EDGED IN SILVER
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Prompting Quote: "[Denethor II] was first son and third child of Ecthelion . . ." — The History of Middle-earth: The Peoples of Middle-earth, Chapter VII, The Ruling Stewards of Gondor
Disclaimer: I only lay claim to those characters you don't recognise and to a collection of names and words in Sindarin, Quenya, Old English and Adûnaic.
Author's Note: I began publishing this story in August 2011 as a serialised fanfic of four parts, and during the process of writing over the years it underwent revisions, an overhaul, title changes and even more edits. In late 2018 I felt my Muse was abandoning me and put everything on the back burner for a long while. Now, having reacquainted myself with my protagonist, I have begun rewriting the tale the way it is supposed to be.
I have created a Pinterest board to flesh out my visual interpretation of the written word, with illustrations done by me and others, as well as various titbits that relate to my view of Tolkien's universe. Updated periodically, the board can be found here: www-dot-pinterest-dot-com/wordspin/edged-in-silver.
I hope you enjoy what follows. The sharing of thoughts is very much appreciated.
PROLOGUE
The young girl looked back, watching as the dark-clad man passed through the wrought-iron gates once more and disappeared from view. Then, she turned her attention to what lay before her. The tall trees and fragrant bushes and beds of flowers were bursting into new leaf and blossom, slowly awakening from their winter sleep. Beyond them the elegant buildings accommodating those grievously ill shone almost golden in the morning sunlight.
A pale-yellow butterfly hovered beside her. She bent to get a better look, giggling as the fluttering wings brushed her hand.
"Welcome, Miss Idrin."
The girl looked up and smoothed her dress. She gave the elderly man who came out of the porter's house a smile.
"Well met, Master Sadron."
His lips curling under his white beard and his kind eyes glinting, the porter motioned for her to go before him. He walked with her toward the smaller building of the Houses that faced the wall set about the sixth level of the City.
"Mistress Inneth!"
A good way ahead of them on the cobbled path, the woman crouched by the bed of herbs beside the thick hedge of shrubbery looked up at Idrin's call. Her face softened. She put away her small pruners, straightened and turned to the porter.
"Thank you, Sadron."
The man nodded once and took his leave, returning to his post.
"What did you learn today?" Inneth shook the dirt from her gloves, watching as Idrin stooped to examine the plants nearest her.
The girl glanced at her. "Master Pethael spoke of the Great Plague, but Mother had already told me much of the tale." She turned back to the herb-bed and then took note of the Healer's gloves. "You harvest nettles?" She touched one of the hairy stems and then quickly drew back her hand.
"'Tis the season," answered Inneth. She considered the girl for a moment. "For what disorders would you use them?" she asked.
Idrin brightened at the question and stood up, her face glowing. "The leaves are used to stop bleeding and reduce swelling, and the roots are used to help pass more water."
Inneth nodded, her mouth curving upward slightly. "And what would you use for wounds?" she went on.
"A poultice made from yarrow leaves," replied Idrin promptly.
The Healer studied her for a while longer. Then, from the small satchel slung across her body she drew out a book bound in leather. "This, I doubt not, shall be a good addition to your library," she said.
Idrin blinked at the proffered book. She recognised the fallow-green cover with the flowering sprig of a slender plant embossed on it.
"This is yours," she observed, gazing up in wonder at Inneth.
"I have long ago memorised the contents and have no real need for it," replied the Healer. "It is yours now. Keep it well."
A slow change came over Idrin's features, and her expression was one of pure delight as she reached for the book. "I shall, Mistress Inneth. Thank you!" Hey eyes were bright. She clutched the gift to her chest.
The Healer chuckled softly, sweeping back a greying lock of hair that had escaped the veil she wore. "Now, should you not go to your mother? The morning grows late."
With a vigorous nod, Idrin set off. She wove her way between the flowering lawns and the open corridor along the wall of the south-east wing of the Houses. The hurried patter of her feet punctured the calmness. With midday drawing closer, the garden was empty. Sounds seemed to bounce off the stone, reaching upward towards the lofty arches that supported the gently sloping roof on the outer side of the gallery.
Once she had gained the entrance to the house, Idrin slowed her pace. The rooms and hallways hummed with the quiet voices of healers and patients.
The chamber that was her destination was high-ceilinged and decorated sparsely. The furniture — a single bed, a couple of cushioned chairs, a low desk and a chest of drawers — was made from tan wood and sculpted into ornate carvings.
Idrin's gaze slid over the thick book and aged scrolls atop the desk and rested on the woman settled in the window seat. She was gazing at the flourishing display of early spring outside, her face fanned by the cool draft coming in through an open pane of the tall window. Her countenance was peaceful. She took a deep breath, but then a sudden cough shook her.
