Chapter One – Minas Tirith
She kept her head bowed low.
Rain cascaded over her body in cold waves that penetrated even the warmth and protection of her wool cloak. Icy droplets of water streamed over the hood of her mantle and dropped onto her hands as she held the reigns of her horse.
She moved her hands into her sleeves.
Her entire body was filled with cold. A chill had settled over her long ago and had sunk, she felt, deep into her bones. Her lips were numb. They were probably blue from cold as well.
Out ahead of her, through the blinding rain, she could just make out the form of her father, riding low and bent protectively over his mount. His tall figure afforded little bulwark in such a driving storm with exception to the back of his horse.
Riding dismissively around her and her father, the rest of their party seemed in much the same state as those whom they followed. They rode silently, saying nothing because the rain made words impossible. She could see only a few of them from under her hood. They were riding in front of her, grouped loosely around her father and bent over to imitate him, though more out of necessity that any desire to emulate.
She herself preferred to linger behind her father's company. They were far too grave for her and she did not mind to be alone. In fact, she rather fancied it.
She had brought five ladies in waiting. They would, she knew, be riding in a close circle, desperately trying to shelter themselves from the weather. There was no need for her to look back and locate them, for they had spent nearly the entire journey in that same way. They did not ride directly with her, but farther back according to regulation. It was more proper that the lady of status ride further ahead and apart from her maids as she was ahead in wealth and class.
She had no need for company. Beside her rode her own guardian: Datholen would be riding straight-backed, unhindered by the storm. He had the will of a lion and if a battle could not waver him, then surely rain could not. She could not see him because of her hood that obstructed her vision, but she could feel his presence at her side. He was riding at her right for when the wind blew rain from that direction it failed to reach her. If she had not been so cold she might have laughed. She was grateful for his shade.
Her party had been riding east for several days now. It had not been in their luck to have pleasant weather for their journey and now, on the fourth day, everyone wished heartily that their destination would appear soon – preferably before they succumbed to frostbite.
Her hands were shaking severely. She had lost all feeling in them so that she could not even feel the rough leather of the reigns. Her breath turned to smoke as she exhaled through trembling through trembling lips. Briefly she shut her eyes, trying for a moment to block out the cold and the wet.
A mumbled voice called out among the party.
Here eyes flashed open. She had not caught the words.
"The city! Ahead of us!" came the cry, more apparent now that she had listened for it.
She jerked her head up, ignoring the rain that splashed on her face as she did so. Through the thick mist that lay heavy on the fields of Pelennor she discerned the shape of Minas Tirith, the capital of the realm of Gondor her country. The city rose in the distance, a pale white ghost behind a gray veil of water.
At last.
Despite her frozen state, she smiled. It was a weary smile, but a glad one. How good it was to see those glistening white spires after so many days of traveling. How she had begun to long for a sight of the city when incessant rain had turned her to ice as she rode. Yet here it was.
The entire company picked up their pace. Even the horses seemed to catch scent of it, sensing instinctively that rest was near, and quickened their canter. The riders continued as fast as they could through the blinding rain and from the front of the group she managed to catch a few syllables of her father's commands as he instructed two of their company to ride ahead to inform the Steward of their approach.
She watched the two newly elected envoys dash off across the field, dwindling into the distance until they were swallowed up into the fog. It would not be long until they reached the city. Her own frozen body ached for warmth and shelter, and her muscles twitched to flick the reigns and race to the gates of Minas Tirith with the two that had gone on before, but she was too cold and too weary to try even that. With an impulsive shiver she urged her mount on until she was riding behind her father and the driving rain was lessened somewhat in his lucrative shade.
Her thoughts were far away. Fleetingly they had drifted to the gates of the city ahead and what lay behind them.
It was in Minas Tirith that she was to be presented.
According to the customs of Gondorian women of nobility, she had reached the age wherein she would come out, or come into her name. There would be grand parties and gala events where she would be the headline. Most of this was intended to lead up to marriage, which was inevitable. She would become eligible after her presentation in the House of the Royal Steward, and it was thought quite proper that she should take a husband soon afterwards. It all narrowed down to how well she performed whence she came before the Steward, and whether she met with his approval.
