Chapter Four
In the ballroom

"Green, perhaps", the tailor mused, tilting her head and eying the young woman in front of her from head to toe. "Not too dark and not too bright... mossy, I think. A deep, mossy green."

"I don't care which color," Lírulin said, swallowing nervously, "as long as it fits. And you won't have the time to sew a new one anyway. I need it tomorrow."

"A fact I'm perfectly aware of," the tailor retorted. "I brought a dozen robes you might want to have a look at. Siriwen? Come in, lass, and quick!"

A young maidservant wound her way through the narrow door into the sunlit living room, hampered by the huge pile of fabric she was trying to carry without dropping the whole load. Lírulin rushed to her side and with her help the robes landed safely on the table, a rainbow of colors from deepest purple to brightest blue.

The tailor lifted the sleeve of the topmost dress; it was made of dark brown velvet, richly decorated with lace and embroidered flowers.

"No," she said resolutely. "Not your color, and much too warm. We don't want you to faint in the middle of a dance, do we?" A bobbin lace collar appeared between her hands, fastened on a yellow silk bodice. "No, not that one," the tailor remarked, collecting the robe and unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. "You'd look like an oversized canary bird. What about cherry red satin..."

The dress in question was examined, mulled over and rejected.

"Perhaps I should forget the whole matter," Lírulin remarked, frowning. "Honestly, the idea of spending the whole evening between all those lords and ladies scares me. Why can't I pay Queen Arwen a visit when we go to Minas Tirith next time?"

"Good question," Noerwen muttered under her breath. But the she straightened, her lips curling to a confident, encouraging smile. "Just enjoy the ball, child," she said. "And in your case you already know the prince at hand, which is a blessing, after all."

"Here!" It was an exclamation of sheer triumph, coming from the tailor. She pulled a length of shimmering, green silk out of the pile. "This one."

It was a simple dress, with a round neckline. The only adornment was a long, embroidered tendril of ivy leaves in pale silver, running from the left shoulder down to the hem; the long trumpet sleeves were made of a thinner material, translucent like a delicate veil.

"There you are. And now go and try it," the tailor commanded. "With a little luck all I'll have to do is to take it in here and there."

Lírulin gingerly collected the dress and left the room, and the tailor busied herself with rummaging in her bag and pulling out thread, a small tin box with pins and a pair of scissors. Noerwen stood beside the window, gazing outside on the sun-dappled meadow. Again she thought of the ball... an assembly of Gondor's finest ladies, presenting their well-bred, well-dressed daughters to a young man who was expected to make the appropriate choice...or to choose the most harmless predator in a pool full of sharks, more likely. The poor boy.

And now her daughter was forced to survive in those dangerous waters, too, even if it was for only one night. Noerwen would have a word or two with Arwen, Evenstar of her people or not.

"Mama?"

She turned around... and stilled, exhaling slowly.

Lírulin stood on the doorstep, chewing her lip. She had loosened the braid she usually wore and combed out her hair; it fell in shining waves over shoulders that were nearly bared by the dress she wore. The neckline was deep – not deep enough to be improper, but it showed a delicious hint of the girl's cleavage... no, not a girl anymore, Noerwen thought, but a woman instead. Green silk flowed down to her feet, caressing round, firm breasts and gently curved hips on the way, and sun-kissed skin shimmered through the thin fabric of the sleeves. A simple dress indeed, but combined with Lírulin's natural loveliness, it was truly breathtaking.

Noerwen swallowed. "You... you are beautiful."

Lírulin didn't answer, but she smiled, and it was a radiant smile. For a long while the room was silent, but then Siriwen the maidservant gave a watery sniffle, followed by a resolute snort from the tailor.

"Now, Lady Noerwen, if we could turn to the task at hand..."

"Of course," Noerwen said, shaking off the spell. Lírulin positioned herself where she was told, obediently stretching both arms away from her body while the tailor knelt on the wooden floor, mumbling instructions to Siriwen from the corner of her mouth while deciding where the dress still had to be fitted with a few stitches, and marking the spots in question with a multitude of pins. After watching her work for half an hour, Noerwen cleared her throat.

