By dint of much persuasiveness and just a touch of petulant pouting, Imrahil convinced his sister to allow him run of the library the next day, where he was enthroned upon a couch well-cushioned with extra pillows, a rug tucked around his legs, a tray with the sort of light comestibles thought to appeal to a convalescent at his elbow, and a bell upon the tray should the arrangements prove lacking in any respect.
Andrahar was at arms practice, and the prince was not adverse to a quiet morning, for he had a couple of projects he wanted to do some research on. The first was Andrahar's cryptic reference to Haradrim adoption, if that was indeed what he was talking about; the second was that name that had come to him the day before. Was it the name of a place, or a person? Or was it even a name at all? Was he simply going mad? These were questions that he very much wanted answers for.
Of course, the library in the townhouse was nowhere near as extensive as the City Archives, or even the library in Dol Amroth, which was the largest in western Gondor. But the Princes did love their books, and the collection was both eclectic and much larger than most noble houses in Minas Tirith could claim. It would certainly serve as a starting point, and he might even get lucky and find the information that he sought. If not, then after his sister's imposed period of convalescence, he could always go to the City Archives to unearth his answers.
Imrahil was keen-minded, and scholarly matters had always come easily to him-certainly he'd had no trouble in keeping up with his studies as a esquire while helping Andrahar do so at the same time. But it had been a while since he'd been required to do any heavy research. Upon the Asfallin, his studies had been confined to the mathematics of navigation, so he was a bit out of practice in the ways of teasing information from a library. By lunch time, the floor beside the couch was piled with books, he was no closer to either of his desired answers than he'd been in the morning, and he was getting a headache. So he broke away from the research to eat lunch, and when that did not help his headache as he had hoped, he sent for some willow bark tea, drank it and then tried to take a nap.
Sleep did come to him eventually, but it was disturbed and uneasy. He woke abruptly, with the feeling that he was being watched. Looking up, he met the chill regard of the Captain-General of Gondor, who was standing over his couch. Gasping in surprise, he started to sit up, only to be halted by an upraised hand.
"Please do not rise, Prince Imrahil! I apologize for disturbing you. Your sister was kind enough to invite me for lunch. My father asked me to send his condolences over your recent indisposition, and wanted to know if there was anything we could do to help. I came in here to relay his message, but had I known that you were asleep, I would not have done so."
The Heir rubbed his eyes. "No apologies are necessary, Lord Denethor. It is just as well that you did wake me, for I do not wish to remain sleepless tonight."
"You are kind to say so. But come, is there anything we can do for you? From what Lady Finduilas says, the experience must have been a very disconcerting one."
The young prince shook his head. "The best advice anyone can give me right now, my lord, is to rest. Only time will tell if it is an ongoing problem."
Lord Denethor seated himself in the chair nearest the couch with the assurance of one who had the right to do so without asking leave.
"I understand that Captain Thorongil was there when your…episode happened, and that he brought you home."
Wariness brought Imrahil fully awake, though he endeavored to seem relaxed.
"So they tell me," he replied behind his hand, as he yawned. "I was not awake when he brought me home. I did see him at Colhammad's."
"It seems strange that his presence should cause you to have a vision."
His alarm increasing by the moment, the young prince made himself shrug. Lifting the cup of cider from his tray, he took a sip. Eyes lowered over the cup, he said, "I do not know that it was the captain who 'made' me have the vision, my lord." Chuckling quietly, he raised his head to look the Steward's Heir square in the eye. "Andra's theory is that it was brought on by my becoming overwrought over the selection of the proper material for new shirts. He thinks I worry over much about such things."
Odd, Imrahil reflected, as Lord Denethor's face darkened slightly at the mention of Andrahar, how the dropping of a name seems to bring the person named to you in spirit at least. He felt stronger, more confident of a sudden, as if Andrahar were actually there at his back, lending him support.
"I suppose that it is unreasonable to assign blame to Thorongil in this matter," Denethor conceded. "It was good of him to take such care of you."
"Indeed it was," Imrahil agreed, setting the cup back down and repressing the urge to suggest that Finduilas had found the captain's actions admirable. He was trying to keep the man out of trouble after all, even if he wasn't sure exactly what sort of trouble it was…."He has offered to give me lessons in swordplay when I am well."
