Father knew. Lominzil guessed this when he crossed the threshold to their cold, mirthless home, that perhaps Caronnen Girithlin was not so even-tempered, so measured as his fellow council-members would extol him. Once, he too would have girt a sword and sailed south, and perhaps even now, the thought lingered.

For Mother's sake, they spoke nothing of further grief. Here, for the nonce, they lived in the present. The last son idled his fortnight of leisure away, sitting with her by the fire though both felt no warmth, saying naught. Caronnen would permit him to lead Barahun's latest descendant about Edhellond, to sit idly as the little colt frisked about in the fragrant meadow.

Once, Gwaithmir had the fool notion (in the middle of the night, no less!) to bring Farielle and Lominzil there in search of Faeries. It had been true that the Silvan elf-folk lived here in days of yore, yes, but a bleary-eyed Lomin was more content to dream of them instead. Now he caught himself smiling, and sighed.

He had two weeks. A fortnight. Then he must return to Dol Amroth and hold himself ready. There might yet be time then for studying; the Prince's library would probably hold more than their own. But he had no idea how soon the Draugrim would want to go; if they would wait on his timing, or if they had some agenda of their own. And either way, his heart burned to be gone, to be doing. To find his fate and meet it, not wait tamely for it to appear on his doorstep. Lominzil pulled down another heavy tome, setting it with the others on the library table.

The gong for supper surprised him, jerking his head up from squinting at the writing. There was so little. He rubbed his face, frowning, then looked around the room, crowded with the collections of his father and father's father and father's father before that. The gong rang again, and he pulled himself away from his studies, striding swiftly towards the dining room. He wasn't looking forward to the meal. His father hardly spoke, and though his mother tried, her words failed her like a stream swallowed up in dust.

As soon as he decently could, Lominzil fled back to the library. To see them both suddenly old, the pathetic courage that made his mother smile and talk about their tenants as if nothing was wrong - the steel will that kept his father from ever once betraying that the empty places at their table broke his heart - and most of all, to hear them both carefully /not/ talking about his sister... He couldn't bear it. Haradaic. There must be a book somewhere, by some scholar enamoured of the southlands, that could teach him some words of the language.

But when he sat down at the table, he didn't reach for the scrolls that surrounded him; instead, opening a small packet with careful fingers and spreading several scraps of paper out before him. Slowly, he began to read, though he knew by heart what was written there.

...

August 05, 3008

Dearest sister,

If it is true that word has passed to Gondor through the Haradrim blockade, then perhaps you shall have news of us soon. We ourselves did not know that Sir Brannon and his ships had escaped but for his absence the next morning, and for Sir Imrakhor's announcement, grim but triumphant.

I do not know the mind of my Captain now - not that I claim to have ever known the decision of the Council that sent us here, thinking that Prince Imrahil might be held in this place. It seems almost a lure, knowing our thirst for vengeance, and we being led by a madman.

I do not begrudge him his Captaincy, for we are inspired to fight by something like fear of his wrath, but I am afraid for what will happen to us all should his madness be allowed to continue.

Yet in times of war it is men like Imrakhor Bragollach that Gondor needs most: men who know to hate and strike out against those who hate us equally. We have come to Caldur so that the Corsairs need not visit Dol Amroth.

I hope you and Mother and Father are doing well. Has Losse had her kittens? You must count them for me, and we will raise them together when the Knights return, for I am certain that we will return, and the Haradrim cannot stop me from even swimming back to Belfalas once this fighting is won...

You are in my heart always.

...

August 19, 3008

Dearest sister,

I write this with a weary but triumphant hand - Gondor has come! At dawn, four warships - how I rejoiced to see the tall masts and clean square sails! - docked at Caldur harbor and took the siege camp by surprise. It was a grievous struggle for the beach, and we in the Keep had not the might to go against the Haradrim from the other side. So we stood watch upon the battlements. Perhaps they will soon press into the city, and we may cut out a path and meet them.

