The sun is high in the noon day sky, but thankfully it's October and not mid summer in the southern lands. A knock on the door briefly signals that someone will enter the quarters of the would-be Queen, and then Khaan's big hands push the door open. "Lunch," he says gruffly, escorting a servant in. The serving girl sets down a tray on a table.
Farielle turns from the window when the door opens, watching the girl bringing lunch. "Thank you," she tells the girl.
The girl, of course, under Khaan's sharp eye, says nothing in return. She ducks her head and hurries out, while Khaan turns to slowly take a good look around the room.
"I suppose they are taking you seriously for a queen with dresses like that," he says on seeing the garments.
Farielle glances at them, and grimaces faintly. "I don't know," she says. Her tone says, 'I don't care,' though she doesn't say that. She crosses her arms, almost defiantly, a set look on her face. Not wearing them.
"Spoiled child, are we now?" Khaan snorts a laugh. "You'll soon be singing a different tune, no doubt. Stonelanders," he grumbles, going on. "Fool of a man that Farsider is, wanting a Stonelander queen. Might have to tie you to the chair. Or bedpost."
The girl lifts her chin at him. "And what concern is it of yours?" she asks him. The food steams enticingly, and her stomach growls faintly.
"Well, if you are sold to slavery I might be the lucky one to take you to the auction block,' Khaan sneers. "Or better yet, brand you.' He chuckles. "But no doubt you would like that-another excuse to throw yourself down a flight of stairs or some such dramatics. Stonelanders," he snorts again. "So heroic. And pitiful."
What little color there is drains from Farielle's face, and she looks away from him, perhaps to hide the fear in her eyes. "My father would pay for my return," she tells him. Moving towards the table, she picks up a piece of bread and begins to eat it, with as much composure as she can manage.
"Ah, now that is something," Khaan says, looking gleeful at the girl's sudden lack of color. "Should this King of Gondor deem you not up to his standards, then you can perhaps pin your hopes on a ransom. Your family is rich, then? Noble heritage?"
A swallow. Farielle nods and takes another bite. Surreptitiously, she steps away from him a little as she eats.
A figure appears at the door. No knocking, no announcement. It is Lady Eruphel, resplendant in the accoutrements of her office, much more so than her field armor and clothing. As she steps in, her footfalls are barely ticks upon the stone flooring. With a mere glance, she takes in the situation, her eyes falling first to Farielle, and her plate. "How is the food?" she asks, as anyone might ask an honored guest.
"Lady," Khaan says, saluting. "She has not eaten yet. Though I see that the Farsiders have left her dresses for her audience with their King-claimant."
Farielle hadn't heard anyone coming, and all her focus is on the guard - rather like a rabbit might watch a fox, with wary attention. She starts at Eruphel's unexpected question and her eyes drop to the plate she has hardly begun to eat from. At Khaan's words, she perhaps changes her answer a little. "It has been good." A pause. "Thank you."
Eruphel smiles softly at Khaan, tilting her head slightly. "King," she corrects, her eyes cutting toward Farielle. "Though, he's seen her at her worst. If he liked her then, he can surely only like her better when properly dressed." Now she turns and steps closer, noting how the food is untouched. "I won't make you eat it. If you think King Alphros prefers a waif, more power to you. But if it makes him not like you, you should consider the consequences of him not choosing you."
"Ah, we were just discussing possible consequences of -King- Alphros rejecting her," Khaan smirks. "I would be honored to take her to the slave auctions if you deem she is too much trouble for Seaward. These Stonelanders...they are all so delicate and fussy."
If Farielle had ever learned to hate, that would be in the glare she directs towards the guard. She disdains to answer his accusation, eating the last bite of bread, and leaving the plate where it is. For now at least.
Eruphel nods, satisfied as Farielle finishes her meal. "I have heard reports of a...corsair? Who was drunk?" she mentions casually, as if leaving the rest unfinished would make it too irresistable not to finish. Eruphel moves toward the prisoner's bed, testing its quality with her rear.
