; for some reason, his sorrow seemed to her a matter of greater grief and deeper prompting of compassion than it had been before. Kneeling down, she gently drew her arms around the boy in a tender hug. "I am sorry," she sincerely whispered.

With a blink, the boy slowly lifted his arms to hug her back; strangely, it seemed as though he now felt a little better. Eventually, he pulled back from the small girl to inquisitively look her in the face. Her fluffy hair shone and shimmered like the sunlight; and in her face was both a vibrant joy and a teasing but gentle warmth. Sitting in the pool of light on the floor, the rays of which streamed brightly through the window above them, she looked as if, in body and spirit, she could almost be a part of it. "Are you a sunbeam?" he tremulously asked.

Mirathil blinked. "No," she answered. "Are you?"

The boy shook his head. He gazed at her again; she was so pretty. "Are you an elf-child?" he inquired next.

No," the little girl repeated.

Slowly, the young boy tilted his head at her. "Who are you?" he asked her.

"My name is Mirathil," she brightly answered. "I am the daughter of Eldoran. Who are you?"

The boy blinked, a trifle surprised by her question. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor," he told her. "Did you not know?"

"No," Mirathil replied, shaking her curly head. In a corner of her mind, young though it was, it had been strictly ingrained into her that she was now supposed and expected to become deferential toward this introduced individual-but strangely, she did not feel even slightly inclined to do so. He seemed different to her from the others-from the stern, majestic man in flowing robes and his proud, energetic son. This boy was…quiet, passive. With a smile, she asked him another question. "Faramir, what room is this?"

Again, Faramir blinked in surprise at the girl, this time at the fact that she had neglected to address him as "Prince Faramir" or "Lord Faramir"; but oddly enough, this seeming irreverence pleased him. Tilting his head at her, he answered her question. "This is my bedchamber; how came you here?"

With a sudden flash of amusement in her violet eyes, Mirathil proceeded to go into a long relation of her arrival to his room, which began at her embarking with her father upon his daily series of errands and carried through to the time when they had finally come to the palace. At this point, in enraptured memory, Mirathil added in an entirely unnecessary strew of detailed descriptions for Faramir of his own home and what it looked like, not pausing to realize that he had seen it every day of his entire life.

Yet Faramir did not at any point in her long-winded monologue ever grow the slightest bit impatient; with a steady, placid countenance, he listened all the way through, even attentively. When the girl concluded with what she considered to be the most exciting part, the unexpected incident of the squirrel, Faramir suddenly saw the humor in the situation and laughed out loud.

With a start, Mirathil fell silent. Her two-year-old mind had thought the scene that had transpired in the throne room to be a matter of the highest gravity and lively though it was, to demand a somber kind of respect. The fact that her listener was reacting in exactly the opposite way she had expected during the climax of her story startled and then, actually disappointed her. Pursing her lips, she despondently crossed her arms and gave a little pout.

Noticing her glum expression, Faramir confusedly smiled and explained to her. "It is a good joke, Mirathil; and for once, my father's anger shall not be turned toward me."

About to remark in annoyance that her tale was not a joke, Mirathil was suddenly silenced by the boy's last remark. With a slow blink, the little girl gazed into his face, not quite understanding. "What mean you?" she asked him.

All at once, Faramir's face seemed to fall and become grey again. "I anger my father," he replied to her sadly.

Recalling her parents' repeated exasperation at her "lies", Mirathil supposed that she comprehended the meaning of his statement. "I do the same," she regretfully assented.

With a look of surprise, Faramir started. "You do not please your father, either?" he inquired.

Mirathil blinked in confusion. "I please him," she answered. "And then later, I do not please him."

Faramir sighed, in a subtle way slightly disappointed. Sadly, he looked away from her. "I do not ever please my father," he said.

Mirathil was all at once startled; somehow, that did not seem as though it were right. "Why?" she asked him.

"Because I am not as a son should be," he ashamedly answered. "I am better at my lessons than at sport. Father says my face is too pale for a boy my age. I should be outside, learning from Boromir-he is my elder brother," he briefly interrupted himself to explain to her. "But I can not help it; I do not want to run and play all the day long as he does. I like to stay in the library!" Here, he spoke with an earnest, pleading expression in his eyes, as though he had cried that statement several times without being heeded. Lowering his blue eyes, he swallowed as another tear slipped down his cheek. "Mother understood," he softly murmured.

Confused by his speech and yet pitying his sorrow, Mirathil gently reached over and took his hand. "Do not cry," she spoke warmly. "The Lady loved you; she would not want you to cry. My mother is not glad when I cry. She says 'Oh, my pretty little Mirathil, it is all right.' " Trying to think of something that would comfort him, she bit her lip in contemplation before cheerfully speaking again. "When I cry, I think of pretty things, and I start to feel glad," she offered hopefully.