"You will surely find such lessons…beneficial. Thorongil is a wizard with a blade," the Captain-General said.
"So Andra says as well."
A slight frown at the second mention of Andrahar's name. "Did the captain make an appearance in your visions?"
"Everyone that I know did, to the best of my recollection, my lord," Imrahil replied easily. "You must understand that they were only quick flashes, gone almost before I could identify them."
Denethor's gaze sharpened. "Everyone you know, you say, my lord prince? You'd never even seen Thorongil until that moment, had you?"
The Heir blinked, taken aback. "Why no, my lord. But I remember him in the vision, perhaps because I'd just met him. It was nothing extraordinary-a brief glimpse of him in armor, leading some men on horseback like a captain ought." A carefully casual shrug. "I don't see how it signifies anything important."
Lord Denethor settled back into his chair more comfortably. He seemed inclined to stay a while. This dismayed Imrahil, who had hoped the man would tire of questioning him and depart to court his sister some more. "Perhaps you are right, and it does not," the Steward's Heir agreed. "Perhaps none of it does. Yet I would think that you might want to strive to remember some of what you saw, if only to understand it more fully and give yourself some peace of mind."
"I was advised not to do so, sir," the prince replied honestly, omitting the fact that the advice had come from Thorongil. Though I do have to wonder why I feel compelled to protect the man! he thought wryly to himself. 'Tis a strange thing to favor a first-met stranger over the Heir to the Stewardship, a man I've known almost my whole life! And for that matter, why did Thorongil try to discourage me from remembering? "I have been told that if I do not dwell upon it, it will be less likely to happen again. And I very much do not want it to keep happening!"
"Yes, I can see where it would curtail a warrior's career. But your father rules well enough without the white belt--he is greatly respected. And does he not possess your family's gift?"
"This may not be my family's gift, my lord, just a relic of something foolish that I did last summer." Imrahil cast his eyes down in an embarrassment that was not entirely unfeigned. "Has my sister spoken of it to you?"
Lord Denethor steepled his fingers together. "Lady Finduilas did mention some trouble you'd gotten into last summer. She said it was why you had been sent to sea for a time. But she did not speak of the specifics. As I recollect, shortly after that, my father received a complaint about a couple of young high-bloods being sent down from the Swan Knights. His response was, of course, that it was Prince Adrahil's right to oversee his Swan Knights as he saw best, and that the Steward had no authority to override his decisions upon such matters. I had wondered if there was a connection."
"There was. I will not go into detail other than to say that my indisposition may not be true prophecy, but rather the aftereffects of a dose of tainted hekadi I took last summer."
The Captain-General's eyebrow arched. "Did your young Southron knight have anything to do with that?"
Imrahil sat up, eyes flashing. "No, my lord, other than to save me when I near perished from taking it! Think you he would still be here, much less a Swan Knight, if he'd aided me in acquiring it?" Throwing the lap rug aside, he got to his feet, careful of the piles of books. "May I speak plainly, my lord?"
"You may," Lord Denethor said.
"You have made no secret of your dislike and distrust of Andrahar, either to me or to him. But he has my trust, and my sister's trust, and more importantly, my mother's and my father's. In fact, last year, when Andrahar wished to leave the Swan Knights because those high-bloods you speak of ambushed, bound and beat him half to death, Father went to a great deal of trouble to persuade him to stay." Feeling the need to put some distance between himself and Denethor of a sudden, Imrahil padded over to the nearest wall of bookshelves in his stocking feet, and leaned his back against them. His head was starting to hurt again.
"If you wish to become a part of our family, you are simply going to have to accept the fact that Andrahar is a member of our household. You'll get a lot further with Fin, and certainly much further with Father and myself if you do."
Lord Denethor received this declaration calmly. "I appreciate your candor, young Imrahil," he said when the young prince was done. "May I speak plainly as well?" Imrahil nodded, careful of his aching head. "Has it never seemed an…odd…coincidence that on your one trip to Umbar you should encounter a youth of similar age and interests to you, in a situation that was sure to guarantee your sympathy for him? Has it never occurred to you that the Haradrim would love to have a spy close to the royal family of Dol Amroth? Your family leads western Gondor, 'tis your navies that keep Gondor safe from the Corsairs. And for the last four years there has been a Haradrim ear in the heart of your councils, and a Haradrim tongue influencing them. I am sure the Lord of Umbar is overjoyed."
