The funeral is over. The silent crowds still stand, giving their respect and honor to the dead. Caronnen Girithlin gives his arm to his wife, and escorts her one last time past the pyre that burns flowers instead of bodies. Behind him trail his two sons. They stop, staring into the flames for a long moment. At last, Caronnen takes a bit of paper from his pocket. He holds it, closing his eyes - lips moving as if he speaks without words to one who will never again hear his voice - and then stoops to lay the letter in the fire.
No tears brighten Nelbrethil's eyes, no cries break out. She bows her head and whispers, "Goodbye," and she and her husband leave. The mourners part for them, still silent; though friends reach out, as if by touch, they can offer comfort and sympathy.
It is not until they reach their home, and Caronnen leads his wife to their chambers, helping her out of her cloak, that she begins to weep, tears trickling down her ravaged cheeks. "Rest, my dear," her husband says, gently, and she nods, unable to speak. She will sleep, perhaps, and for a time, forget.
The house is quiet, never an echo ringing from the pure white marble. The last dying rays of the Sun filter in through the tall windows, embuing all with shades of rose. No servants are to be seen, though the manor has been left in readiness for the return of its masters; fires blaze in every hearth and on tables here and there are filled pitchers of wine and bowls of fruit.
Pacing back and forth in the foyer is Gwaithmir. He suits the house, and may look at this moment so lordly that he well could be one of the scions of Numenor for whom it was built. Over tiles as ancient as the name of Girithlin he goes, hands folded behind his back, countenance aloof in introspection.
The door opens soundlessly, and Caronnen Girithlin comes inside. He stops for a minute, shutting his eyes, as if - now that he is no longer in the public eye - he no longer has the strength to keep up appearances. The strength and determination that formed his face for the past hours is gone, leaving age and grief and weariness.
Following his father is Lominzil, the younger son, his face devoid of emotion and veiled partly by black hair. He pauses on the threshold, just as Caronnen has done. Then he shuts the door and turns the key precisely in the lock.
Gwaithmir drops his arms to his sides, ceasing his pacing. To his father he turns, his face only growing sad after observing that of his parent. He says nothing, only glances between his father and younger brother, gaze eventually settling on the former.
Caronnen takes a breath, and lets it out, looking between his two sons. "So." He stops, as if he can't think of what to say. Or perhaps, can hardly bear to say it. But then he goes on. "We will go home and raise a memorial to your brother. And then... Gwaithmir. I wish you were not called away. I have need of you here." Another sigh and his mouth twists. "Lominzil. I was content to allow you to find your own path to manhood, but now you have no more time to be a child. We - we must take thought for - Farielle." He can barely say her name. "Eruiglas is gone. Gwaithmir must be away. It falls to you, my son, to help me in this."
Gwaithmir's face takes on a pained expression, "Father! I do not gladly go. Yet, and think not that the words do not cause me agony to speak, Imrahil's worth is greater even that of Farielle. Our duty to him is greater than our duty to any other, even my lady sister. Father," Gwaithmir's tone raises, he lifts a finger to point rather accusingly at Lominzil, "You cannot give him his way. He is a mere boy! Let him do as he wills and you will have three children to lament, I swear it."
"At last," answers Lominzil, his eyes flashing blue as he bows lightly, "you look at me as a man, father. At last you give thought to your own daughter." But he looks up and there is barely concealed contempt in his voice. "Give your tongue a rest, dear brother. You'll run out of breath."
Caronnen lifts his head. "Enough!" he snaps. Anger - rarely seen directed at his sons - flares in his eyes. "Is it not enough that I have lost my firstborn son to foolishness, and my - my daughter as well? That I must stand on the brink of his grave and listen to you two bicker?"
"Gwaithmir, you will be silent, and let me deal with your brother. I have not yet entered my dotage, that I cannot listen and judge for myself."
Their father's eyes, hard and cold, turn to Lominzil. "When you act as a man, I will treat you thus. What do you know of my thoughts, that you dare speak of them so? I was never so ashamed of you as I was in that hall this afternoon, when you could not even keep your tongue controlled, and brought such sorrow to your mother, who has already born more grief than one heart should ever have to bear."
Gwaithmir quite visibly bites his tongue at his father's rebuke, bowing his head and going silent. At least until the whole comes out. Then it is rage, seething almost beyond control. A war is fought, his temper reined in, and quite calmly he asks, "What did you say to upset my mother?" Purposefully or not, he speaks of the lady as though he alone claimed full right to call himself her son.
Lominzil smiles at Gwaithmir, a swift-fading smile that turns to grimness. He merely bows his head to his father, features carefully schooled and rigid as ice: "Call it rashness, father. My heart does not know patience; it is already gone south with Farielle. But I listen."
