"Andrahar, did you not get my note?" Princess Finduilas asked in surprise the next morning, when she came to the barn and found the knight-probationer waiting upon her, along with another Swan Knight.
"No, my lady. I was up late last night talking to the Prince, and sought my bed as soon as I returned to my rooms. And I overslept this morning, so I had to rush to get ready. What did you require of me?"
"I had written to tell you that I would take someone else as escort, so that you could spend the day with Imrahil. I assumed that, as he had just returned, the two of you would wish to be together."
"T'was kindly thought, my lady, but not necessary. We spent much time together last night talking, and I suspect that the prince will wish to sleep in this morning. You know how he is--he will be impossibly surly until well after noon. I certainly shan't be wanting to see him again until he is more himself, perhaps not until evening. Thus, I am well able to escort you."
Finduilas gave him a penetrating look, very reminiscent of her father. Andrahar withstood it as well as he could. Then she nodded.
"Very well then. But you and I will be speaking to Uncle Aerandir after today. Now that Imrahil is back, it is time you were reassigned." The Haradrim inclined his head respectfully.
"As my lady wishes." Moving to her horse's side, he cupped his hands so that he might aid her to mount. "If you are ready, princess."
Finduilas gave him one more sharp look, then mounted her mare.
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The sun was well up when Imrahil awoke at last, half-hung over. It took him a few moments to remember what had transpired the night before, but memory was aided by the slight pain he felt when he rolled over.
Oh, Valar! I insisted that Andra lay with me last night! I forced him into it, even though I wasn't sure it was what I truly wanted. I failed miserably, and now I've hurt him yet again. The paragon of idiots, that's me! He yanked the servants' bell, and drew the bed curtain partially closed to block the glare. His stomach was sour, and his head almost ached, but he'd gotten off lightly considering the amount of brandy he'd consumed. It had been a good-sized flask….
A chambermaid arrived swiftly in answer to his summons, and he gave her a feeble smile when she opened the door.
"Could I have breakfast, please? Something light--porridge and toast? Then a bath, if you please."
The maid, who was a young girl and not uncomely, simpered a bit at the sight of the unclothed, handsome prince. "Of course, my lord. I'll fetch it right away. Will you require assistance with your bath?"
Imrahil considered the question for a moment. Aside from the fact that his father would have torn strips out of him for consorting with the help, he'd never felt less inclined to have sex, or even the flirtatious prelude to it, in his entire adult life.
"No, mistress," he said at last. "I'll scrub my own back for today at least." Her pretty face fell in disappointment for a moment before she remembered her duty and bobbed him a curtsy.
"Then I'll bring your breakfast right along, sir." She departed, and Imrahil winced as the door shut just a trifle loudly.
When his food arrived sometime later, he found that his stomach was inclined to rebel against even something as innocuous as porridge. But a year at sea had given him some control over the recalcitrant organ, and he forced the meal down. A long soak in a hot bath while he digested breakfast, and the consumption of a cup of willow bark tea effected almost a complete cure. Imrahil had been told by his uncle the previous evening to take a week of leave before he resumed his duties as esquire, so time lay heavily upon his hands. An inquiry to the maid informed him that his sister had not yet returned from her ride, so Andrahar was not available. There was a great need in him to see his friend, to make sure that he had not been harmed by the previous night's adventures, but it looked as if that would not happen until the evening.
Andra said that we would work our way past this. But to do so, we need to talk. Silence will only serve to poison our friendship.
He decided to go on to the tailor's shop, as had been his original intention. Despite his gloating humor of the evening before, he had in fact outgrown much of his old clothing. Spending money often helped him to lighten a morose mood, and at least if he went ahead and did the errand now, Andrahar would not have to suffer the boredom of kicking his heels while Imrahil debated the tiny details of dress that mattered so much to him, and that the Haradrim deemed unimportant and incomprehensible.
So the prince dressed and went downstairs to greet his aunt and tell her where he was going, and repeated the process with his uncle out in the yard, blinking a bit as his eyes protested the bright autumn sunlight. Aerandir gestured a couple of men forward to act as an escort, but Imrahil stopped him.
"I'm just going to Colhammad's, Uncle, down in the fifth circle. There's no need for an escort for that. I should be there most of the afternoon." His kinsman smiled.
"You have grown quite a bit this last year. And I suppose it's possible that you could grow a bit more still, so try not to spend all of this year's taxes, Imrahil."
"I shall not give Father any reason to write you a letter, Uncle," the young prince promised. "Besides brotherly devotion, of course. And I promise to be home in time for dinner."
"Very well then. Have a pleasant afternoon, nephew." Aerandir turned back to drilling his esquires, and Imrahil sauntered slowly out of the courtyard, feeling disinclined to make a brisk pace.