"I have heard rumors of that as well, but it was not while I was on duty and I cannot get a full account of it from the guards whose shift it was," Khaan says. He works not to laugh outright by at the look of hatred from the woman, adding, "Perhaps she can give you the details. But...what will you do with her when Alphros rejects her? As surely he will...she is scrawny and stubborn and foolish. Do Stonelanders like that in their women?"
Whatever of fear or defiance or hopelessness has been in Farielle's face is entirely erased by sheer fury, though it only shows in her eyes, and in her hands clenching into fists. And maybe her voice. "He ruined my canvases!" she says, and favors Khaan with a glare filled with all the anger he has earned, plus that leftover from Bahazaid. On the table behind her are the paints sent from Azradi, plus the remaining, unspoilt canvas.
Eruphel smiles slightly at Khaan's reply. "In the end, if he chooses her, likely her bloodline will have been her best feature." She chuckles lightly, amused and surprised by Farielle's sudden outburst. "Ah! Ruined your canvasses." She glances at the gifted paints. "Did he tell you his name? And how exactly did he ruin them?"
"And if not?" Khaan prompts Eruphel. "Then what?"
Farielle blushes. "He.. painted on one," she says, looking away. "And ... um. I hit him over the head with the other."
"I don't know his name. He came to take away the dirty water and dishes." She blushes still more deeply.
"If not, we will see what value she still has, Khaan." Eruphel answers the guard with a smile, then looks at Farielle. "So...he only ruined one canvas. And you ruined the other." Her visage seems even more amused. "What did he paint? Was he...any good?"
Eruphel thinks for a moment, then looks at Khaan once more. "You are very interested to see her to the market. Are you hoping to purchase her yourself?"
"A canvas makes a poor weapon, I'm afraid, miss. Though the Stonelanders do not teach their women to fight..something about weak blood, I hear. So no wonder."
"Her..? " Khaan blinks in surprise at the question, then looks Farielle up and down like a piece of meat at the butcher's. "Too scrawny. Hips not sturdy enough for child bearing." No, likely he's interested in skimming profits off her sale, though he does not say that.
On someone so pale of skin, even the faintest flush shows up vividly, and Farielle is far past 'faintly flushing'. "Nothing." She crosses her arms defensively over her chest at Khaan's scrutiny and says to him, still tart from the leftovers of rage, "Then give me your sword, and next time, I will use that."
"Nothing?" Eruphel points to herself, then to Khaan, then herself again, as if trying to figure out what that was in reply to. Then she takes it a step further. "Do you mean he painted nothing? Or was he not..." she gets lost in the confusion of the question, or lack of.
Khaan is stiffly silent at the suggestion that he give the woman his sword, falling back into a military demeanor.
"He wasn't any good," Farielle mumbles, staring at the floor, her face flaming.
Eruphel's voice is flat now, and brassy. "What did he paint, Farielle," she says, the blushing embarrassment obvious. "How badly do I need to punish him?" She looks up at Khaan, and then nods to him. "Step outside, and close the door." She looks back at Farielle, certain her command will be obeyed.
It is, without question. Khaan leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
Farielle looks around as if there may be some escape, but there is none. The door is shut, the guard without; she can't leap out the window; there is nothing in the room to hide in or behind. Save the bed, and Eruphel is sitting on that. "A - a woman," she answers at last, reluctantly. "With nothing on. He said..." She trails to a stop once more. After a moment, she adds, "He didn't touch me. He just ... w-wouldn't go away."
The Lady seems less amused. "Did he say she was you?" she asks, her voice softer now.
As if beginning to talk was the hardest part - or perhaps the softer tone of the other woman's voice encourages her - Farielle continues with less difficulty, though she still doesn't look up, and her face has lost nothing of its redness. "He said it ought to be, because I am - I am not ... very large. He would show me what - what a woman should look like, he said."
Eruphel takes a deep breath, then exhales. "Shall I have him whipped? I will have him whipped, and you can witness it so you can know satisfaction. Surely vengeance would taste sweet."