Caronnen winces at his daughter's name. "Gwaithmir," he says quietly. "It matters not. I have spoken to him; I am content. Let be." His gaze moves between the two. "I know not what Gwaithmir has had time to tell you, Lomin. He has spoken with a Great Eagle who perhaps will find it in his heart to aid us. We know not even where she may be held. We must speak with the Telpekhori - with Lady Laeraelin - " An eyebrow raised at Gwaithmir - have you done this? "If she cannot tell us by what channels word came of the child they brought home, we must go to the Bragollachs. Word is sent to us of those waiting to be ransomed; there must be a way to send word back. And we must find a ship. I will see if I can request Captain Seregarth's aid in this."
Gwaithmir now remains obediently silent. He only shakes his head at his father's unvoiced question.
The account is heard in silence and without gesture; finally, Lominzil nods. "Word has been sent, then? But is her name among those to be ransomed?" he asks, his voice impersonal and calculating.
Gwaithmir moves himself the few paces necessary so that he is more or less behind his father, and puts a hand on the older man's shoulder. He squeezes it tightly, fondly. "All will be as Iluvatar wills it, father. She will be alright."
Lominzil moves a few paces back, away from his brother. "But before then," he puts in quietly, "we must take action to ransom her."
"Yes." It is, perhaps, an answer to both his sons. Caronnen lifts his hand to grip Gwaithmir's briefly, then turns to Lominzil. "We must. Tell me, my son, have you anything to add? I have told you all my thought, yet I - may have missed some simple thing." Simply, without apology, he says, "I have not been myself, these days."
"Who of us has been?" Gwaithmir withdraws his hand from his father's shoulder. To a nearby table he wanders, selecting from it an apple. With this in hand, he leans against the bannister of the stair, watching his brother and waiting for his answer (not to Gwaithmir's question, but Caronnen's).
Lominzil lowers his eyes, tracing the fine edge of a velvety rug around the floor. "What is to be done if we are refused the ransom?" he asks.
The older man looks blank momentarily. "Why would they refuse?" he asks at last. "We are well able to pay anything they would ask. What greater value could she have to such a warlike people? Even their women fight like men."
"I do not know," answers Lominzil, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "But the message that was sent - she told me that it was her own decision. What does this mean, Father?" He looks up, wearing his grief openly for a moment.
Caronnen makes a move, as if he will go to Lominzil and embrace him again, but he does not. "I thought," he says heavily, "That she spoke of her choice to go to Caldur. She was to learn of the healers in Dol Amroth; and did I think for one moment that any of them bade her go hither..." He is silent, wrath hardening his face. And perhaps the words he does not speak are more terrible than any he might have.
"Perhaps if we had not gone," murmurs the younger man, subtly skipping over the painful 'we', "she would not have decided ..." Lominzil swallows and begins again. "But now we know that she was taken alive. And my heart knows that she is still on this side of the Outer Sea."
And now his father does move to Lominzil's side, setting his hand on the young man's shoulder. "She is alive," he repeats. "If the ransom is not accepted, then we will take further thought. We have not strength of arms to bring her back by force, nor can we seek to snatch her away by stealth not knowing where she is. So first, these two things: to send word of the ransom that awaits her return, and, if the Hir Eagle will consent, to discover her whereabouts."
Something in his father's answer displeases Lominzil: it shows in the strain about his eyes. But he ventures, "When word is sent, Father, allow me to sail on that ship. I have studied the southern lands and know its bearings well enough."
Gwaithmir twirls his eaten apple by the stem, raising a brow at Lominzil. "Whyso, brother? So you can loose your mind in a fit of rage and do something utterly /stupid/? I understand that you wish very much to get yourself killed, but do try, for once, to think of someone besides yourself." The offhanded way in which he is says this is accompanied by a faint smile.
"I - perhaps, Lomin," is Caronnen's answer. "I cannot answer you now, but know that if I cannot yet grant my permission, I do not yet deny you either." He lifts his eyes to Gwaithmir and shakes his head. "Would that I could go," he says heavily. "But I cannot leave your mother so."
"I am thinking of Farielle," is Lominzil's humorless reply. "That she would like company. Thank you, Father."
Something seriously annoys Gwaithmir. Enough, at least, that he throws his apple at Lominzil's feet where it smashes into applesauce and seeds. Gwaithmir is away from the bannister, circling Caronnen to approach his brother with a glint of fury in his eye. "Thinking of Farielle? Thinking of yourself, rather! You bloody selfish little prat! Keep her company? Aye, I am sure she would take comfort watching you get beheaded or tortured! You insufferable child!" Gwaithmir stabs Lominzil in the chest with an accusing finger.
Caronnen lifts a weary hand. Enough. "You will doubtless excuse me if I do not wish to remain to listen to your quarrels. I must return to your mother. Gwaithmir, when you are finished, please take a message to the Fleet Admiral that I would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience. You may tell him why if he asks. Lominzil, do you go to the Telpekhors and see if you can discover from them by what means they learned of the child. I need a name; someone we can speak with to find a route into Harad." Without waiting for a reply, he turns for the door, walking like a very old man, not one in his prime.
Lominzil stares down at the prodding finger, then up at his brother, challenging him with his gaze. "Wouldn't you enjoy that, Gwaithmir? The only remaining child of the family, the sole heir. You, silver-tongued sage with his books and jewelled chalices, never would have thought for her, to speak, to play, to love. Point that finger again," the squire says, slipping backwards and turning in contempt, "and I shall twist it off for you."