Blinking, Faramir looked back up at her. Her starry violet eyes warmly met his gaze, softly shimmering with sympathy. With a swallow, he tremulously whispered. "Do you cry purple tears?"

Mirathil blinked in confusion. Tilting her head, she answered, "No. My tears are the same as yours."

"Oh," Faramir sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Mirathil looked at him curiously. "Are you as old as Finiel?" she asked.

Faramir looked back at her. "Who is Finiel?" he questioned.

"She was my friend," Mirathil sadly replied. "Are you as old as she?"

"How old is Finiel?" Faramir asked her.

"Five years," Mirathil answered.

"Yes then; I am nearly six years of age," Faramir stated. "How old are you, Mirathil?"

"I am two," she answered with an air of dignified importance, despite the fact that that was not even half of his age.

"Then you are nigh to four years younger than I," deduced Faramir. Suddenly, he started. "Your father must be searching for you; I shall take you back to the throne room." So saying, the young boy rose up from the floor.

It was only then that Mirathil noticed that he had had something clutched in his other hand the entire time. Rising to her feet, she curiously tilted her head. "What are you holding?" she asked him.

Sadly lowering his eyes, Faramir slowly uncurled his fingers to reveal a bright sparkle of silver. Resting in his palm was a small glistening ornament, crafted to a shape somewhere between that of a circle and an oval. In its shining silver surface was wrought the likeness of a cluster of water lilies while its border was simply but elegantly decorated with a feathery intertwinement of threadlike lines of silver and ivory. In each corner of the border, at the top, the bottom, the middle-left, and the middle-right, faintly glowed a tiny pearl, barely noticeable; and in the very center of the glittering ornament, within the silver cluster of water lilies, was set a large, iridescent opal, crafted into the shape of a seashell-the spreading fan of a clam.

With widened eyes, Mirathil surveyed the fair ornament in wondrous admiration. "It is beautiful," she breathed out. "What is it?"

" 'Tis an adornment," spoke Faramir sadly. "My mother wore it in her hair; she loved it better than any other because it reminded her of the sea. She often spoke to me and Boromir of how she lived by the sea 'ere she wed our father," he softly recalled, gazing down at the crafted pearly seashell.

Mirathil tilted her head. "Why do you have it?" she asked.

"I took it from her chamber," Faramir confessed a trifle guiltily. "Father does not know; he is searching for it. But I feel better when I look at it; I do not want it put in her hair when she is dead and shut away in a tomb forever," he whispered, drawing it to him. "I will hide it and keep it." With a sniff, he stoked his finger over the glistening hair pin; then, all at once, he looked up at Mirathil, his blue eyes wide with worry. "Do not tell!" he begged her. "Mirathil, please, you must tell no one."

Mirathil blinked. "Why?" she asked.

"Because Father will grow angry and take it from me," he told her. "Please, promise that you will not tell!"

Her large violet eyes softening in sympathy, Mirathil somberly clasped her little hands together. "I will not tell," she earnestly vowed.

His face softening in relief, Faramir carefully tucked the silver ornament under his shirt into a pocket. Then, he turned back to Mirathil. "Come, I will take you," he offered.

Happily, Mirathil skipped up to his side. As Faramir turned to walk out the door, she affectionately took his hand. With a start, Faramir cast his glance down at Mirathil; again, he felt that same strange rushing feeling that he had when he had first looked up and seen her standing there. What did it mean? Standing still, he stared down at her.

Mirathil patiently waited for Faramir to begin walking; but when after a considerable length of time he did not, she at last looked back up in confusion to meet his gaze. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Faramir slowly blinked. "I do not know," he answered. Looking over the little girl beside him, he again studied her fluffy golden curls, her sweet creamy face, and her large violet eyes. "Mirathil, you are very fair," he said innocently, not being able to think of anything else to say.

Mirathil tilted her head. "I thought that only grown maidens could be called fair," she pointed out.

Faramir blinked. "Then…you are very pretty," he spoke again, after a moment's reflection.

Mirathil smiled sweetly. "Thank you," she said. Again, her stomach felt like it twisted in a strange way inside her. Desiring to somehow return the compliment, she spoke admiringly. "Your mother was pretty too, I saw her once." Then suddenly, Mirathil blinked. "What will you do with her hair pin, Faramir? Where will you hide it so that it is safe?" she asked.

"I will hide it in the library," he answered. "After it has stayed hidden long enough, Father will think it is lost and cease to look for it."

Mirathil sighed. "I am looking for something," she spoke despondently. "But I never lost it; I have never found it at all."

Faramir blinked at her in confusion. "What do you look for, Mirathil?" he asked.

"A stone," replied the young girl evenly. "I tell everyone about it, that I need to find it; but no one listens."

"Why do you need to find a stone?" Faramir inquired.

"I do not know," Mirathil answered a trifle sulkily, wishing that she did know.

Faramir looked at Mirathil in confusion; but strangely enough, it did not enter his mind in any way to point out the irrationality of her statements. "I could find a stone for you, Mirathil," he offered.