The girl's head jerks up and she stares at Eruphel. "No," she says, shaking her head. "No - I ... I kicked him, also."
"Ah." Eruphel says, looking levelly at Farielle. "Do you feel then that a kick is sufficient to impress the lesson upon him?"
The memory of the guard's face, laughing and smug, and his ambling departure floats through Farielle's mind. She looks away. "I will hit him with the chair, next time," she offers feebly.
Eruphel laughs lightly. "He has been trouble before. I think he needs more than an angry kick to learn his place. And? A public punishment will remind others of how they should be treating you. However..." Eruphel stands from her place, and takes the empty plate. "You will watch."
Farielle looks sick at the thought, shivering. "Why?" she asks almost in a whisper.
Eruphel turns toward Farielle, her eyes narrowing. "If you are to be Queen someday...Lord Alphros' Queen, you will have to be strong. You will be forced, at times, to command a punishment such as this, to hold your position, and your life. But to command such a thing, and not stand witness, will look cowardly and weak in the eyes of many." She turns toward the door, and when she arrives, she knocks, to signal the guard to open it for her. As she waits, she adds, "You will watch, and you will look strong." It sounds more a command than a prediction.
The girl listens to this, then perhaps surprisingly, nods. "My father said much the same to my brothers," is her comment. "I did not think it would ever apply to me. I will do this." She looks no less sickened for her resolute tone, and she is still trembling. Blindly, she turns towards the window again, not waiting for Eruphel to leave - and perhaps she wishes she hadn't, after all, eaten her lunch quite yet.
After the Lady was gone, Farielle began to pace up and down in her room, faster and faster - as if she could run away from her thoughts. The sun reached its peak and headed back down into the west, towards evening, but she didn't notice it.
Without the door, murmurs of discussion may be heard as a newcomer discusses gaining entry in polite, but insistent tones, with the guards stationed there. He wins out, and a knock interrupts its occupant. Tiribazus stands there patiently until his presence has been acknowledged, a hand resting on the sheathe of a scimitar, the blade of which has been relinquished upon gaining entry into this foreign tower.
The sounds of restless walking inside stop. There is a silence. Then a quiet voice says, "Yes?" The guard pushes the door open, allowing Tiribazus to enter first, then following him into the room.
Farielle is standing in the middle of the room, looking towards the door.
Answering the summons, Tiribazus steps past the guard and into the room. "You are the northern lady, the one some call the pale lady?" His haste to speak his mind has altered his enunciation, giving away his extra-Umbarean origins and hinting that the Common tongue is not his first language, however perfectly he uses it.
Folding his hands behind his back, he considers these words, looking into the room, then at the two dresses dangling beside the woman. His dark gaze returns to her face as he waits for affirmation that she is who he has come to see.
"Yes." The girl stands perfectly still, her eyes moving beyond Tiribazus to the guard, then returning. Her hands are clasped behind her; she is very tense though she tries not to show it, and indeed, manages to keep her voice from sounding anything but calm and polite. "I am of Gondor."
"Of Gondor," Tiribazus repeats, barely disguising his contempt. "You have been speaking with my daughter, yes. She has come here on the orders of the Lady of Farside Tower. I wish this to stop." His brow creases as he considers the woman, his natural impulses when in the presence of someone so lovely being suppressed in favor of paternal impulses.
"Such warmth, no?" says another voice then, and were eyes to stray thither, in the doorway is revea;ed a fresh figure. Farielle will know him as Lojrul, but it is Tiribazus that draws the Desert man's eye.
"You wish to groom your Lady's future kin yourself, instead?"
The girl tenses still more as the man comes closer. "Your.. daughter?" She sounds a little puzzled. "Oh.." There is a pause while she tries to remember the name. "Am - Amestris? Yes. She came here once." She considers the man a moment. "If you wish her not to come, perhaps you should speak with the Lady of Farside." A bitter twitch to her lips. "I have no say in who comes or goes." And as proof of this, Lojrul speaks from the doorway, drawing Farielle's gaze - and a flicker of unease across her face.