"Don't you dare turn your back on me," Gwaithmir warns, his tone low and threatening. But there's something else in it, an edge that is not sharp, but sore. "You think you have a monopoloy on sorrow? You think you're the only one who feels anything?" He moves a few steps to the side, so that even if Lominzil has not turned Gwaithmir would still be visible. His face is more eloquent than words could ever be, expressing grief with a keeness that his tongue could not hope to rival. "Our brother is dead. Our sister is captive, if even alive. You may think me weak, or pathetic, interested only in music and pretty things. Think as you like! It does not change the fact that I would tear my heart from my breast and throw it at your feet if it meant you would be safe. For the Valar's sake, Lominzil, I love you!"
Lominzil turns - one hand snaps out, finding an iron grip upon Gwaithmir's shoulder as suddenly as a blow. The other forms a fist, willing to punch his brother's pretty face into disfigurement - but the younger brother only sighs, and rests his forehead on said shoulder. "I do not want to be safe," he says, overwhelmed, "if our family cannot be made whole again."
Gwaithmir stands stalwart, quite ready to accept the blow. His countenance crumples into compassionate sorrow when he is not struck. Lominzil is enveloped in Gwaithmir's arms, Gwaithmir resting his head on his brother's shoulder. "I know it, dear one. But you must. If not for my sake, then for our parents. Mother's heart will be broken if anything happens to you, and I go into the unknown - maybe to death. You must be brave for the both of us, Pinnaug."
Gwaithmir draws his arms up, taking Lominzil's face in his hands to pull his brother from him, so that he might look into his eyes. "You /must/ stay safe. Promise me that you will not leave Gondor. Swear it!"
OOC Gwaithmir says, "Pinnaug - Little Soldier."
Lominzil's eyes are half-closed, averted from the request of his brother. "I cannot swear it, Gwaithmir. It is something that must be done! Farielle knew that Eruiglas and I were in Caldur and she went: now Eruiglas is no more, and she too is gone. Call it selfishness if you will, yet my heart drives me South to see after my responsibility." He meets Gwaithmir's gaze, his own blue-grey stare terrible and wide. "If this is not to your liking, brother, then I offer this: should you return from your errand and find that I have acted unbefittingly rash, do with my life as you see fit."
Gwaithmir's disappointment is given vent in a sigh. "You will not change your mind? No, of course not. You're stubborn like Eruiglas. But you don't yet have his wit or experience. If I cannot stop you...then the Valar and my heart go with you. Be cautious, and mind your tongue. Sometimes a good deal more can be accomplished with courtesy than with a blade. If all else fails you, remember that you have a brother who loves you, and who will be very, very angry if you get yourself killed." Gwaithmir manages a smile, so pathetic it gains an extra charm, and moves forward quickly to give Lominzil a peck on the cheek. That same gesture carries on, bringing Gwaithmir around Lominzil and out the door.
Lominzil's hollow cheek is embarassingly damp and he stands frozen to the floor, gazing down at the puddle of applesauce and seeds at his feet. Finally he follows father and brother out, and takes minimal comfort in slamming the door behind him.
My sister,
Today was Prince Imrahil's funeral - the proclamation that would give up the search for our beloved lord at last, and name his son Elphir as Prince. It was an empty ceremony, as there was neither body nor proof of death; many of the Knights would believe that he lives still. We killed him ourselves, I think, with our kind words of sympathy.
A man - or perhaps some being greater than a man - interrupted the procession. A person of lore and might, he claimed to have Imrahil in his custody, and sought that guests come to his mountain home and entertain him, in order to see their Prince once again.
Several were chosen at that time; Aunt Tathar, Turlach, and our own brother, Gwaithmir, are going. I do not know what they will do there. I do not know, even, if they will come back. Farielle, can you imagine Gwaithmir bringing his harp and lute into the White Mountains with furred robe and red nose, and singing in the company of a stranger who claims to be Imrahil's host?
Oh, but I should not make light of the situation. I cannot think. Gwaith going on this foolish task is but another draught from this grief-well that has no end nor depth. Though we live on the hope that Imrahil is yet alive, we bid others their final farewell; Eruiglas was among them. I cannot help but think that you might be as well, but I cling to the hope that you are not.
I tire of the rhetoric and sympathy that has been offered to House Girithlin. They sit upon their robes of mourning and do nothing! If you are to be rescued, we must take action! And Father will not let me act, as if I were still a boy, but I must beg favors from the other Houses for a voyage or negotiation with the Haradrim. I could never negotiate; I have never hated the Southrons more, not even when we were defeated in their fief, Barazon.
I will not stop to rest until I have news of you. Mother is ailing in health and has gone back to our house in Edhellond, and Father went to take care of her as well. Gwaithmir is laughing still in that charming manner - it makes me want to hit him - but I know there is no laughter in his mind. As for me, I would weep, but no tears come.
I hope you are still alive, Farielle.