The little girl gently shook her head. "It can not be any stone," she explained. "It is a special stone that I have been looking for-grey with a little mark on it. It will mean something special; but I can not find it!" she cried in exasperation.

Utterly bewildered though he was, Faramir slowly tilted his head, pondering long and hard. A special stone? What could she mean? A special stone which meant something? A special stone…

Suddenly, a light came into Faramir's eyes. A special stone-he had heard of it from his father and even read about it in the library, moreover. At the top of the Tower there was kept a highly prized stone which none but his father were permitted to see. Perhaps that stone was the one which Mirathil referred to. At his heart, he immediately felt a little tugging of guilt; not even he and his brother were allowed into that room. There was no question that access was absolutely denied to Mirathil; but in looking into her purple eyes, Faramir could see that she longed to find this stone of hers very badly. And the thought of the joy that stood to overtake her if the one in the Tower turned out to be the same of her searching all at once overrode his heart's misgivings.

"I think I may know what stone it is of which you speak, Mirathil," he stated slowly.

Instantly, Mirathil's despondent little frame snapped alive with light. "Where is it?" she inquired of him fervently.

"In the Tower," Faramir told her. "I can take you to see it-if you would like to."

Delighted, Mirathil clapped her little hands together and eagerly nodded her head, her numerous golden curls bobbing up and down. "Yes, yes!" she joyfully cried. "Take me there! Thank you, Faramir!"

Feeling an immediate rush of happiness at her expressed joy, Faramir swiftly took Mirathil's hand and began to lead her out of his room and down the spacious hall, in the opposite direction of which he had originally intended to set out with the aim of arriving at the throne room. Walking down the ivory hallway and short flight of steps at its end, Faramir rounded a corner and paused at an especially tall door. "This is my father's chamber," Faramir explained to the little girl beside him. "I must get the key to unlock the door to the Tower. Wait here a moment." Leaving her outside, he pushed open the great door, momentarily revealing a rich and enormous room, and then entered inside. A few moments later, he re-emerged with a rusty iron key in his hand. Smiling at Mirathil, he again took her hand and proceeded onward up the hall. Walking through an ivory labyrinth of halls, passageways, and stairs, the two children finally came to the foot of a great circular staircase. "This stair leads to the Tower," Faramir told Mirathil. "It is a long way up; let us go." Together, they climbed for what at the end of their ascent, seemed to Mirathil's two-year-old legs like a hundred years; but her face immediately lost its weariness for a brightness as she beheld in front of her an old wooden door. With a breath of excitement, she followed Faramir a few paces forward and anxiously waited while he inserted the key into the rusty iron lock, turning it with a small amount of difficulty. "Father will post no guards here," Faramir idly spoke to his companion as he fumbled with the lock. "He says that he fears the stone will call them."

With a blink of confusion, Mirathil looked up the height of the old, dusty door. "Call them?" she puzzled.

As the old lock finally clicked undone, Faramir slowly pushed the heavy wooden door open, cringing somewhat at the awful grating sound it made against the stone floor. " 'Twas seldom used 'ere my father took up the rod of the Steward," he explained through gritted teeth.

At last, the door was open. With a breath of excitement, Mirathil again thanked Faramir and hastened into the room behind it. Beaming, Faramir followed her, well pleased that she had surely found the object of her seeking; however, when he came into the room, Mirathil was standing still, looking about her dejectedly. "What is wrong?" he asked her.

Mirathil turned to him disappointedly. "It is not here," she answered.

"Not here?" It must be!" insisted Faramir. Painstakingly, he turned his head around the whole perimeter of the room, with not a little curiosity on his part as it was his first time to see this room as well as Mirathil's. The small, circular chamber was completely bare-except for a tall dark pillar in the center of the floor, atop of which stood a…

"This is all that is here," Mirathil spoke despondently, stepping aside and motioning to a strange, glasslike dark-red sphere which rested upon the top of the lone pillar.

Faramir started. "That is it!" he exclaimed. "That is my father's stone-the special one, Mirathil!" he eagerly told her.

Mirathil sighed. "That is not the stone I saw," she stated in a melancholy tone. "The stone I seek is grey with a marking on it."

Faramir blinked. "Are you sure of it?" he asked.

Mirathil nodded. "Yes-I have seen it many times," she answered.

Faramir looked at her; then, he let out a weary breath. "I am sorry," he said.

Mirathil smiled. "It is all right," she told him. "I will find it someday."

Faramir hoped so; he felt badly that there was something she wanted that she was not getting. Then, he suddenly started. "Mirathil," he remembered, "We must go back; if we are found in this place, we shall be punished."

Mirathil blinked. "Why?" she asked.

"Never mind; only do not tell anyone that ever I took you here," he warned. "Come with me." Compliantly, Mirathil began to walk back toward the door; but then, about half-way, she suddenly paused. "What are you doing?" Faramir asked her.