Colhammad's, in a stately white building in the fifth circle, was a long-established firm of tailors who had been serving the well-born men of Gondorian society for over four centuries. The front room contained shelves and tables filled with bolts of the most exquisite fabrics that could be found anywhere the ships of Gondor sailed, as well as pattern books and comfortable chairs and tables for the perusal of the books and the selection of fabrics. There were a couple of measuring and fitting rooms, as well as well-lit chambers in the rear in which the actual sewing was done. Business was always conducted in a hushed manner which lent a solemnity to the act of garbing oneself.
Imrahil had been taken to Colhammad's at intervals throughout his childhood for his clothing when he was in Minas Tirith, and once he was old enough that matters had been left in his own hands, he continued to go there. His love of sumptuous apparel was well-known, and he was a popular customer, his arrival creating what was as close to excitement as the shop ever experienced. Nordhan, the master tailor of the establishment, rose to greet him personally as he came in the door. Things looked to be a bit slow, as he was the only customer in the shop when he entered, but that was deceptive. Colhammad's was always busy, and he could hear the murmuring from the tailors working in the back.
"Prince Imrahil! What a pleasure to see you! It's been what, a year? What may Colhammad's do for you today?" The prince gestured towards himself ruefully.
"I grew, Master Nordhan. So I need a re-measure, and a new wardrobe. The usual--smalls, stockings, tunics, breeches, cloaks, the works. And new boots, if you would be so kind as to arrange that." Colhammad's did not do leatherwork, but they had several fine craftsman on contract to supply the needed accessories to go with their garments.
Nordhan was too dignified to drool, but his eyes certainly lit with avaricious pleasure, as Imrahil's request had just guaranteed a mightily profitable week.
"Will you be needing uniforms as well?"
"Yes, esquire uniforms."
"It shall be seen to." He clapped his hands, and a flurry of under-tailors and assistants burst forth from the back rooms.
"The prince requires a new wardrobe!" Nordhan exclaimed. "Fetch him tea and cakes, and the shirting swatches, and set them in the window seat so that he may examine them. He indicated two of his underlings. "You, stand ready to write down what the prince decides. You, fetch him the fabrics when he is ready to look at them. Start with an assortment of the fall and winter suitings, and don't forget the festival fabrics. I will measure him, and we will return shortly."
Imrahil retired with the master tailor to the fitting room, where Nordhan deftly whipped his knotted cord about the young man's body, hardly seeming to touch him at all. He also took tracings of both of Imrahil's feet. When he had done, he noted the results down upon a card which held Imrahil's old measurements.
"You have grown indeed, and broadened through the chest. If you have some of your favorite things which you think can be altered and wish to have it done, send them to us, and we will see to it." Imrahil nodded, and they returned to the front room. "You've come at a good time, my lord. We have just received a shipment of the most beautiful long-staple cottons from Khand. They are very dear, but would make exquisite shirts. There are some lovely woven-pattern ones. A bit light and delicate for heavy winter wear outside, but appropriate year-round otherwise. And excellent as festival wear, the designs being easily augmented with embroidery in white or black or metallic thread."
As Imrahil had hoped would happen, a tickle of interest lifted his malaise a bit. "By all means, Master Nordhan, bring them on." Taking the window seat, he found a cup of tea, a spoon and jar of honey (for Colhammad's knew well how he took his tea) and plate of little iced cakes waiting for him, and settled in for an afternoon of what was one of his favorite pastimes.
Shirts were the things that Imrahil was most particular about, and the part of the clothing selection process that drove Andrahar to distraction. The prince's friend simply could not comprehend the crucial differences between pure Khandian cotton or a cotton/linen blend, or straight linen or silk, or tabby weave or twill. He would watch Imrahil fondle swatch after swatch of white fabric for hours, brow furrowed in concentration, and sooner or later, he would quietly explode.
"They're all white! There are seven days in the week! Order yourself seven white shirts and be done with it!"
"But Andra, it is not so simple as all that!" Imrahil would protest. "You can't wear a hunting shirt to tea with the Steward, and a festival shirt won't serve when you have to gut a deer. And the properly chosen woven pattern enhances any tunic. People won't realize why it looks good, they'll just know that it does. Besides, I need more than seven shirts. Honestly…" Whereupon Andrahar would grumble under his breath, lean back in his chair, and endeavor to nap.
Smiling a bit in reminiscence, Imrahil received the Khandian swatches from the second hovering assistant and spread them over the table in the light. They were every bit as exquisite as Nordhan had claimed, and the Heir decided almost immediately that the selection process would be greatly simplified if he just had a shirt made from each of them. That left only the embellishments to go upon each to be chosen, as well as some more utilitarian shirts for hunting and weapons work. Then he could move onto breeches and tunics.
