When she was alone again, Elestirnë sank to her knees, crying until exhaustion overcame her and she slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

When the young queen awoke, she was in her own chambers. Someone had spotted her sound asleep on the floor of the study and brought her here. Elestirnë sat up slowly, pausing to let her feet dangle from the edge of the bed. As she slid lightly to the ground and crossed the room to draw the draperies shut, she chanced to catch a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. The child froze, startled.

Elestirnë did not recognize the girl in the mirror and could only gape at the image in morbid fascination.

The fragile, pale, disordered maiden that stared back at her, draped in folds of black, could not possibly be Faelwen's fair child.

Tentatively, she raised her hand toward the mirror. Elestirnë and the reflection touched fingertips. The young royal flinched and pulled away. Terrified by her own image, Elestirnë turned from the mirror. Tears stung her eyes, but she brutally forced them back.

Slowly, deliberately, the girl forced herself into a chair. Taking up a brush, she methodically began to untangle her dark locks. When she could finally run a brush through them, Elestirnë pulled the locks nearest to her face back into two tiny braids, tying them back with a dark ribbon so they formed a sort of circlet around the back of her head.

The girl splashed her face with cold water from the silver basin at her bedside and dried it with a linen cloth.

Rising, she straightened her long black gown. Steeling herself, Elestirnë turned again to face the mirror.

She was relieved when the queen's daughter greeted her there. Or at least some semblance of her, if you disregarded the eyes. Though somber and without adornments, it was noble maiden that looked back at her now.

Without another thought, Elestirnë vacated the chamber, intent on finding the Steward.
She found him on the stone terrace outside his apartments. When she first caught sight of him, his back was to her, his hands clasped behind him. He stood looking westward, towards the now lowering sun.

She didn't want to disturb him, but she was so urgent to get through this ordeal before she lost her composure that she did it anyway.

"My Lord…"

The soft words apparently startled the Steward, but not as much as the sight of his young queen. For a brief moment he could only stare, and then he came to his senses and bowed low.

"My Queen."

Harandor was immediately dismayed by the look of distress that came over the girl when he spoke. He could not help but see the resemblance between her expression and that of a lost lamb.

"Please don't call me that…" Elestirnë whispered.

Words of protest were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back.

The child came closer, reluctantly, by all appearances. Harandor saw that she was trembling.

The man knelt so he could look her in the eye.

"I beg your forgiveness, dear Steward. You were right; I cannot hide from the world forever. I cannot leave this kingdom in limbo any longer. As to the rule of this kingdom, I shall accept the office, as is my birthright and my duty. But the crown itself, the Winged Crown of Gondor, I will not claim. It shall await a King."

She paused here, struggling with the royal dignity she had apparently forced upon herself.

"Never before have I been witness to a meeting of the White Council. Its functions and proceedings were part of my schooling, but they were never to be any of my concern, as they were not even the concern of my mother. And I must confess, I would not know how to conduct myself if I was present, but I shall need all council that is available to me. I beg your help, my lord."

She asked merely for his help, but it took every once of her self-control not to fall on her knees and beg for him to assume lordship of the city.

Harandor looked at his child queen in wonder. Her first words had been of wisdom, far beyond her years at that. But he saw now that all though her words were spoken with dignity, the voice that spoke them was a child's voice, the voice of a frightened little girl.

"My Queen." the Steward replied, "I shall give you whatever council that you desire to hear. But my first advice shall be to seek another trusted counselor, one who is younger than myself. I am an old man and although I am still hale, it may be that I shall not live to see you come of age to fully rule. When I am gone you must have someone else whom you can look to."

Although such things had to be spoken of, Harandor was worried that talk of death would further upset Elestirnë. But the girl stood firm and listened, making a brave effort not to break down. "Do not fear the future." Harandor told her gently.

"And as to the Council," he went on, switching topics, "I advise that you appear before them as soon as possible, tomorrow if you wish. Speak to them as you have just spoken to me: with courage and strength, and without pride." The Steward paused. Elestirnë had asked for advice on what to say to the Council, but Harandor did not what she should speak himself. King Elendur's advisors had seemed loyal to the line of the kings while he had lived, but now they were doubtful, and in some ways almost resentful of Elestirnë. Or was it the Steward's defense of her that they really resented? At the moment it was impossible for him to tell.

"Just the formal act of calling the Council together is all you really have to do." Harandor started speaking again. "If they put questions to you then answer them plainly, but say no more than you have to." Elestirnë looked at him with a hint of fear in her eyes and Harandor realized that she was deeply worried about difficult questions that might be put to her by the proud men of the Council. "Do not be afraid." the Steward said quickly, "These men are, after all, your subjects and it is not their duty, or their wish, to torment you with hard questions." More likely, Harandor guessed, was that the most outspoken members of the Council would attempt to openly ignore Elestirnë and cast her as irrelevant. The Steward knew that if they were successful they could sway some of the undecided counselors, and he was determined to prevent that if possible.

There was another awkward pause as Harandor tried to think of words, any words, that might be of some help or comfort to his Queen. None were forthcoming. It was difficult talking politics to a twelve-year-old girl, to whom fate had given its cruelest blows. The Council cession would probably be nothing but a trial for her, although some unlooked for good could come of it. Suddenly Harandor felt very old and weary, and although he would not admit it to himself, in his heart he sometimes felt like he was fighting a losing battle and would spend the remainder of his life in the struggle. But throughout his long life Harandor had learned never to despair. Tomorrow, and the Council, might bring unexpected relief.

Several hours later Harandor was once again pacing one of the cavernous halls of the palace buildings. He had given Elestirnë a bit more advice on exactly how to conduct herself before the Council, and then taken his leave. She had wanted more he knew, so much more than he could give her. But it would have to be that way, at least until he could properly judge the motives of certain councilors. And that would have to wait until tomorrow.

In his long years of experience the Steward had learned the hard way never to be too hasty in judging a person. Men always had various conflicting motives and emotions, and oftentimes their actions on the surface did not appear to others to match their professed beliefs. Still, such outright doubt in the Council was something that Harandor had never seen before, or had even dreamed of. If Elestirnë had been of age to rule then he would have called it rebellion.

The Steward tried to list off the Council members that he could count upon, and did not find it very reassuring. There was Brandir, his eldest son. He was close to his father and could always be counted on to support Harandor, without even caring why. But Brandir cared little about politics at all, and that profoundly disappointed Harandor, though he did not show it. He knew that five hundred years ago in the Third Age his eldest son would have been at home. But now he almost seemed trapped out of his proper time; a great warrior in an age of peace.

The Steward still hoped that Beren would lend him support, but his second son seemed to have little faith in his Queen, but more than a little approval of her detractors. In his heart Harandor knew that Beren would disappoint him. It was a hard blow to the old Steward, but he took it quietly.

Prince Vardamir of Dol Amroth would certainly come to the aid of the crown, for his cousin Faelwen had been Elendur's Queen. The household of Dol Amroth contained the only family Elestirnë had left.

Of the Lords of Lamedon, Lebennin, and Lossarnach the Steward had much doubt. Even the envoys from the north and south stretches of Ithilien, whom the Steward thought he knew well, seemed to doubt the child queen. Lord Orophin of Morthrond seemed undecided, though the steward knew him to be an honest man. Harandor hoped to find Orophin and speak with him before the Council was called together.