An odd expression forming on her little face, Mirathil slowly turned her head back toward the stone-topped pillar. Blinking, she stood stock-still for a moment; then, all at once, she spun completely back around and headed for the pillar in the center of the room.

"Mirathil!" Faramir cried, "this is not a time for play!"

"I am not playing," Mirathil returned, in a voice that strangely, did not sound quite her own. Coming to the pillar, she looked upward inquisitively at the glassy stone that rested atop it. It was too high…

"Mirathil!" Faramir cried again, a bit impatiently; but he released a startled gasp when he suddenly saw the little girl stretch out her hands and violently shake the tall pillar, causing the red glass ball to fall to the floor with a loud crash. Horrified, Faramir instinctively closed his eyes, sure that the precious stone was broken and his doom at the hands of his father appointed; but upon cautiously opening one of them, he was stunned to behold it not only perfectly in tact, but faintly beginning to light with a mysterious glow. The next thing he beheld was Mirathil slowly kneeling beside it and curiously laying her fingers upon its surface, a strange light kindled within her purple eyes. "Mirathil…" he slowly tremulated, unsure of what was happening or what he ought to do.

Mirathil blinked, her large purple eyes possessed by an almost morbid fascination, as she watched a tiny cloud slowly form within the crimson sphere's center and gradually progress outward. All of a sudden, the obscure mist seemed to touch upon the ball's inner surface; and at that moment, just as suddenly, did Mirathil's face lose its curious expression. Inside her eyes could at first be seen an emotion of uneasiness; but then, it all at once progressed to cold apprehension, then to acute anxiety, then to fear-and finally, as the inside of the glowing stone seemed at last to explode with a burst of light, a pure chilling terror. A shrill shriek ripping from her young throat, Mirathil watched in horror as a golden, cat-slitted eye suddenly filled the inside of the stone, which now glowed a fierce, hellish red.

Reacting in shocked alarm, Faramir sprang to her side and desperately began an endeavor to rip her tiny hands off of the blinding stone; but to his astonished horror, they would not even scoot an inch across it, unalterably pinned down as if by some unseen hand. Terrified, Faramir began to scream in unison with her while still striving to free her by forcefully yanking on her arms.

Inside Mirathil's mind, a frightful thing was taking place: The room around her seemed to grow dark and silent; no longer could she register anything that transpired there. All reality fell away from her and was replaced with something horrible-an oppressive, omnipresent darkness that suffocated her very soul. And all at once, she was horribly aware that she was not alone in this place-suddenly before her was a dark, foreboding figure, the sheer emanating terror of which was utterly unspeakable. Not even could she muster a scream, but only stare against her will into the towering silhouette's one searing eye and tremble with an overcoming fear. And then, all at once, Mirathil felt the shadowed figure begin to speak to her, call to her within her mind-and quivering with terror, she shrank under the overwhelming power of that horrible voice:

Who are you?

Flooded with fear and perceiving a deathly will of the purest evil she had ever known, Mirathil did not answer.

Again, the question was thundered inside her-

WHO ARE YOU?!

Releasing a sharp cry of agony, the little girl was compelled to answer, fearing that if she did not, her very soul would shatter into nothingness.

Mirathil.

What?

Mirathil.

She shivered as he-somehow she knew it was a he-groped for her in the dark; then, all at once, he suddenly seemed to see her. For a moment, he was silent-and Mirathil could actually sense his sincere surprise. Then, he questioned her again.

Who is thy father?

Shivering, Mirathil again had no choice but to answer.

Eldoran.

What doth he do in this world?

Sew-and weave.

Again, he was perplexed. Mirathil knew he was wondering how it was that she had come here-but she was not supposed to have come here! Suddenly, however, she felt his deathly grip on her lessen as he absently contemplated in his mind, so that she became able to speak. Her eyes flooding with tears, from the bottom of her heart she cried out with her mind.

Please-please do not hurt me! Please, let me go!

He started; then, with a cruel laugh, he somehow released an overcoming wave of power that excruciatingly seared into the very fiber of her spirit.

Mirathil screamed in agony; and as she did so, she knew that her suffering was amusing to him, even pleasurable. Repeatedly, she begged him to stop, unheeded; then, at last, he gave a hideous chuckle and released her. Within her mind, she felt as though she nearly fell apart from the relief while her thoughts fumbled like frayed, blurry threads unable to form a singular solid string.

With a laugh, he drew away as though, satisfied with her inflicted torment, he was prepared to release her. As he left her alone in the mind-numbing dark, he called one last time to her:

Tell your Lord Denethor that I will come to him soon.

