Chapter Summary: Denethor grants Glorfindel a private audience, Queen Arwen seeks to make allies in her new home and Barahir suffers the slow death of unrequited love.

Shout Outs:

Jousting Elf With A Saber - If you don't like make-outs, you might not want to read the rest of this story...

Terreis - YAY! At last, you review! I thought you had gotten sick again, or something. Glad you like the story and my style of romance. If you and Roisin Dubh like it, then I guess I must be doing pretty well! And the picture of Nighthawk was put together on a website which housed the Hero Machine. I can't draw worth crap.

Mercury Gray – I won't chastise him. That's what I told him to do!

Roisin Dubh – Barahir was at the masquerade, but I didn't know what to have him as, and so I just left it to the imagination. And Silmarien was purposely trying to stay out of the way. And I am honored at the thought that you, an already published author think me "all that"!

Having spent a few days to recover from the masquerade, the city of Minas Tirith was once again happy and yet peaceful, until the Queen's brothers decided to search out the best alehouses. Their flamboyancy gained favor with the barmaids and their gold with the proprietors. Rumors began to spread of their prowess, and even the ladies of the court whispered of their desire for an insatiably greedy Elven lover.

Barahir too, had heard these rumors and disliked the presence of Elves in the court. He respected the Queen of Gondor, but her brothers had made a fool of him on more than one occasion. Their play at word games and unneeded shows of high intelligence and refinement were too much. He sought out his cousin to escape the twins who made a laughingstock of him.

"Tell me cousin, how long until they leave, do you think?" he asked irritatedly when he closed the door to her sitting room upon Elrohir who was babbling something in his own language.

Silmarien looked up from a cloak she was hemming with a smile. "Why do you dislike them so, Barahir?" she chuckled through the pins.

"Because they make men feel inadequate. If it were truly better for them to stay, then why would you need those you've grown up with, and lived with for so long?"

"Oh, Barahir," she sighed, knowing his trouble but not knowing how to comfort him. "They're not so bad. You must learn to bandy words like them. Perhaps if they know you can be as effective as they, it will cause them to leave you be!"

"But am I not already as effective as I need to be?" he asked, looking at his cousin earnestly like a little boy waiting for his mother's approval.

Silmarien put away her sewing and went to her cousin, clasping his face in her hands. "You are a lord of Dol Amroth, the Prince Heir. How can you doubt your worth? Did you not save me from Corsairs when we were young?"

Barahir could never look long into her eyes. He always cursed himself for being weak, that he could not even gaze into the eyes of the woman he loved most dearly. But her touch was so pleasant, so assuring. The softness of her hands on his skin made him wish he were a better man, that she would be more proud of him, and even accept his suit. She had told him it was because she was unsure of their happiness together. Secretly he knew. His love was not returned, and he knew it though she never said it. His eyes closed tightly when he felt her lips brush against his cheek, pressing ever so gently to leave a kiss. Did she know how much she was hurting him, even though he craved such contact?

"I must go, Barahir. My lady the queen has sent for me," Silmarien said, pulling away. "I will see you later in the day."

After she had gone, Barahir went to the chair at which she had sat and clutched the backrest, nearly crushing the unfortunate wood beneath his hand. "This love will be my death," he mourned, not knowing that his assassin was on his way at that moment to speak to Denethor.

The former Steward had just dressed for the day when a servant told him that one of the Elves wished to speak with him.

"Send him in," he bade his servant, making his way to a cushioned chair. A tall lord whom he knew entered and bowed, smiling. "Greetings, Denethor," his visitor said.

"Lord Glorfindel, old friend," the son of Ecthelion II exclaimed. "I have not seen you for many years. Come, sit!"

Denethor had used to take delight in engaging in verbal battles with anyone who could dare. Glorfindel had actually baited him into a debate once, and he had enjoyed every minute of it. It was not often he could take sport with one as witty and cunning as the advisor to Lord Elrond, and even rarer that anyone lured him into a battle of the minds. They had become fast friends.

Glorfindel allowed small talk to draw on until Denethor brought them back to focus. "Come, you did not approach me to remember the days when my hair was less gray," he chuckled.

"You know me too well, Denethor," Glorfindel smiled. "In truth, I had come on a rather delicate matter, concerning one you treasure greatly."

Denethor's smile lessened a bit, and his brow knit together as was his way when a solemn matter came to his attention. He knew immediately whom it was that his old friend spoke of. "What about my daughter?" he said at last.

Arwen was rifling through packages and chests of wedding gifts from several kingdoms. Some were older and some more recently given. So it was that Silmarien found her queen as she tried to curtsey amid towering boxes of silk, velvet and glittering jewels. Arwen laughingly took her hand and lead her to her bedchamber, where it was less cluttered. Silmarien was surprised by this, as a lady – or even a man, for that matter – never entertained anyone in their most private chambers unless the two were intimate such as a husband and wife, or brother and sister.

"My lady, you sent for me," Silmarien began, trying to cover her shock.

"Silmarien, I have heard good report of you," Arwen smiled pleasantly. "I desired to see for myself if these reports were true."

"The truth of the report might be questioned according to who spoke it," Mari returned, feeling as though she had walked willingly into the den of the hungry lioness.

"Nay I shall never question my husband," the queen replied, secretly delighting in the response she got. She knew of Denethor's attempt to marry her beloved to a member of his court, but was told exactly who by a vicious gossiper whom Arwen did not like.

The daughter of Elrond had decided right then that she would spy out a courtier of Minas Tirith she could trust and get to the bottom of who meant her ill and who was loyal. Aragorn immediately elected Arwen's first candidate to be Silmarien, as she had dealt with the backbiters long enough to fight fire with fire, and would equip her with weapons she would need.

Silmarien however, was wondering how she was going to leave this conversation alive. If Arwen suspected her to have betrayed her intended before she had arrived in the city, there was no way she could have defended herself save hiding behind her father's wishes. She elected that to be her last resort.

"Come, Silmarien," Arwen took her hand gently. "I am unfamiliar with the people of my husband's court. I do not know whom I may befriend for my good and who will deceive me to my ruin. I sent for you so that I could gain friends here. Pray, tell me who shall benefit me as I attempt to help my lord the king."

Mari never felt so relieved in her life. "I am honored that you would seek my aid, my lady," she smiled. "I do not think that you will gain many allies until politics force you to a decision, but for now, I think you are rather well off. There are some however, who might be won over by a subtle whisper or some act of grace. Unfortunately there are a few who will merely dislike you for petty arrogance, like Lord Anaron…"

And so the two conspired and became friends. Some courtiers who disliked Silmarien for her rank and favor with the king and queen would whisper that she committed treason that day, and made alliances with the Elven race. There was no going back.

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