The young girl's expression darkened. Before she could call out, however, the violent fit had passed. Her mother was pressing a handkerchief to her lips, but when she lowered her hand to her lap, the flecks of red were vivid against the pale fabric and the midnight-blue of her gown. She drew a shallow breath and turned to the window once more, oblivious to her daughter's presence.
Idrin looked down at the book in her arms. The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips again, and she stepped forward into the room.
Her mother turned at the sound, drawing the handkerchief away. Her face relaxed.
Idrin reached the window and hoisted herself up onto the sill.
"Mistress Inneth gave me this." She held up the book the Healer had gifted her. "It has drawings and descriptions of all the healing plants in Gondor, and even some that are found in Rohan and beyond the Misty Mountains." Excitement had crept into her voice once more. Her eyes shone, a grey as clear as calm waters at twilight.
Elthian looked at her daughter, a beaming smile lending warmth to her pallid complexion. "That was very kind of Inneth," she said. She raised a slender hand to brush a dark lock of hair from Idrin's forehead. Her daughter was only eight years of age, and yet she was truly enchanted by the herb-lore and craft of the healers. She took much delight in helping them with whatever small tasks she could, and they, in turn, encouraged her eagerness. Elthian was glad for it. Both the indulgence of the healers and the continuation of Idrin's daily lessons were a blessing. Her daughter needed not be constantly reminded of why they had come to Minas Tirith.
Now Elthian took the volume from Idrin's hands carefully and opened it to where the thin ribbon of the bound bookmark peeked from between the pages. She ran her finger lightly over the text. Turning the parchment leaves slowly, she recognised the book to be valuable. It was not new, and she herself was not especially learned in the lore of plants beyond what was needed for everyday use, yet Elthian understood that those writings as were within were precious. Knowledge of years uncounted — even centuries, no doubt — was hoarded in each page. A precious thing indeed, for such wisdom of times long past was greatly diminished in their days.
"It is a rather fine book," she said looking up.
Her daughter's face was radiant.
Elthian touched Idrin's cheek gently and glanced down at the pages once more. Her gaze lingered there. Her fingertips hovered above the fine parchment leaf as she began reading silently to herself. Stillness fell.
Studying her mother's face, Idrin drew herself up and sought to find what had kindled her interest so.
That page from the book was one she had seen before, and the delicate image of the long-leaved plant that the scribe had so artfully sketched there was familiar to her. It was the herb commonly named kingsfoil, yet it was a herb that had no virtue known to the healers, apart from its invigorating scent.
The letters on the parchment leaf faced away from her, but Idrin's eyes found the verses near the bottom without difficulty:
When the black breath blows
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!
The old rhyme had always fascinated her. It was amusing to try and work out its meaning, although many believed it to simply be a poem tied to old wives' tales.
Nevertheless, Idrin turned to her mother. "Mama, will a king ever return to Gondor?"
Elthian looked up, startled by the sudden question. She met her daughter's gaze, filled with earnest curiosity, and rested the book beside her on the stone window-sill. She had no satisfying answer to give.
A King there had been once, verily, but he had entered the gates of Minas Morgul and was lost. He had left no heir, and for many generations since then did the Stewards govern from the High City in his name. Her own brother Denethor was presently the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward, and the return of Elendil's rightful heir to reclaim the throne had long before him passed into legend.
Elthian glanced over to the desk, her gaze focusing for a moment on the wisps of smoke wafting above the polished candlestick.
"I do not know, my love," she replied at last, "but he might return still, one day."
Idrin's expression remained thoughtful.
Elthian laughed suddenly and left her seat, making for the chest of drawers. From it she took out a folded piece of cloth and carried it, along with a small covered bowl, to the bed. She turned to her daughter, patting the mattress. "Come. Let old scholars trouble themselves with old rhymes."
Idrin's face lit up at the good humour in her voice. She climbed down from the window-sill and sat beside her mother on the bed.
Elthian unfolded the square of fabric she was holding. She dipped the adorned ivory comb that had been wrapped in it in the bowl, and Idrin caught the fleeting scent of rose-water.
Her mother brushed a gentle hand over her hair and began running the comb through it.
Idrin smiled and turned to the wide arched window. The sun shone brightly down on the garden outside.
On Original Names: A list of the names I have constructed for this tale and which first appear in this chapter, along with etymologies. Words marked with an asterisk are my reconstructions.
• Elthian — observer; from the Sindarin verb *eltha-=to behold, reconstructed from the stem EL=behold, and the verbal action suffix -ian.
• Idrin — crowned with sparkling light; a Sindarin form of the Quenya name Itarína; from the Quenya words ita=sparkle, and rína=garlanded.
• Pethael — word-wise; from the Sindarin words peth=word, and sael=wise.