Her mind hazily reeling from shock, Mirathil felt darkness slowly seeping around her as she numbly registered his final, chilling command. And then, it seemed as though, mercifully, in only one brief moment she would be free; but something happened then in that one brief moment, which unfortunately-or perhaps most fortunately, some might say-changed the life of Mirathil of Gondor forever. All of a sudden, Mirathil's dimming mind was sharply pierced by a spark of light which tore away all the veils of shadow cast over her thoughts like a sword effortlessly slicing through spiderwebs; and instantly, her numb deliria was transmuted into a vibrantly alert consciousness of the highest stability. Inside her mind, all the darkness and its will melted away before a sudden, insuppressible image; before her mind's eye was a strange little man who stood so small in stature as to rather seem a child. Comfortably seated beneath an oak tree, he pored with interest over a small book in his hand, his curly brown hair lightly blowing in the breeze. As a low merry sound of singing suddenly began to sound across the glen of his resting, he abruptly raised and turned his head, his large blue eyes lighting with anticipation. Then, in a flash, the image faded and left her again in the dark, nearly about to fall through the shadow's mist back into reality.

But all of a sudden, the awful aura of evil about her instantly ceased to fade and was abruptly renewed. With an overwhelming wave of darkness, the terrifying figure returned to her. He also, through the medium of the stone, had beheld the strange image race across his mind; and now, it was just as though Mirathil had been slipping through a careless hand which, about to let her fall away, suddenly swiftly gripped her again.

Mirathil's heart knotted in terror as she was roughly pulled back into his chilling presence. He had been going to release her; what now did he want?

Possessed by bewilderment, he studied her; what had happened? Like the flimsiest frailties, his power over her had all at once been utterly cast aside for the spell of that one brief moment. How could that have been done? What strangeness was this child, what was-different inside her…

Suddenly, he so violently started that Mirathil herself felt her mind jolted with the shattering revelation of some great discovery. With a frighteningly urgent will, he grabbed hold of her mind and began to thoroughly rip it apart, dissecting its every small section and scrutinizing its every element. Writhing in agony, Mirathil screamed incessantly within the fragmented shards he had made of her mind; and then suddenly, she stilled as his excruciating endeavors ceased-and to her trembling confusion, she could all at once sense his silent awe and amazement. For only a moment did she fearfully wonder at this; for in the very next one, he let out a roaring laugh so hideous and horrible that shuddering in terror, she instantly lost all capacity to think.

Great Eru Iluvatar, wilt thou be so foolish as to give forth one of thy messages to thy servant at this ill time, in my presence, within my comprehension? Surely thou art the most senseless of lords, he espoused with a spirit whose cruel arrogance swelled the whole limit of the shadow that surrounded them both. Turning his attention back to Mirathil, he smugly taunted her. Thou art a special child.

In every fiber of her being, Mirathil trembled.

And thou wilt aid me to find something. Something-most precious.

All of a sudden, of their own accord, the scattered fragments of Mirathil's mind strangely ceased their quiver and swiftly came back together; and all at once, in that instant, she gained the power to speak:

You lie.

Startled, he halted his triumphant laughter.

What? he inquired.

You speak a lie, Mirathil repeated, moved by a sudden boldness. Eru Iluvatar is great; He is not foolish nor a senseless lord, but the Lord of All.

Stunned, he regarded her with silence; then, at once he grew incensed. SILENCE, CHILD! he thundered wrathfully. I am the Lord of All!

Again, Mirathil found power for thought; and again, she rebuked him. No, thou art not; thou speakest lies.

Smoldering with fury, he violently struck her again with his power; but something was different inside Mirathil this time. When he had offended her knowledge of truth, verily the highest truth, she had suddenly felt some strange burst of light explode deep in her innermost heart. From within her it came and yet from beyond her-it swelled inside her until it had flooded her whole being, clamorously drowning out the dark will that oppressed her. And then, within its glow, it took a shape-hatred.

The utter hatred that she had ever borne since birth for lies and deceptions all at once welled up within her to a seemingly infinitely multiplied degree. Bitter revision for her tormentor's false words sweepingly possessed her thought, revolting her to the very core of her soul. Amidst such raging fury, there could all at once be no room for fear-and in that moment, the hatred-or rather the love for truth which it translated into-became power.

Suddenly, Mirathil began to struggle against her adversary's hold on her. Violently fighting, she shouted at the shadowy figure inside her mind. No!!! You are a liar-I HATE lies-I will not listen to them!

Coldly shocked, he strongly gripped her with his thoughts, endeavoring to forcibly subdue her resistance. Cease this! he harshly ordered. Submit thyself to me-and name me unto thyself as the Lord of All!

However, further revolted by the command that she should speak a lie, and indeed, the most blasphemous one possible, her resistance grew even stronger. Violently struggling, Mirathil suddenly began, thread by thread, to break away from the darkness about her. Dimly, the sound of a high-pitched wailing began to be heard in her ears-and the sight of a chamber fade back into her view. Her righteous incensement at his abominable commandment like a white hot light, she potently seared the dark being restraining her in his iron clutch. NOOO!!!!!!!!! She lividly screamed, forcing him with a gasp of shock to release her from his chilling grip-and then, all at once, her suffocating prison of darkness melted from around her as vaguely, she felt herself sharply return to awareness-but then, in the immense weariness which suddenly flooded that instant, she fell into darkness.