"Would you excuse me? I hope you don't mind, Lírulin, but I must have a short look on the comfrey ointment I started this morning. Besides, your father will return soon; I should take care for our lunch."

"Don'p lep pap beaupy here eap poo mupf," the tailor said, pinheads sticking out between her lips. "or fe preff will pinf in fe mofp unpleafanp plafef."

Lírulin raised one eyebrow, smothering a giggle.

"She's giving you the advice to skip meals until the ball begins, or your dress might be too tight to be comfortable," Noerwen translated, her eyes twinkling. "Most of the young noblewomen will doubtlessly do just that."

"Well, I doubtlessly won't," Lírulin said, a determined, steep fold between her brows. "It's only one evening, after all, and luckily enough I'm not bound to turn Elboron's head." She paused, then continued with a tiny sigh. "He won't notice me anyway."

If he actually does not, he must be as blind as a bat, Noerwen thought. But she didn't say it aloud.

vvvvv

The evening of the ball came; Lírulin had taken a bath, and the dress was delivered just in time. With it came a small, wooden box, the lid engraved with Elvish letters and inlaid with mother of pearl. While Lírulin slipped into the dress, Noerwen opened the box and found a small, folded note.

I don't think your daughter needs much jewelry to fortify her beauty, but this will hopefully give her some joy.

A.

On a bed of black satin lay a flower, a round emerald, surrounded by petals made of freshwater pearls and fastened on a green band of velvet. It was cleverly chosen... the perfect gem for an innocent maiden. Not for the last time Noerwen asked herself why on earth Arwen took such a profound interest in the appearance of her daughter; but this was a question not to be answered right now.

She gave Lírulin enough opportunity to admire the unexpected gift of the Queen while she busied herself with the girl's hair. Instead of creating a complicated crown, she simply took two thick strands from where it framed Lírulin's face; she braided them to simple plaids and fastened them on the back of her head. She knew that some of the more courageous ladies at the court of Gondor had developed the habit to copy the way how their Elven queen wore her hair, and only after her daughter had left with a heartfelt embrace, she suddenly remembered what Legolas had told her some years ago: that Elven warriors tamed their hair just like she had tamed the black tresses of her daughter – before going to battle. –

The residence was brightly lit when Lírulin climbed down from the small chaise. The Princess Éowyn had sent one of the coachmen from Emyn Arnen to pick her up; Malegond, an old, gruff man with a scar that ran down from his left temple to his neck. She knew him practically since she had learned to walk, and she had grown up with his stories of the fight on the Pelennor Fields. The stunned expression on the familiar, grim face when he first saw her in the green dress still warmed her and gave her courage.

He escorted her to the main entrance where she was greeted by Aranel, one of Queen Arwen's court ladies; it was a young, friendly woman Lírulin already knew, and chosen on purpose, too. When Lírulin visited Minas Tirith three years ago, she had spent many hours teaching her how to embroider a pillow case. Lírulin's hands were nimble and confident when it came to medicine powders and healing draughts, but she was able to wreak havoc with an innocent piece of fabric whenever she touched needle and thread. Under the patient tutelage of Aranel she had actually managed something rather presentable, though, and she had given it to her mother for her fiftieth birthday. And now the presence of her kind teacher was enough to make her feel protected and halfway self-secure when she finally reached the door to the ballroom.

It was an impressive scene... young noblewomen in festive gowns as colorful and manifold as a flower garden in full bloom, circling around splendidly clad courtiers in the slow, calculated steps of a ceremonial dance. The air was filled with the music of flutes, violins and lutes, and heavy with the scent of mixed perfumes. At the far end of the hall, four golden chairs had been lined up on a dais; she saw Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn, and beside them Aragorn and Arwen. The sheer presence of such a number of noble folk would have made the knees of an extremely bold person go weak, and for a short, dizzying moment Lírulin felt the overwhelming urge to turn tail and run.

She paled and involuntary shied back, but then a warm hand touched her shoulder.