It was then that Sir Imrakhor discovered a traitor in our midst: a man who presumed to wear one of our sailor's gear, but the slave-mark of Umbar was tattooed upon his neck. Perhaps he had been sent to weaken our resolve, or do us treachery by undermining the watch upon the gate - but we shall never know.

The Knight-Captain hung him by his feet before the gate, ere his Umbarean mistress came to cut him down. I believe he is now dead. The man was of Gondorian descent, Farielle! Imagine what dark sorcery was done to sway him to their side.

I think the Knight-Captain is wholly mad. In the darkest hour he asked if I ever loved anyone - romantically, that is, and I told him about Alasse (the girl who married the Pelargir cloth merchant while I was still a Page). He was overtaken with laughter as we fought off a wave of the siege, and then nearly throttled me with no warning.

Does madness come easily to those gifted and noble Dunedain? If so -

Our eldest brother Eruiglas just discovered me writing, and sends his love too. He, too, wishes to know about Losse's kittens, and hopes dearly that they will find a good nest in brother Gwaithmir's delicately brushed suits. (I was terrified when Eruiglas snuck up on me, so - the last time it was stern Sir Aramore and I stuffed your letter into a crack in the wall! I am afraid I couldn't find it afterwards.)

... now, where was I? Sir Imrakhor also bestowed upon me the title of Blue Squire - a promotion I would have been glad to receive in nobler and more opportune times. Now it feels like I am scavenging off the titles of our many dead. And I do not particularly relish being the squire of the Knight-Captain.

I hope you are well.

...

August 3008

Sister,

The fighting is fierce and blood coats the ground always; it rises from the stones like morning mist. Caldur burns. We have set it on fire so that when the Haradrim retake the keep, they will find nothing but ashes and dearly-bought slain. We fight in waves, for the soldiers of Gondor are taking the streets of the city and the Southrons meet them with ferocity, pushing them back with arrows and swords and cries.

Sir Imrakhor and many of our folk have opened the gate and gone to meet them, and the rest of us see from the battlements that they have succeeded in joining the Gondorians on the beach. The rest of us will prepare for another day, that we might break out also. But now hope is frail and Caldur's smoke blots out the stars, and my thoughts numb.

Farielle, our brother has died. He went forth with Sir Imrakhor, and the Southrons cut him down with their swords, their curved swords, and trampled his body in the dust.

Gondor will weep for his fate, his and many others. Some would bemoan his death as needless, and grieve for a brave and generous life cut down in its prime. My heart wishes earnestly that Eruiglas were alive still - that he did not have to find death in this place. I would that he were Caronnen's heir and lived to have many children, an elder of the Girithlin house, and served his Prince faithfully til the end of his days. That last part is true. Call not his loyalty into question.

I have come to understand that we are born of Gondor, and our loyalty is sworn to Imrahil our Prince. If we seek him and then begrudge him our very lives, then is our Oath but breath? What worth have mere words if we are afraid to shed blood for them? And what binds us to fealty if we shrink from death itself?

But we have not yet regained our liege-lord. How many more must find death ere he is found? How many more fruitless quests?

Tell me that you are well, and then I will be well. Comfort Father and Mother, and Gwaithmir too; his will be a heavy burden to bear.

Lominzil Girithlin

...

August 3008

Dearest Farielle,

It has been only a few days since I last set my thoughts to paper; how swiftly do fortunes change! The hosts and knights of Gondor til now lived upon the edge of a knife. Now we have escaped Caldur upon the white-sailed warships, headed north with a swift and clean wind. Soon we shall be in Dol Amroth, that strong and beautiful city that stands upon the rock of our home, so like and yet unlike Caldur's strength.

The sea-spray and salt wind washes over our tired faces, scouring us of blood and soot and thoughts of wrath. I awake as from madness and find my sword scarred and pitted, stained with blood; my own appearance is gaunt and horrible. These are overwhelmed by the joy that I shall see you again, Farielle! We shall be at home again in Edhellond. Until now I have written to you with no hope that these letters would be read, but now we shall meet face to face.