VI

The next thing that Mirathil knew was a dim, hazy light; and then suddenly, the light expanded and clarified into Faramir's frightened, tearful face. In a sheer panic, the young lad was violently shaking her, repeatedly crying out her name. "Mirathil! Mirathil! Are you alive?! Mirathil, speak to me!" he sobbed.

With a slightly disoriented blink, consciousness suddenly came back into Mirathil's violet eyes. Then, with a groan, she began to react to Faramir's forceful assault on her arms. "Oh!" she cried in pain as he shook her like a piece of fabric. "Faramir, stop!"

His eyes flooding with a mixture of joy and relief, Faramir pulled her up off her back and threw his arms around her. "Oh, Mirathil, I thought you had died!" he cried brokenly. Pulling her close, he tremulously whispered. "Do not ever die; my mother has already died and left me. Promise me that you will not ever die."

Mirathil blinked hazily. "I promise I will not die," she brokenly complied. "And I will not leave you, Faramir-but…" Suddenly as she spoke, a fear and a darkness crept over her face. Within her mind, her terrifying ordeal raced across her memory; and her purple eyes flooding with tears, she all at once broke down into a quivering torrent of sobs.

Alarmed, Faramir pulled back to face her. "Mirathil, what is wrong?" he worriedly demanded.

Throwing herself back into his arms, the little girl continued to cry. "Fa-ra-mir," she sobbed brokenly. "He-hurt-me; and he says-he is going-to make-me-find some-thing for him-

"Who?! Who hurt you?!" Faramir demanded.

"I-do not-know," cried Mirathil fearfully.

Faramir felt a cold rage welling up inside him; how dare anyone hurt Mirathil? They would be punished! But suddenly, his anger was changed to surprise. Of her own account, Mirathil was slowly calming herself. Gradually, he felt her grow still and quiet, as if she were all at once brooding on something. Confusedly, Faramir pulled back again to look into her face. "Mirathil?" he asked. "What is it?"

Looking back at him, Mirathil slowly answered. "But I stopped him; I got away-I am safe now," she gradually realized.

Faramir blinked. "Who did you get away from?" he asked.

Mirathil's face revealed a frustrated confusion. "I do not know," she answered. "He did not say his name, but-

All at once, her speech was cut short as her purple eyes fell with dread upon the now dim glass ball lying very close beside them. Leaping up from the floor, her face white with terror, Mirathil cried out to Faramir. "We must go! We must go now! It is not safe, hurry!"

Instantly, Faramir sprang to his feet. Together with Mirathil, he started to rush toward the door; but then suddenly, he turned back. "The stone!" he cried. "Father will know-I must put it back!"

Her eyes flooding with horror, Mirathil fiercely grabbed onto his arm. "NO!!!" she shouted. "Do not touch it, Faramir!"

But consumed with the dread of what his father would do to him upon finding the stone out of its place, or worse, what he would think of him, Faramir briskly pulled away from the little girl's clinging grip and dashed back over to where the glass ball lay. "I will be quick!" he promised. As a terrified Mirathil watched him, Faramir swiftly scooped the heavy stone up off the floor and replaced it on the dark, centre pillar. "It is well!" he declared, then turning and hastily scampering out the door, Mirathil at his side.

When they were outside the room, Faramir quickly slammed the door shut and locked it with the rusty key. Then, turning to Mirathil, he spoke to her with tears in his soft blue eyes. "It is my fault. None are suffered to enter here, save my father. I wrongly brought you hence."

With a startled blink, Mirathil questioned him. "Why did you that?"

"Because you wanted the stone," he sadly answered. "I thought it was here. But I should not have taken my father's key and led you here. I am sorry."

Mirathil gazed at him; then, she leaned forward and hugged him. "It is all right, Faramir," she said; however, then she faltered. "But I am still afraid," she whispered, tears again starting to form in her violet eyes.

Faramir swallowed. He did not want Mirathil to be afraid. Gently, he stroked her silky golden hair; then, slowly, he ceased his motion and looked down at the beautiful shimmering locks. For a moment, he silently stared upon them; then, softly, he spoke to her. "Mirathil…I want you to feel better. I will give you something." Gently pulling away, he reached into the folds of his pocket and produced the shining silver hair pin. Looking into her eyes, he held it out to the little girl, its opal clam softly reflecting the light with a shimmering iridescence.

Mirathil started. "But that is your mother's hair ornament!" she reminded him.

Faramir nodded. "I know-I wish that you should have it now," he told her. "It will be beautiful in your golden hair," he added with a smile.