"Don't be afraid," Aranel said. "You are favored by a Queen and a Princess, and the Heir of Ithilien is your childhood friend. You have nothing to fear. And besides..." She came a little closer, her voice conspiratorial. "He deserves a kind face among all those gaudy beauties on the hunt for his hand, does he not?"

As if the mentioning of Elboron had worked like a spell, Lírulin suddenly spied him, dancing close to the dais. He held the hand of a pretty maiden dressed in pale pink and gold. Her blonde hair was an elaborately arranged mass of curls, adorned with rosebuds. They made a beautiful couple, and Elboron's posture was flawless, but Lírulin, eyes sharpened by her own unease, could see his tension and felt an unexpected, short sting of pity.

"I guess you are right," she said slowly and watched Aranel open one of the great double wing doors to beckon a servant close. She whispered into his ear, and the man wound his way through dancers and musicians until he had reached the dais. He bowed before the Queen who looked up and shot a searching gaze towards the other end of the room. Now the dance was over; Elboron led the maiden back to her place. Lírulin spied an elder man and beside him a woman with the same blonde curls as the girl; her parents, probably. The servant met Elboron in the middle of the ballroom as he walked in the direction of the dais and bowed for the second time. Suddenly the face of the young prince lit up, and the very next moment he came with fast steps towards the door.

Towards her.

With sudden clarity she understood that this was her last chance to back away. The young man approaching was not the lanky youth she had mercilessly teased while sitting barefoot in a tree...not even the stranger she had found stark naked at the riverbank, only three days ago. He was a prince, the Heir of Ithilien, robed in festive silk and velvet, and his face was that of a man.

And then he was there, and he opened the door himself. She stepped over the threshold into the ballroom and he took her hand.

"So you actually do have the right dress for the occasion," he softly remarked, his eyes glittering with secret laughter. She remembered their good-natured bickering on their way to her mother's house, and her face relaxed. "Though 'the right dress' seems to be the understatement of the year. You look... unbelievable."

She gave him a weak smile. "Your mother's tailor chose the dress; you'd better praise her. Besides, it is still just me."

"And thank Eru for that," he remarked dryly. "All those beauties are incredibly polite, stunningly pretty and so incredibly well-behaved that they bore me to death. Finding me a bride should be more pleasant, for heaven's sake."

She didn't know what to say, so she kept her silence, but pressed his fingers a little more tightly.

"Dance with me, wina min," he said. "Mother promised me at least half a dozen Rohirric dances to be played this evening; we might be lucky."

And lucky they were; the musicians began a lively tune, and the dance floor emptied considerably. Nowadays, Gondorean ladies were used to the melodies the Princess of Ithilien had brought from her barbarian homeland up north, but the fast, coltish dance steps were still considered a bit... scandalous. And so more than half of the noble guests stood in unmoving disbelief and watched as the Heir of Ithilien spun a radiantly beautiful young woman around in a jolly gallop, flaxen blond and black hair mingling every time she whirled back into his arms.

vvvvv

Lírulin enjoyed the ball, just as her mother had told her to do. She embraced the feast like a child given an unexpected reward, and never thought anyone might begrudge her the pleasure she felt. Growing up under the loving care of her parents hadn't prepared her for certain pitfalls of jealousy and enviousness... and when the blow came, it hit her without forewarning.

The evening passed by with music and laughter, the sky darkened slowly from bright to dark blue as the sun went down; pastries, cakes, fruits and salads, cooled wine and spicy punch were served in the pavilions outside on the lawn. The guests strolled along the paths in the gardens, talking and nibbling small treats. Lírulin had escaped her latest admirer; she sat down in one of the pavilions, hidden behind a pillar that was looped over with flowers and ivy. For a moment, she felt unobserved and used the chance to slip out of her thin, silken shoes. Elborons' open attention had earned her the regard of many a courtier who would normally have ignored her; she could barely count how many of them had led her on the dance floor, and though she was far from being exhausted, her feet were beginning to hurt. And so she wiggled her toes, thankful for a chance to rest. She picked slices of peach and pears from a plate on her knees.