Indeed, and very large part of her future depended on it.
As a wave of cold air blew over her, all thoughts in her mind were banished save only those of her desire to reach the city. Vaguely she heard the hooves of Datholen's horse as he came up beside her, but she did not turn to confirm the sound. She kept her head bowed and her eyes shut tightly, letting her mount follow the rest of the company. She was much too exhausted to move.
Up ahead, the lord Inaridiel glanced over at his companion.
"How fares my daughter?" he asked with a slight grimace. Without a word his companion dropped silently back in the ranks to check. Within a moment he had returned.
"Well?"
"Her eyes are cast downwards. I fear the weather suits her not."
Lord Inaridel tightened his jaw.
"It suits us all very ill," he muttered. "The Steward is very unwise to hold his court at the time of the raining season. We should not tarry any longer on this field." So saying, he spurred his horse vigorously and was off, his startled companion in hot pursuit. The rest of the revenue saw them go and immediately received the command to follow.
The commotion around her woke her from her daze. She blinked and looked around, a little confusedly at first, but it did not take her long to realize that her father had given the order to run. She guessed that the cold had finally gotten to him, and indeed she was glad.
"My lady," she heard Datholen saying to her. "Come."
"At last," she whispered between chattering teeth. With a swift nudge to her horse's side, she took off.
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"Good; well swung, brother; but you're not aiming to hit me."
Boromir, lord of Gondor, tossed his blonde hair out of his eyes and grinned at his younger brother. The lord Faramir's sword whizzed by his ear and kept going, sending that young man whirling into the sidelines.
"Not your day then?"
Faramir wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "No; it is not. It is not a good day." Both of them were sweating profusedly. Boromir shook off his sibling's pessimism as he raised his own sword into the air in front of his eyes in invitation. "Again?"
His younger brother breathed heavily, but did not deny the offer. With a determined look he lunged into the fight, but he hadn't seemed to muster his resolve and Boromir had bested him again within a few short steps. "The weather has gotten to you today Faramir!" said Boromir jocularly. "I've rarely known you to have lost to me so often."
"I'm not the fighter," Faramir excused himself wearily. He moved a hand over to his shoulder and massaged it tenderly as though it were hurt.
"More practice, I think," grumbled Boromir, striding over to an arched window nearby. "You let your weapons go to rust with little use." He gazed out of the window at the Pelennor Fields, half hidden in a ghostly fog as they were to his eyes. The rain that poured outside had hidden the horizon from view, and the whiteness that surrounded the city was closing in fast. The path leading to the outer gate could be barely discerned through the haze.
"Will it rain forever," he asked, a little angrily, though it was more rhetorical than an actual question. Faramir looked up. "There's a convoy from Dol Amroth that is supposed to reach the city this mid-day."
"They were ill-advised to travel at this time," Boromir commented. "But why are they coming here?"
Faramir got up and went to join his brother at the window. "The court presentation will take place in only four days. Have you forgotten already? Minas Tirith sees these festivities once a year…"
"Yes, of course," Boromir cut him off. "I had forgotten, true; but only because it is not important. I feel I've spent too many months in Osgiliath that my mind is completely given over to soldiers' ways." He grinned at Faramir. "But I'll gladly relinquish them for this. The presentation? The thing itself will be a bore, but the company won't get any more agreeable in this place." Boromir slapped his brother's arm jovially, and the latter winced.
"You're never out of place with the women, brother," said Faramir sarcastically.
Boromir flipped his hair back again. "Neither are you," he retorted. Faramir flushed red. "Our father will no doubt endeavor to find you a wife from among the throng this year," he said quietly, and Boromir sighed. "No doubt," he answered, looking back out at the misty field below. "He will see that I choose one, this time more than ever because he needs an heir, but if the women are anything like they have been on every other occasion I'm afraid our father will be very disappointed."
"In you?" Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Never." Boromir turned abruptly and went back to the floor. Faramir felt that he had struck a nerve.
"Do we fight again?" he asked hesitantly. Boromir raised his sword.
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The company moved hurriedly. Rain continued to pour over the Pelennor Fields as only it could in Gondor, the torrent seeming to increase by the minute. It slowed their progress intolerably but all involved shared only one motivation and did all that they could to accomplish the task at hand. Within minutes the gates of Minas Tirith had hove into sight, to the vast relief of the entire company.