With a breath of disbelief, Mirathil slowly accepted the fair gift, carefully lifting it out of his palm. Her violet eyes shining with joy, she admired the beautiful ornament. Then, gazing back up at Faramir, she rapturously whispered, "Thank you, Faramir; I love it."

His blue eyes filling with light, Faramir smiled back at her. Nothing had ever thrilled him so much before as seeing this little girl happy. With a gentle warning, he closed her fingers over the ornament. "Hide it in the folds of your dress," he told her, "so that no one will see it." When she had done so, a wide smile on her little face, Faramir gently took her hand and began to lead her back down the winding stone stairs. "Tell no one that you came here," he reminded. Casting a glance at her, he was placated by her earnest nod.

When they had reached the bottom of the circular stair and Faramir had successfully replaced his father's key to his chamber, the two children were slowly meandering hand-in-hand back to the throne room. Turning his head to look at her, Faramir asked Mirathil a question. "Mirathil, will you come again?"

Mirathil looked back at him. "I do not know if I can," she answered doubtfully.

"If I send for you, you may come," Faramir assured her.

Mirathil lit up with joy. "When will you send for me?" she inquired eagerly.

"Would you come tomorrow?" he asked.

Mirathil happily nodded. "Yes," she assented.

Faramir smiled. "Good," he said.

Mirathil blinked. "What will we do when I come, Faramir?" she questioned.

For a moment, Faramir pondered. "I do not know," he finally confessed. "Whatever you wish to do; but I have my lessons at a certain time. We can not play then," he spoke dismally.

Mirathil curiously tilted her head. "What are your lessons?" she asked him.

"I study the arts of letters and numbers-and also history," Faramir replied. "Most of all, do I practice the skill of reading."

Mirathil sighed. "I wish that I could learn to read," she spoke wistfully.

Pausing their walk, Faramir looked at her. "I can teach you to read, Mirathil," he offered. " 'Tis really a simple matter-well, I think so, Boromir does not-

"Could you truly?!" cried Mirathil in excitement. "Oh, Faramir, thank you! Thank you, I should love it! You are wonderful!" Delighted, she rose up on her tip-toes and sweetly gave his cheek a kiss.

Initially startled, Faramir froze; right after, however, he was beaming. "You are welcome; you are wonderful also, Mirathil," he told her. As they approached the archway into the throne room, Faramir warmly gave her one last hug and reciprocal kiss on her own cheek. Then, together, they went in.

Interestingly enough, at that precise moment, a maidservant and Eldoran also entered the spacious chamber from the opposite direction. As it had turned out, the ten year old son of the steward had apparently captured a baby squirrel just prior to the tailor's arrival; and his father, in coming to fetch him, had left no time for the boy to hide his captive other than in his own shirt, as his father had suddenly entered through his door. After Boromir's following unseemly flight from the throne room had been apprehended (whatever became of the squirrel may never be known), Eldoran had dutifully completed his measurements before either he or Denethor, amid all the commotion, had noticed his daughter's absence. Startled, Eldoran had gone together with a servant Denethor had promptly appointed as a guide to seek for her. After calling her name several times without an answer, Eldoran had begun to be more than slightly embarrassed, and it would not have been inaccurate to have said that Denethor had become more than slightly annoyed by the ringing echo of the man's incessant shouting down all of his halls-but still smarting from the shameful display of his own, much older child, whose ruckus had precipitated the girl's disappearance, the noble steward had not been in much of a position to comment on the tailor's daughter's mischief. Thus, Eldoran had conducted a relatively thorough search of the palace, which being fruitless, had ultimately concluded in a return to the point of its origin.

Upon seeing Mirathil emerge from the opposite end of the chamber, Eldoran's immediate reaction was to scold her for her thoughtless mischief; however, beholding who accompanied her, the man's eyes grew wide, and he humbly bowed instead. His surprise could scarce have been greater when he witnessed the young son of the steward happily walk his daughter hand-in-hand up to where he stood. With a smile, the boy released her hand and warmly told her goodbye. Even more astonishing was Mirathil's reciprocal farewell which did not even afford the respect of recognizing any title before the boy's name. However, with a courteous nod to himself, the young prince again smiled at his daughter and wished her a nice walk home. Respectfully taking that remark as a formal dismissal, Eldoran bowed again and, appalled by the observation that Mirathil did not, swiftly took her by the hand and proceeded to exit the royal household down the long, wide entranceway.

All the way down, Mirathil kept looking back behind her and smiling; and Faramir, each and every time, returned her expression. Finally, however, when she and her father had passed out the door, Faramir blinked in slight despondency; then, in a flash, he turned and dashed out of the spacious chamber.

As Eldoran was preparing to lecture Mirathil on their way down the walkway outside, he was suddenly interrupted by a loud cry from behind them. "Goodbye, Mirathil!" Turning around, they both beheld the tiny face of Faramir smiling at them from a small window high up in the white stone of the palace's front and enthusiastically waving his hand. In blank astonishment, Eldoran bowed again on the stone walkway while Mirathil happily waved back and shouted for all the lawn to hear, "Goodbye, Faramir!"