"I rather doubt the Lord of Umbar even knows," the young prince retorted. "I did not take the route back to my ship that I was supposed to that day. It was a whim of the moment that brought me to the market where I found Andra. Any planted spy would have been upon my original route. And there is one other flaw in your theory, my lord. As well as your logic."
"And that would be?" the Captain-General asked gently.
"You obviously believe that my house has the gift of foresight, or you would not have been pressing me as you have just now to reveal the content of my visions to you. If you believe me foresighted, and my father as well, then how can you claim that Andrahar is a spy? He wanted to leave last year, and Father did his best to keep him with us. Which means one of three things--that Andrahar is not a spy, and Father deems it best for our house if he remains with us; that Andrahar is a spy, and Father is knowingly using him to feed disinformation to the enemy; or that Father is a treasonous tool of the Haradrim himself-in which case you have much more to worry about than one Southron knight-probationer! I know which of those three possibilities I believe."
"An interesting argument, young prince. Your loyalty does your credit," Lord Denethor said with a smile. He made no comment upon the validity of said argument, not that Imrahil cared. The prince suddenly realized to his horror, that along with the headache, he was experiencing the same odd feeling he had the day before, right before Thorongil turned around.
No! Not now! Not in front of him!
"Prince Imrahil?"
Had he spoken aloud? He wasn't sure. Imrahil looked to the couch--two steps away, it might as well have been a mile. The white was already beginning to gather.
"Call my sister!"
Denethor, looking worried, got to his feet, but did not move towards the door. "Perhaps you should lie down first…You look very pale of a sudden." He started around the couch at the same time Imrahil went for it. One long stride, and the young prince's knees buckled as they had the last time. He fell awkwardly against the back, his jaw cracking against the carved wooden frame at the top, his teeth sinking into his lip. The pain in his lip and jaw drove the vision back for a brief, precious moment, and he clutched the back of the couch and gasped, "Please! Just get help, my lord!"
The Captain-General started towards him once more, then paused, as indecisive as Imrahil had ever seen him, then finally started for the door, but it opened before he reached it, and Andrahar stepped into the room. One look at the scene before him, and the pleasant expression upon his face changed instantly to rage.
"What have you done to him?"
"Nothing! We were but talking, and he began to feel ill, and fell. He asks for his sister."
"Then get her!" the former slave snarled at the Steward's Heir of Gondor. Lord Denethor ran out the door. Andrahar did not do anything so prosaic as run around the couch--he ran two strides, and vaulted it to land beside his friend.
"Imri? Can you hear me? I'm here. I have you."
Imrahil, making his inevitable surrender to the storm of images, was glad to feel the Haradrim's strong arms close around him and pull him close, anchoring him. His face was pressed against Andrahar's freshly-laundered tabard, and part of him worried about bleeding upon it, but only a small part. The rest of him listened to Andrahar's deep voice rising and falling in a soothing litany of encouragement, and watched the chaotic flow of light and color before his eyes. He waited impatiently for it all to be over, for the wave to arrive, but it never came. This time, things ended in fire and a blaze of light.
8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8
"Mother?" The voice was drowsily querulous.
"No, Imri, it's Fin."
"Oh." A long pause. "What time is it?"
"Second bell rang some time ago."
Another pause. "Should be in bed."
"Me? Someone needed to look after you, baby brother."
"Andra?"
"On the couch right over there. He has to get up and fight in a few hours, so I made him get some sleep. Would you like a drink?"
"Please." Finduilas poured a cup of water for her brother, and lifted his head so that he could drink. When he had done, she settled him back onto his pillows and gently brushed the hair back from his brow.
"How does your head feel now?"
"Empty." Her mouth quirked a bit, and Imrahil lifted a cautionary finger from the coverlet. "Don't start." The princess chuckled. Though the lamp was turned low, she could see a bit of her brother's usual mischief in his eyes, and it went far towards easing the worry she'd been suffering all afternoon and evening.