I am being ever so efficient today, despite my late start, he reflected as he sipped his tea. Even Andra might think so! Requesting the book of embroidery designs from the first young man, he was thoughtfully examining them when the bell upon the door rang. Intent upon choosing the right combination of fabric and embellishment, he did not lift his head, but listened idly to the conversation between Master Nordhan and his other customer.
"What might Colhammad's do for you today, Captain? I don't believe you've graced us with your presence before."
"Take no offence, good tailor, but had the Steward not insisted, I should not be gracing you now," came the response in a quiet voice with an odd accent. "But my lord Ecthelion insists that I appear in something other than a uniform for metarrë , and I am informed by those who know that yours is the best establishment to procure festival garments, and that it would be best for me to do so early, if I wished them to be completed in time. So here I am."
"The counsel you received was both wise and accurate. Have you any preference as to color or fabric? Or perhaps any budgetary limitations?" Nordhan must be impressed with the captain, whoever he is, Imrahil thought. That last question had held nothing of his customary disdain towards the less privileged. He looked up, curious, and saw the back of a very tall man with dark, somewhat shaggy hair. An odd tingle ran down his spine, and he began to feel rather odd.
"My preferences tend towards the sober rather than the extravagant. My budget is that of a captain of Gondor with no family to support and few vices. I have some discretionary money to spend, but not on cloth of gold or silk brocade. Does that narrow things sufficiently, master?"
"It gives us a place to start, Captain Thorongil. If you will follow me, I will take your measure, and then we can begin." Master Nordhan moved towards the back room, and the captain turned to follow him. And when Imrahil saw Thorongil's stern but noble visage for the first time, his mind splintered wide open, as it had done when he took the hekadi, a chaotic succession of images flashing before his eyes.
A line of dark-cloaked men on a dim grey plain, the last one with a star on his brow…Disoriented, Imrahil groped for the table and overset his tea instead. He could hear the assistant's exclamation, but it was dim and distant. The sun setting in the West, gleaming briefly from beneath a pall of dark cloud…men riding towards Minas Tirith, glimmering in the gloom, while foul dark shadows stooped upon them, and soul-freezing cries echoed in the air…He started to push to his feet. "My lord prince, are you well?" the assistant asked, the question muffled. Ships, with black sails, a great fleet of them, sailing up the Anduin…Awkward because of dizziness, he toppled the chair next. A rain of fire, and of severed heads…the incessant pounding of drums and chanting of foul voices…"My lord prince!" A tide of horsemen in blue and silver, charging across a darkened field…horns, countless horns, echoing in the folds of Mindoullin…Blind save for the visions, he fell to his knees. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life…her hair night-dark and scattered with gems--Elbereth? A grim black gate in a land of slag and ash…And then onto the floor, clutching his head. A fire-mountain-Mount Doom?-exploding skyward in a great spume of flame and molten rock…he could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet…"Master Nordhan! The prince is having a fit!" Captain Thorongil, clad in the worn garb of a woodsman, leading some children through a forest…A harbor full of ships, with a grey mist drifting towards them…it encompassed them and the screams began…Dimly heard dithering from the normally imperturbable Nordhan, then the captain's calm voice. "If he is having a fit, then we need to get him clear of all this." Imrahil felt a strong pair of hands upon his shoulders, and the sensation of being dragged a short distance across the floor. The beacon hills kindling, one after the other…Thorongil again, in mail this time, leading a line of men and horses through what looked to be a dark tunnel…In the present, the captain was issuing concise orders. "Send a runner up to the townhouse, and have them bring a carriage down here. He can't be carried in a delivery wagon. And close the shop--he will not want others seeing him this way." Things were happening much faster now, more faces and places flickering by almost too quickly to identify. Some he knew, some were strange to him. Denethor, his father, Dol Amroth, Finduilas, a young lady who looked like Nimrien, Andrahar, Minas Tirith, a young man with grave grey eyes being slapped upon the back by an older young man with a much more cheerful mien, a wood with golden trees…"He never had a fit before," came Nordhan's protest. Thorongil's voice again. Of all those who had spoken, his voice came the clearest to Imrahil's ears. "I am not sure that it is a fit. I've seen such, with men who had head injuries in battle. I think it is something else. My lord prince, can you hear me?" A warm hand clasped his. A young Rohirrim with a white horsetail on his helm…a mountain valley full of falling water, and a graceful house in the midst of it…Imrahil wanted to answer, but could do nothing but feebly squeeze the hand. Eagles, rank upon rank of them, flying before a north wind…A slender white tree with dark green leaves, crowned with white flowers…
When the wave finally came, it seemed almost a familiar friend after all the cacophony and confusion. At least he knew what to expect from the wave. It loomed above him, the crest blotting out the sky, and he turned with relief. Time to stop running…He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have cried Andrahar's name as the darkness fell upon him.