Thus publicly embarrassed by his daughter's irreverent addressment of her sovereign's son, Eldoran proceeded to then take Mirathil home as swiftly as was possible. Afterwards, she received a stern lecture, coupled with a lengthy interrogation as to what she had been doing for so long a time period while he had been calling her, in conjunction with bothering the steward's son no less. Mirathil told him of all her account with Faramir other than the frightening incident of the stone, which she neglected at Faramir's order; but mostly, Eldoran found it difficult to get much of any manner of information out of his two-year-old daughter--some dreamlike haze seemed to have taken over her whole attitude and capacity of reason, and try as one might, the girl refused to be brought out of it. So, in the end, Mirathil was simply sent to bed and told she would be accordingly dealt with in the morning.

Once alone, however, Mirathil happily took out her beautiful silver hair pin from its hiding place in her dress. As she turned it over in her small hand, she admired its beauty and thought with enrapture over the one who had given it to her. He was so quiet and gentle…Giving the sparkling ornament a kiss, Mirathil carefully hid it beneath the wrinkled folds of her blanket; and then, lying down to sleep, the happy little girl sweetly dreamed of the wonderful friend that she had made that day-and far away, beneath a high white tower, a little boy did the same.

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Preview

"So what the hell is up in the sky?"

"My God-please tell me it didn't…"

"We must not go!"

"I wish to see Mirathil again."

"Bring me that child."

"Shit-of all frickin places…"

"Mama! Father! NO!!!"

"HOLY SHIT!!! Man, c'mon, FIRE!"

"Who are you, little girl?"

Stay Tuned!!!

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O.K., so here's the part where I talk to my reviewers.

Crow: Thanks for the review and the compliments on my writing; I'm glad you like the idea. By the way, I removed and re-uploaded this story for the third and final time-finally, found the right genre to put it under. It won't move anymore!

Almost Funny: ??????????? Are you still there anywhere? Oh well, I hope you come back. I'm glad you like the idea. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Lil'layah Thank you for the wonderful review! You read my little fanfiction over a real novel? That's flattering! I'm glad my writing style was up to standard. On Arda America-true, it is pretty weird. For awhile I thought about creating a fictional modern country, but ultimately I decided against that for two reasons: (1) This story is inspired from the whole huge genre of people from modern America ("people" being teenage girls, I always seem to find) traveling back in time to Middle Earth to usually become part of the Fellowship. What I thought would be a switch-up and rather humorous idea was to bring Middle Earth to us instead-the same "us" that exists in all of the LOTR time travel fanfiction. (2) Ultimately, I judged that people would have an easier time adjusting to the concept of an AU America rather than a total fantasy country. What always inevitably comes up in these kinds of tales is that there will have to be some scenes of the Middle Earth people being intrigued by the gadgets or culture of the "modern" characters introduced into their medieval world. That thing will inevitably have to come up even more often in my story as these new characters now possess a literal land to focus into the story. It seemed that for convenient understanding it would be better to just leave the modern country as America, what it was in all the other stories. If I had invented a completely new country, people might would have had difficulty in relating to it; they would have felt it perhaps as mysterious and foreign as Middle Earth, which was not my desire or intention. So, I let it stay the same America that nothing will have to be tremendously explained about in order to impart a sense of familiarity. This way, I can get right into the conceptual story of Middle Earth meets modern country without slowing down by way of continual paragraphs in every chapter which further expound upon the fantasy modern country that everyone's just as curious about. America well lent itself to being the modern country anyway though-Arda's Iluvatar, our nation's founding on God; the Lost's seeking shelter in a new land, America's heritage of immigration, etc. Alexander? Actually, I was referring to Sargon of Akkadia, history's first known empire builder. Did the text say "Alexander"? If it did, that's a mistake, and I'll fix it. Joan of Arc is oddball-but I actually have a reason for choosing her in a later chapter. Hmmm…I went back over the prologue, and you're right-it is too repetitive, or rather too detailed. Americans didn't need that much information about themselves, duh to myself. I was just trying to write its history as completely as Middle Earth's to make it feel like a part of the same world-but that's enough of that. Yes, we do sound quite arrogant, don't we? I'm going to develop that idea extensively. One of the most major themes of this story is what Middle Earth would think of us and what we would think of Middle Earth. Everyone who goes back in time in all of the LOTR stories is always like "Wow! I can't believe I'm here! Maybe I do want to eventually go home, but this place is SO COOL! (And Legolas is so hot.)" Well, I submit-what if wasn't that way? What if most people were like "Middle Earth? Dark Ages! No plumbing, no women's rights, no say so in government-that place is SO PRIMITIVE." Anyway, thanks again for the review-I'll try to have the next chapter up in 1-2 weeks.

Go with God,

(Miss) E.D.