Yet even now I am afraid. I fear that Gondor will see us and recoil in disgust. It is true that we have been loyal to our Oath - perhaps over-zealous in its execution. I ought not to speak of what we have done to Caldur. Farielle, I have killed the Secondborn of the One who alone grants life, and to whom we having died are called again.

It is true that they have turned to worship of the Darkness and the lord thereof, and they met us with hostile intent and may have taken our Prince. Yet at the point of my sword not all of them were armed and armored, and not all were able-bodied, angry men.

How far a path can we plough with our swords before we are like them? Even now as I turn and see smoke rising from Caldur, I shudder to know that we have done such things that Haradrim might have done to Dol Amroth, should we not have struck first! Farielle, forgive me, for I have fought like an animal and acted like one also, and I would claim to have done so in order to see my family. I would do such things again if we were separated again, yet the ache and the fire and screams remain in my mind.

The Knight-Captain will likely take the worst blow from his own people, but none of us are clean. Farielle, uphold me to Oath and Virtue. We must be loyal, yet we must also be compassionate. How difficult these are now that our dark deeds are already done!

...

August 26 3008

Dearest Farielle, wake me.

Tell me that this is but a lie - that you are still safe in Edhellond, or Dol Amroth, and not captive in Harad! Tell me that I am sleeping and will wake soon to our home, or the healing-house - even waking to a cold window ledge in enemy Caldur is preferable to your nightmare, Farielle.

I know that House Girithlin is a house of lions, yet what rash bravery led you to travel with Gondor into enemy lands? If it was for love of your kin, Farielle, I am sorry that our steps ever led you thither. And now there is no one left there in the South to comfort you, save the soothing lies of the Enemy. Do not listen to them! If only I had known, my little sister, if only I had done something!

I know you are lost, perhaps frightened, but have hope in this: I will bring you out of that place, just as you sought to rescue me from mine. I will go into the very heart of Umbar to find you, if that is where you are now.

Dol Amroth is pale and colorless without your laughter, Farielle. Your brother signs this with a broken heart,

Lominzil

Farielle, he thought, folding them up and putting them away. I am coming. Wait for me.

...

There was one more thing. Farielle struggled with herself; she didn't want to speak to the woman who ruled this tower any more than she had to. The one who offered her to a man as if she were a flower or .. or a piece of candy. But if there was any chance, any hope - it must be done. She would request an audience.

Sunlight fills the room, touching the backs of books, the wood of ladders, a desk - and the black hair of a girl who threads her way slowly through the bookshelves, apparently trying to read the titles as she passes. At least until the study comes into view. Farielle looks around the room, then takes a breath and enters. This room the Lady had said. As always, a guard trails after her; but it seems she has managed to make the heron remain behind.

Eruphel enters her study, a tired look on her face. She begins to divest herself of scarves and sashes and accoutrements of office, laying these items on a table. If she notices the girl, nothing shows in her demeanor. But instead, without looking, she says, "I apologize for being late. I had some business to attend to."

"Eruphel you -need- to start laying down for a rest now and ag-" Comes a man's voice from outside the study before Lord Eron enters the study as well. When he is through the door and spots the Gondorian, he stops speaking, and looks between Farielle and Eruphel for a short moment before going to the bar and pouring himself a glass of wine.

Farielle says nothing, but nods. She looks a little nervous, and takes a minute to compose herself again before opening her mouth. "Lady, I ..." She stops and twists to look at the new speaker, and turns even whiter than usual.

Eruphel turns as Eron enters, smiling, even though he chides her to get rest. But noting the Gondorian woman, he seems to clam up. Funny. But then Farielle also, whatever she was going to say is likewise squelched. The Tower lady takes a deep breath, breaking the silence. "It sounds as if we need to clear the air here. Farielle, if you have any grievances against my Lord Husband, I would like to hear them now." She looks at Eron, her expression conveying that he will be next.