"We had the healers here, Imri. They were wanting to move you to the Houses of Healing so that they could observe you."
Imrahil's eyes widened. He seemed much more awake of a sudden. "I don't want to go there, Fin! Please let me stay here!"
"Gracious! You sound as if you were six again! Just because you had such a bad time there when you broke your arm as a boy, is no reason not to go there now."
"But they have none of the comforts of home there! Their bed linens are scratchy! And besides, what's the good of being a prince if you can't make people dance attendance on you where you want to be?"
"Petulant pup! I've never seen such arrogance!" Finduilas' smile moderated the harshness of her words.
"Speaking of arrogance, where's that wizened old suitor of yours?"
"Imrahil! I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of Lord Denethor! His interest in me aside, he is the Steward's Heir of Gondor, and therefore due your respect."
"He's too old for you."
The Princess of Dol Amroth cocked her elegant eyebrow. "Hmmmmm, judging from the way you play about, you'll be every bit as old as he or older before you marry. I hope I live to see the day you fall for some little sprig half your age-I'll never let you live it down!"
Imrahil ignored the threat. "Is he still here? Did you put him up for the night? Oh, the scandal!" A hand was theatrically pressed to the prince's pale brow.
"Stop it, you wretch! If you must know, he did stay quite late, until we were reasonably sure that you were going to be all right. He was very concerned about you."
"Awfully good of him, since he was the one who put me in this state."
Finduilas frowned. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
"I mean that I was napping in the library, and when I woke up, I found Lord Denethor looming over me like the kings in the Argonath. Sits himself down, gives the Steward's regards and best wishes for my continued health, and then starts in about my visions, and how I should try to remember them, and did Thorongil make them happen, and had I seen him in the vision, and if so, what was he doing? Then he goes on to talk about how Andra is a Haradrim spy who was intentionally planted on me when I went to Umbar. About that time, I fell over."
"I am sure he did not mean you any harm, Imri. You did not see him when he came to find me. He was most upset!"
"He just didn't want you to know he'd caused the attack."
"I do not think he did cause it, Imri."
"He badgered me while I was sick, Fin!"
"I am sure that he was merely trying to find out if there was something he could do to help you! Can you give the man no credit? He picked up all those books you'd left all over the floor, and sorted them out for you on the table while we were waiting for the healers to finish. He even made sure that all the little place markers were still in the right places."
"Nosing about," Imrahil suggested darkly. "He was curious to see if I were looking up anything about my visions." His sister gave him an irritated look.
"You are ill, and ill-humored with it, so I will make allowances. But I weary of your continual complaints about Denethor, Imri. You know next to nothing of the man, he is not as you would paint him, and I like him very much. So you had best find some way to come to an accommodation with him. Because he may become a member of the family very soon."
The Heir closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed wearily. "I am sorry, Fin. You are right, I do not feel well. And you are tired and cross from having to stay up with me. You should go on to bed. I swear to you I have no intention of perishing before dawn."
"That is not amusing, little brother."
"Go on, Fin. Andra is here. I will wake him if I begin to feel bad. I know how it feels now before it starts--I will have a minute or two of warning."
"Really? That could be useful."
"Indeed." He tipped his head up, inviting a kiss, and Finduilas obligingly pecked him on the cheek.
"Are you sure that you will be all right?"
"I am sure! Good night." He watched as his sister went reluctantly out the door, closing it softly behind her, then turned his head to meet the black eyes watching him from the couch. Andrahar had been awake for some time. "So, are you a Haradrim plant?"
"Of course," came the matter-of-fact reply, after an impressive yawn. "I was sent to encourage Lord Denethor in his courtship of your sister, since it is believed that he is probably too old to sire children. You I was supposed to seduce and turn into a lover of men, so that you would not have sons either. Thus would the downfall of the royal house of Dol Amroth be accomplished, without any sort of costly warfare whatsoever."
"Truly?" Imrahil grinned. "I must say, your 'encouragement' of Lord Denethor is the oddest I've ever seen."
A disgruntled snort issued forth from the Haradrim and he rolled over to return to sleep, after checking and re-adjusting the location of his weapons appropriately. "That is because you have no appreciation for subtlety. Get some rest, Imrahil."