A somber looking advisor approached them, speaking softly and making few comprehensible gestures.
"Welcome, lord Inaridel," he said gravely. "I speak for the Royal Steward in my greetings to you. You are most welcome here; unfortunately, the Steward is unable to see you at this time. I am instructed to see you to your rooms where we do hope you will find comfort while you are with us."
Her father looked grim. "We have just come," he said gravely, "From the city of Dol Amroth and a journey of nearly a week's time. If the Steward cannot welcome us himself then I will consider the slight most unjust."
The Advisor showed no sign of emotion.
"I will repeat your question to the Steward, though I guarantee little change in his decision," he returned crisply.
Inaridel's daughter looked up and around the hall. It was very large, with marble and stone masonry rising in cold magnificence on all sides to the high domed roof. The hall was very cold, very silent, and quiet empty. At the far end, an empty throne waited on a stone step.
The Steward had apparently gone out.
"I will show you to your rooms," said the advisor again, "But I can assure that the Steward is indeed otherwise occupied at this time. If you please…" He slid past lord Inaridel and off down a silent hall, not turning back to see if they had followed him. With a weary sigh, her father walked off after him, and the rest of the company followed, as was their wont.
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"Who has come?" the Steward Denethor grunted, stabbing a pin into the map that lay spread out on a table before him. The Advisor trembled as he watched the Steward grab out for another of the sharp iron pins that marked the stations of the watch at Osgiliath and jab it into place.
"If you please, sir; the lord Inaridel, from Dol Amroth, has just arrived and his company is awaiting you leisure."
"Inaridel, eh?" Denethor snarled and yanked another pin out of the map. "That quadrant needs to be moved to the Southern post. Inaridel, you say? Is he here for the…the…"
"The presentations, yes my lord," quipped the Advisor hurriedly. "His daughter is with him; the lady Atalantë." Denethor appeared to be studying the map, one finger tracing a route down the printed landmarks on the worn parchment surface.
"Is she beautiful?"
"My lord?" The Steward didn't look up. "I asked if she was beautiful," he said again. "I shouldn't have to repeat myself."
The Advisor nodded hastily. "Ah; well, yes, sir…ah, I didn't get much of a glimpse of her myself but word has it that she is very beautiful."
Denethor's head shot up and he cast a grim glance at his Advisor. "I know what word says," he muttered, "But I've never trusted it." He glared deep into the Advisor's countenance as he continued, "Word has been saying that the heir of Gondor would return, and after many centuries the people realize that it is all false. It is for reasons such as this that we should not put our faith in the local word."
The Advisor remained rigid. "Of course," he stammered nervously, and Denethor turned back to the map. "I want you to bring back a detailed and faithful report of the looks and spirits of this girl for me," said the Steward calmly. "My son is in need of a wife and my years are closing. He would have the best, but it seems that their breed is no longer as strong for us. I need to know about this one."
"Of course," the Advisor nodded. "Also, if you please, my lord; the Lord Inaridel has made it known to myself that he is most displeased that your highness has not greeted him after his long journey. He…considers it a slight…most unjust."
Denethor growled in his throat. "Fine," he bit sharply. "Tell his most demanding lordship that I will meet him in the Royal Hall in an hour." The Advisor bowed low, and backed slowly away out of the room.
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Atalantë paced the floor of her room, nervously shifting the weight of her furs over her shoulders. She was still very cold from the ride, although her company had reached the palace over a night ago. The rain had reached her bones it seemed, and combined with the excitement of her nearing presentation, she shivered almost uncontrollably.
The room in which she had been put up for her stay was a very large one, and very grand, with its enormous fireplace and thick, luxurious velvet rug laid in copious abandonment on the floor. Two giant velvet curtains were strung on either side of the tall arched window. They had been closed in order to keep out the cold, but Atalantë had had them opened again. The cold, fresh air rushed around the room, smoking in the fire, and bringing with it all of the smells of the rain that had not ceased to fall.
Atalantë was alone. She had sent her maids away after they had seen to her every comfort on arrival, but only because she did not wish to speak to anyone at present. Her father had already gone off that morning to meet with the Steward, and she waited expectantly for his return in order to know all about her upcoming appearance in the court. He had been gone for a while now, and so Atalantë had had nothing to do but pace the floor back and forth as she was doing now.
There was an unexpected knock at the door, and she rushed in a flurry of velvet and furs to open it. Datholen stood there, slightly aback at her haste.
"My lady?" he asked. Atalantë pounced on him and took his hand, leading him into the room. "Did you learn anything?" she asked anxiously. "Has my father returned?"
Datholen grinned, but shook his head. "Nay, my lady, he hasn't." Seeing the look of disappointment cross Atalantë's face, he added quickly, "But I have walked the corridors and have gleaned a little information for your benefit." Atalantë brightened admirably, and bade her guardian to sit beside her at the foot of the high bed. The latter looked hesitant at first, but she waved his fears away hastily. "No one will know," she told him.
"Well?" she prompted anxiously, kneading his roughened hand in both of hers. Datholen cleared his throat.
"We are not the only company to have come," he began, "But you had probably already expected that." Atalantë nodded thoughtfully, and urged him on. "What do they look like?" she asked. "The other ladies? Are they very beautiful?"
