Author's Notes: The world is Tolkien's; I just play in it. Smack the little button in the corner if I'm screwing it up.
Fellowship? Mary Sue? (Yes, I warn you now, purists, she scored pretty high on the PPC litmus test.) Who said that a LotR romance had to include those in every chapter?
Tamithor son of Talerand the Rivermerchant did not consider himself arrogant, no matter what his neighbors might say. He was merely justifiably proud of himself and his family. Was it not only four generations ago that his great grandfather pushed his rickety cart through the streets of the first gate, his piteous advertisements for Anduin wares falling upon deaf ears? From this poor immigrant background, the family had striven its way up through the level of shopkeeper's assistant to at last becoming master merchants in their own right, with a comfy little shop at the edge of the second gate. By rights they had become fifth-gaters in society, at least, but Tamithor did not hold with false pretensions. It was just as well for him to live in the small apartment above the shop, and much more economically viable. Talerand had always taken great pride in their little, personally earned store, and the older Rivermerchant had instilled a similar pleasure in earned glory and financial success in his son. Tamithor had been taught to price the wares and watch his moneybag since he was tall enough to toddle about the small shop. Like his forefathers, he prided himself on a quick mind and a careful eye.
It was this eye that had first alerted him to the presence of what would prove to be the most valuable item to enter his shop during his apprenticeship to his father. She would not have appeared like much to anyone else at first glance, this dark-haired waif who blew in with the chill spring wind. Tall and gray-eyed, she was just a bit too thin, dark, and angular to be considered pretty by Gondorian standards, but something about those haunted, alluring smoky eyes made her stand out from amongst the other foreign wanderers who paused in their travels in the Rivermerchants' store. With no other customers during the afternoon lull, Talerand sent his son, just of late grown into manhood and old enough to start minding the shop by himself during his journeyman's phase, over to deal with the woman whilst he finished balancing the ledgers. Like any nervous businessman, Talerand trusted no one else with his finances, and was rumored to have squirreled away half his earnings until the day he died.
"Can I help you, mistress?" Tamithor walked up to the wild-eyed visitor. He regretted his choice of address once he noticed the ring upon her right hand. Nothing showy, but it looked like an antique, maybe even a signet. Her hair and clothes were in disarray, as if she had come straight from the hunt, but well tailored. He had probably doubly insulted her, if she was not only married, but someone's lady as well. Pity. Tamithor had hoped she was single. Not that he was particularly interested in getting married, especially to some Dunedain woman who just walked into his life without any warning, but there was just something about her that caught the young red-headed merchant's interest.
"Well," she paused as if just now noticing where she was. Her eyes darted about the shop as she smoothed her riding skirt, her hand lingering upon her stomach. That womb had carried a child once, Tamithor suddenly recognized. He hadn't been aware of it at first, due to her lean, tall frame, but there was a twinge of regret in her expressive gray eyes as she hesitated, as if she had lost a little one. "Have you seen a –" She bit off the end of her sentence, shaking her head.
"A what, lady?" he leaned forward attentively, catching the smell of wood-smoke and healer's simples upon her.
"Never mind," she said, lifting a thin-fingered hand as if to fan away the mist of a dream. "You would never believe it. I'm not sure I do, myself." She shook her black hair away from her face, unconsciously embellishing the drawn, worn look created by her thin, high cheekbones.
"Perhaps, and perhaps not, my lady. I have heard some wild tales in my time," Tamithor stated gallantly. He barely suppressed his sudden urge to kiss her hand, bowing over it and then letting go awkwardly with a discomfited pat. This clumsy display of chivalry really would not do, he thought with a sigh. At least his father had not witnessed it, as Talerand remained engrossed in the ledgers.
"What type of tales could you have heard in such a short time, master?" the dark-haired lady smiled condescendingly, but not uninterestedly. "Gondor is ever on the border of the Dark Lord's realm, but the White City cannot have changed that much since I last visited two years ago."
"These are stories that are best discussed over a good meal." Tamithor grasped wildly for a way to save the discussion. "If my lady would perhaps be willing to join me for dinner over at the Waning Moon's Haven at sunset tonight? It's the best inn this side of the third gate."
"Whom shall I ask for?" the woman's eyes softened at his flustered but hopeful round face. Tamithor realized that he had rather foolishly forgotten to give her his name, and he had not remembered to ask for hers. It was quick enough to remedy such a mistake, at least.
"Tamithor Rivermerchant, milady. And may I ask who I shall meet there?" he said, giving her the most charming smile he could muster.
"Celenel, of Clan O'Palansül, wife to the late Arathorn son of Arador." His suspicions had been correct, but Tamithor could not fully restrain a twinge of hope at "the late." Perhaps he had a chance with her yet. A chance for what, Tamithor could not truly say, but as tightfisted as his neighbors might call him, this would be one meal the young merchant would be happy to pay for.