"I would not displease my lady with so direct a request, even if she would grant me the wish of a father. But Amestris is not familiar with the ways of cities, and though she is now a woman by our customs, I cannot help think that learning both to be an adult and a citizen of Umbar in the same year can do anything but overwhelm her..." Tiribazus turns to consider Lojrul standing nearby, and failing to recognize the man, he returns his attention to the lady, still remaining a respectful distance apart from her and just inside the room.
"Fatherly prudence indeed," agrees Lojrul to Tiribazus' words, his own spoken evenly. "But you do not answer me, fellow of Farside, and by the look of you a fellow of the Sand also; why is that?" The Desert Tower man truns his gaze upon Farielle anew then, and he bows his head in greeting. "Milkskin queen," says he with a wide smile, though the eyes are less warm than the lips.
"I am not a queen," Farielle says, her voice low. She doesn't, quite, shrink under Lojrul's look, forcing herself to stand straight and proud. To Tiribazus, "You- you care for your daughter." She swallows once, shutting her eyes, and takes a deep breath, letting it out before going on. "But I do not know what it is you wish of me. I - no words of mine are harkened to, in this place. If the Lady wishes to send her again, she will not ask permission of me."
"She seems to find your company intriguing," Tiribazus begins to answer Farielle first, turning to respond to Lojrul. "Of the wilds, yes. The sands do not pile so high where the Bazahni call home." Considering Farielle's response once more, he remains silent for a while, letting the conversation ebb and flow as it will.
Lojrul's gaze flits back to Tiribazus for a long moment, regarding the Farside Lieutenant keenly, ere he bows his head a second time to Farielle. "A queen you shall be, should Alphros accept you. Is it not wise to practice airs in advance, for when the joyous day comes?"
Farielle's face pales at Lojrul's comment; though it might not be so obvious to these men who are so dark of skin to begin with. But she doesn't say anything to him, returning her attention to the other man. "I found her interesting also," she admits, with a faint brief smile. "I know nothing of your people or your customs."
Tiribazus pauses, contemplating a response to her explanation. "And have you lost all hope that your family will not reclaim you? Or do you think it best to accept that they do not desire your return?" Considering the harshness of this line of questioning, he frowns, looking into the Lady's eyes as if attempting to determine what sort of mettle she is made of.
Looking between the two subtly, Lojrul says naught, but watches their eyes with seeming nonchalance.
A flash of anguish, swiftly hidden, and replaced by something that is not quite anger. "My family would pay anything," she replies, with a quiet fierceness. "I have told them this. I - " She looks away, staring at the wall without really seeing it. "No one listened." Farielle looks back now, meeting Tiribazus' eyes levelly.
"If your family values you so little," Tiribazus begins, allowing the thought to simmer in the air. "Forgive me, my Lady... Lojrul." He turns, having planted a seed of doubt. "There is much that needs attending."
"No, forgive me," replies Lojrul, bowing lightly. "I did not mean to intrude. Though, perhaps it was fortunate. Surely the pale folk of the Stone-land will not handle the matter lightly. Has any word been sent to or from Umbar that this jewel of Gondor is among us, and in the keeping of Lord Seaward, who so recently marched to war against them?"
"I agree," he adds softly then, perhaps unexpected of the fellow. "There is much to which you should attend. I think this matter is among them, Corsair of Farside. Will you not stay, and speak further with this lady to know what peril may be gathering in answer for Alphros' 'gift'? I can leave or tarry as you will, but if I linger I may have words you would be glad to hear, in counsel only."
But this is a dart that will find no purchase. Farielle smiles - for once, it is a true smile, not merely a movement of her lips, serene and confident. In this one thing, if in nothing else. "I know what I am worth to my father," she says simply. "If I am not ransomed home, it will be for no lack on his part."