"... I can only hope you brought some wine. I am parched, and I have really no idea why mother insisted on dragging me here. Who cares for a prince who gives his best attention to some unknown damsel no one has ever heard of?"

Lírulin froze and nearly dropped the plate. She carefully placed it on the floor, leaned forward on her chair and peeked around the pillar. To her surprise and dismay, she discovered the maiden Elboron had first danced with while she'd waited outside of the ballroom. The young lady was surrounded by a small entourage of other girls, and she drank from a glass one of her companions handed her. She was lovely, her skin delicate as a rose petal, but her face was that of a spoiled child bored by a toy... resentful and discontent.

"Who is that, anyway?" she asked, abandoning the glass and fanning herself with a delicate handkerchief. "She appears out of nowhere, and suddenly the whole court seems to turn around her. Rumor goes that she was invited by the Queen – but if the bride has already been chosen, why do they make such a charade?"

The bride? Lírulin sank back into the chair, her head spinning. The sweet taste of peach in her mouth suddenly turned bitter.

"I can't imagine that she is the bride," one of the other girls said, audibly trying to becalm the young lady. "I have heard that she is the daughter of a woman the Princess Éowyn favors... which would make the invitation a friendly gesture, nothing more."

"Yes," another one added, eager to please. "The girl's mother is reportedly the Healer of Ithilien... married to one of Prince Faramir's rangers, and in the service of the princely family for years. As far as I could find out, her name is Noerwen."

"Noerwen?" The reaction was as sharp as a whiplash. "My mother told me about her! They met at a breakfast for the ladies-in-waiting, at the court in Minas Tirith, and Noerwen insulted her in such a rude manner that my mother was forced to leave immediately."

Lírulin flinched; her hands were trembling. She had heard about that fateful encounter. Her parents had discussed it without knowing that she was in the next room, and at that time the story had seemed almost comical to her. But now she felt no urge to laugh; this had to be the daughter of Lord Angbor of Lamedon and his wife Alassiel... the woman her mother had called a pompous, foul-mouthed cow. The next words she heard surpassed even her worst misgivings.

"Wait..." The voice of Lord Angbor's daughter was soft, but still angry. "This is Prince Elboron's home country, and he must know that girl from childhood. But she is no child any longer, and neither is he."

"You don't think that they..." It was the mixture of a giggle and a shocked gasp.

"Why not?" The young lady lowered her voice; Lírulin suddenly understood that she – despite her haughty outrage – enjoyed a good piece of juicy slander. "Imagine that... he's been rolling with her in the hay before he went to serve in the King's army. Now he comes home, ostensibly searching for a bride among the finest offspring of Gondor, and all he can think of is to smuggle his little strumpet into the palace, to make a mockery of us all!"

Lírulin came stumbling to her feet; how could she flee this place without being discovered? Suddenly a strong gust of wind billowed the canvas wall beside her. It was astonishingly cold and carried the smell of rain. Lírulin heard startled voices and fast steps as the guests hurried towards the safety of the palace, but she didn't dare to move. Minutes passed agonizingly slow, and when she peeked around the pillar for the second time, the pavilion was empty.

She stood between bare tables and chairs, her face white as chalk. She couldn't return to the feast... she felt completely unable to face anyone, and much less Elboron. The evil assumptions she had just overheard were still ringing in her ears. Her usual courage and confidence were shattered, and she thought she might die of shame.

She didn't think of Malegond and his chaise, not about telling anybody that she was leaving, and why. She simply slipped out of the pavilion, the silken shoes still in her hand, and met a changed world. The blue evening sky had darkened to a stormy black; clouds came in from the mountains, obscuring the stars, and when she tilted her head back, the first heavy drops fell on her face.

She didn't care. She knew every rock and stone of this landscape, and like a sick and weary child all she could think of was to get home and find her mother. She passed the lawn while the ground grew slick under her feet, her skirt got caught and ripped in the iron gate that separated Éowyn's gardens from the woods and still she ran, turning blindly towards the only shelter she could think of. Minutes later she vanished under the shadow of the trees.

Wina min – Rohirric for "my friend"