She saw the gates through a mist of rain. Huge wooden doors that rose up as it were right out of the ground, beautiful and austere carvings etched into them, framed by an immense arch hewn of white stone. The gateway was small, comparatively, to the walls of the city that surrounded for miles. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of them, and shivers of anticipation ran down her spine. She had never seen the city before in her life, as it was a great distance from her own home in the fief of Dol Amroth.
As they came within range of the walls the gate creaked open for them to pass through. She slowed her horse automatically as she rode beneath the white arch of the gateway. The rain on her hood ceased as she went, but it was only a temporary sense of comfort that hit them all as they passed through the closeness of the gate into the harsh stone courtyard.
The city rose up before them in all of its shadowy magnificence. The stone towers castled up to the gray sky, as if they had been built by the giants, and their spires disappeared into the rain clouds that circled low around them. Great stone buildings towered upwards, rising in tiers toward the top of the mountain out of which the city had been hewn. Each level was encircled by a wall of its own, and every level was smaller than the one before it, until they peaked at the climax of the rock, jutting out into a monstrous divide that seemed to cut clean down the center. It was a beautiful city, and yet it was ugly. It was a symbol of the greatness of the race of man at the glory period of Ages past, and it was truly a marvel, but it portrayed a certain asperity that was quite cowing.
She shivered.
As a citizen of Dol Amroth, few cities could compare to the almost unequaled beauty of her own place of residence. With its intensity and shadow of command, Minas Tirith seemed to her to be the most apropos place for the unpopular Steward of Gondor.
Already, she was not sure that the city would hold much happiness for her.
A small sentry of guards met her company as they entered through the gate. She hardly watched as a few words were passed between the soldiers and her father, so taken was she with her new surroundings. Her eyes passed rapidly over the white rock walls, traveling further and further until they met the sky before racing back down to the paved court in which she and they others waited for the orders to pass. It wasn't until the procession began to move again, several moments later, that she tore her gaze away from the architecture.
The guards obviously intended to escort them to wherever they meant to go for they rode beside and in front of her party. All of them were decked smartly in the polished silver armor bearing the raised insignia of the White Tree of Gondor emblazoned on their chest plates. All of them wore helmets – silver like their other accoutrements and slightly pointed near the top – with the exception of their leader. The latter was bareheaded, fitted to the finest degree in armor to match his company, and rode a chestnut horse near the head of the convoy. Her father rode beside him.
She felt Datholen close in at her right and felt slightly reassured in his presence. He seemed to be telling her that no matter how very large and ominous the city around them appeared to be, he would always be there at her side, protecting her. She took great comfort in this.
They reached the first gate in a matter of moments. It was wooden, though not nearly as large and impressive as the outer gate, and was opened for them almost as soon as they reached it. It led to the second tier of the city. As they processed through that section, she noticed that like in the first section of the city, very few people turned to watch them on their way. They were apparently very used to strangers in their midst, and it occurred to her that this might be due to the fact that Minas Tirith was indeed the capital of Gondor and probably saw strange folk within its walls nearly all the time.
In response to this nonchalance, she found herself staring half-heartedly at her gloves.
Her breath was drawing quicker and becoming labored as she drew closer to the palace at the top of Minas Tirith. The rain had intensified as well and poured in sheets, sending small waves coursing down the cobbled road; the sharp sounds of the horses' hooves against the cobblestones were muffled by the little river of water that was running steadily over them.
The weather worsened near the top of the city, over the circular courtyard that enclosed the White Tree. The procession was stopped here, and Datholen dismounted hurriedly in order to lend his assistance to his lady. She glanced at him with tired eyes, laying a limpid hand on his broad shoulder as she slid off her horse's back.
"We've arrived," she said, and Datholen smiled. "Yes," he assured her comfortingly, "And not too soon. You are looking very blue, my lady."
She looked up through the rain at the palace doors. "Let us go in, then." Almost in answer, the doors were opened and her father was the first to step inside. With a firm resolve she released herself from Datholen followed them, the rest of their revenue coming up behind.