Her eyes move to Lojrul and she is silent again, a faint frown growing on her face as the man speaks.
Tiribazus quirks a brow at the mistaken identity, but refrains from correcting the man's assumption. Instead, he bows cordially and retreats from the room, attending to these other matters to which he alluded.
His questions unanswered, Lojrul watches Tiribazus go, tilting his head-dress to one side thoughtfully. A shrug then, and he slowly turns to face Farielle. "And what of you, lady of Gondor? Will you speak of such matters to me, or shall I too quit the room?"
The guard straightens as Tiribazus leaves, then leans back against the door once more, listening, as is his duty.
"I do not know what I can say," Farielle answers honestly. "I know nothing of what happens, here or without." She is still frowning, though, looking at him as if trying to puzzle out his motives and meanings.
Nodding as he acknowledges this, Lojrul faces her fully, and his manner relaxes. "I can appreciate your position, pale lady. But will you speak then about your capture, and its circumstances? If your ransom can be achieved, then perhaps no more blood of either the Haradwaith or the cities of Gondor need be spilled over it. I have asked you this question before, and I do so again in earnest: Would that please you?"
Farielle's carefully blank expression cracks a little as he mentions her capture and she glances away, then looks back as he continues. "Please me? To go home? How can you ask that? Do you think I am here because I want to be? If you must have it still more plainly, then yes. It would please me." Please. What a frail, feeble word to bear so much weight of longing.
The man stands silent before her for a long moment then, ere he nods lightly. "I would expect no less, from so proud a flower that springs up in even the land of stone. Do not think I mock you any longer. But understand, lady," he adds, stepping closer and lowerign his voice. "these walls have ears, as they say, and it would be well for the lordlings of Umbar to think I speak to you with only that in mind. Forgive the charade, if you will, for I have more sober thoughts than mere jibes at your appearance."
"This marriage with Alphros seals our lands into war unending," he adds then. "I shall not lie to you and feign sympathy, but if you can trust none of that you can trust that I would not see a hair harmed on your head if it will save my folk from further bloodshed."
The guard stiffens to alertness, stepping forward. "Your pardon, sir," he says, politely enough to a cousin of his lady. "It would be better if you did not speak so I cannot hear your words."
The frown returns, creasing between Farielle's eyebrows. She manages not to step away as Lojrul comes nearer. "I - do not understand," she says at last. "War?"
Impressed at the guard's hearing Lojrul straightens then, and nods. "You are right, I should not. Alas that the Lord Seaward is not at liberty to speak with her captive in person. I wager she would have interest in the words of her cousin."
He sniffs then, regarding Farielle once more ere he turns and walks from the room.
Farielle stared after him, still frowning. War? What did he mean?
For a while, this thought drove out the others that had been filling her mind. War. She thought of Caldur, of her brothers; of reports she had heard from Osgiliath. Orcs and trolls, and worse. They had always been at war, her people, though little of it had reached the manor in the green trees that was her home. She had known nothing of the immediacy and horror of it; of the thick smell of blood, the groans of men hurt so badly they couldn't keep silent, the sound of hatred. Not until Caldur - she shuddered suddenly and gasped for air - the room felt too small, too hot, she was smothering... She turned for the window again, and the small breeze that whispered in off the ocean slowly calmed her.
She was precious to her family, who would do everything they could to find her, and more; but she was no one of importance to the realm. Gondor would not go to war for her: one woman not yet to her majority and of no noble lineage. It was true she was related to the Prince of Dol Amroth, but so distantly that it could hardly be considered more than a faint connection.
But how could marrying her bring war? A bitter smile twisted Farielle's mouth. It was more likely that her family would disown her, did she wed and bare children to a man of Harad. Though this man, Lord Alphros, his lineage might be acceptable, if his sister spoke truly. If he was descended from King Tarannon... For a minute, Farielle tried to think out the bloodlines, then she shook her head in defeat. How could she know? It was impossible - perhaps the record keepers in Minas Tirith would be able to puzzle this out, but she could not.