Datholen grinned again, boyishly, and shook his head. "I saw some of them," he admitted, "Walking the corridors with their escorts, but I did not find any of them more lovely than yourself."
"Flatterer!" Atalantë whispered accusingly. "You are bold. But please, continue. Are they as nervous as I?"
"Yes, and more!" Datholen answered, squeezing her hands comfortingly. "They walk slowly and talk in shaking voices. I have wondered privately what cause there is to be so frightened. It is only a matter of presenting yourself to the court."
Atalantë quaked. "Aye, but in front of an assembly," she shivered. "All of their eyes upon you…I think we have much cause for the fear that afflicts us." She sidled closer to Datholen, drawing her knees up to her chest and laying her dark head on his shoulder. "It is all silliness. I'd much rather stay home, where I know everything and everyone, and marry you Datholen." Datholen looked down at her, her raven hair spilling all over her shoulders into silken knots on the bed and floor, and looked very much as though he wished the same thing. "That is a dream, my lady," he said quietly. "That is a dream."
Datholen was a soldier, and the son of a soldier before him. His father had been a captain in the ranks, and had died with honor, murdered by a band of ravaging orcs that had come unexpectedly on the encampment at some far off post. Datholen had not been there when he died. Now, having taken up the vocation that he had been raised to do, his position was far below that of Atalantë's and to even think of attempting to court her would have been foolhardy indeed. He had been her guardian for the greater part of his career, and they had become firm friends during that time. This was the most that anyone in his position could hope for, and he felt exceptionally fortunate.
Another knock at the door startled Atalantë to her feet. "I don't know who is at my door," she said worriedly. "Datholen, you must hide; if they see you here they will not understand."
Datholen understood immediately, and without a second's hesitation, dived behind on of the heavy curtains near the window. Smoothing her hair and dress, Atalantë wrapped her fur around her again and went to see who required her. She was shocked to find none other than the Advisor at the door.
"Excuse my intrusion, my lady," he said in his bored voice. "It is my duty to inquire if you have everything that you need, and to instruct you to call whenever you are wanting."
Atalantë blanched. "Ah, yes; thank you," she stammered. "I am very well, I have everything I require. Thank you," she added, not sure what to say. She watched his gaze drift as he look her up and down. The advisor bowed, and slid snakily away, and she shut the door after him with the utmost bafflement. Datholen peeked out from behind his curtain. "Why did he come here?" he wondered.
Atalantë spread her hands. "I am very much as confused as you are," she admitted, and cast a doubtful glance at the closed door. "You had better leave," she suggested to Datholen, "Before anyone else comes to my room again. We don't want any sort of ill-founded rumors traveling around the palace." She looked back at her guardian sadly. "That sort of thing could cost more than my reputation."
"I understand," the latter replied. "I will take my leave." He kissed her hand.
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"What is she like?"
The Advisor cast an anxious look at lord Inaridel, who was standing in grim bewilderment a little farther from them.
"She is very beautiful indeed, my lord," he whispered to Denethor, and the Steward smiled.
"That is very good news," he answered, in low tones. "Excellent. The lord Boromir will be pleased."
The Advisor bowed, and left the hall, a smug look altering his odious features.
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"The Lady Atalantë is my supposed bride then?"
The lord Boromir, clad in a dark indigo tunic, his hair still wet from the water he had splashed over it after his exertions in the weapon's hall, turned to his father with a look of slight anxiety.
"I said nothing of marriage," Denethor hastened to say. "Only, she is supposedly very pleasant to look at, and that is heartily a first."
"You said nothing of marriage, father, but you meant it with every word." Boromir paced on the floor as he continued, offended, "Many women of the court have been called beautiful before the lady Atalantë, and as you are so fond of saying, I have begun to doubt the rumors. She could be an idiot, for all we are told."
Denethor hurried to relieve his son's anger. "All I am suggesting," he assuaged grimly, "Is that you are of age, and it is high time for you to take a wife." The Steward glared at his son before adding dourly, "I need to see our line extended, Boromir. You are my eldest child and it is on you that I am counting."
Boromir returned the stare. "And what of Faramir?" he asked pointedly. Denethor threw up his hands.
"What of him?" he asked, his anger ebbing in his voice. "He is a second child. It is not Faramir who will inherit; it is you!"
"Faramir will have sons as well, father," Boromir explained. Denethor reached over and grabbed furiously at the collar of his eldest son's tunic. The man was bigger than him, and broader, and there had been times during their history where Denethor might have actually feared to grab Boromir like this in anger, but his mind was whirling with the latter's apparent disregard for his own duties.
"They will not inherit," he snarled significantly. "Your sons will take over the line of the Stewards of Gondor, and that is not of marginal importance." He glowered at his son, hoping that the errant boy felt every meaningful word. "You will marry, Boromir," Denethor told him with finality. "You will marry this month. Anyone you choose from those who will assemble in three days, but you will choose one of them. I merely suggested the Lady Atalantë because she has seemed so far to be the most worthy, but my word in that matter is not a command. You will marry whom you like, Boromir; I wash my hands of this. You have three days to decide."
He released his son, and strode furiously out of the room.