"Her Grievance comes from my mindset whilst still in Caldur and I thought her nothing more than spoils." Eron says aloud. "I may have mentioned Mara having a use for her if her ransom proved unacceptable.." Eron says, as if the notion was nothing outrageous. Drinking from his wine glass he grins over the lip of it to Eruphel. "Found your armor yet? I'm curious how well my men hid it."

The girl swallows, blinking, and darts a glance at Eruphel before staring back at Eron. In a voice almost a whisper, she says, "He said he would - would have me given to him for a sacrifice." There. That all came out without her voice shaking.

Eruphel's look is cool, almost in the range of cool disbelief. "Given to the Eye in sacrifice?" she smirks. "I can think of much better uses. And now," she looks at Eron meaningfully, still speaking, "I am sure he can find better uses for you too. So do not worry about that. Wait..." Her eyebrows scrunch together as she replays the recent conversation in her head. "You let your men hide my armor?" Her disbelief causes her voice to rise an octave, and the exasperation is evident. "Why would you do that?"

Eron laughs as he sips from his goblet again. "Myself, and all the Serpent guard feel you'll have no need for it for some time. I assure you it is in good repair and held in high safety..." The Lord husband is suddenly ALL Serpent Commander. "Do you really feel need to raid and skirmish with Gondor while you carry your heir?"

And Farielle is silent. Motionless. Maybe they'll both forget about her entirely. She looks at the desktop, watching the other two from the corners of her eyes.

Eruphel takes a deep breath. "Well what if I need it within the walls of this city? Assassins abound, do not forget. I don't drag the Serpent Guard around with me because I like the attention." She starts quickly removing the rest of the pins, and each one thuds resonatingly on the table heavily. "And what is your gripe against her?" Eruphel asks, motioning to Farielle.

"I have no gripe against her, save that she is the daughter of my enemy." Eron says blandly. "And you can have protective garments commissioned. I do not believe a boned bodice will be good for your figure as our child grows within you." He adds.

The Gondorian dares a swift glance up at Eron when Eruphel asks what gripe he has against her. There is the faintest frown line between her eyebrow, as if she struggles to comprehend some word spoken in a unknown tongue - and isn't entirely sure she wants to.

Eruphel takes in a deep breath, and gives an exasperated sigh. "Very well, no bodices! I will rearrange my wardrobe for the next year or so." she says, throwing up her hands in defeat. "And Farielle may have been born Gondorian, but let us not fault her for her birth and upbringing, and give her a reasonable chance at happiness, shall we?" She turns to Farielle now, asking, "So what was it you were going to say?"

From somewhere, Farielle find courage to continue, lifting her head and doing her best to ignore Eron. She stands very straight. "Lady - I don't want to marry That Man." Despite her best efforts at sounding reasonable and calm, an edge of anger bites in her voice at the last two words. "My father will pay well for my safe return." Behind her back, her fingers turn white from the pressure of clasping them together.

Eruphel's face squinches, and she shakes her head, once more in disbelief. "That Man? Lord Alphros? Why in the world not? He may be king of Gondor someday, which would make you Queen. And even if he does not achieve that end, you will likely live well for the rest of your life." She steps foward, to take the girl by the upper arms in a distant embrace. "Come and sit."

The lady's hands grip her arms lightly, and Farielle lets herself be put into a chair. She clasps her hands in her lap and regards them intently for a long minute before speaking. "I know that everyone here thinks I am lackwitted. But is power truly the thing people here care for most of all, that my eyes should be so dazzled by the title 'Queen' that I would forget my - " Her voice quivers slightly. " - my family, and be content to be tied to a man who thinks I - I am but an object to be insulted and mocked?" The tone of her voice is not that of one trying to offend; hurt and homesickness and unhappiness vie with humiliation and outrage at the memory of that moment in the garden.

"Power is one thing, but the comfort of life is tied directly to a man's affairs. If you so choose, as queen find some farmer who'll brighten your eyes. I suppose not everyone has the opportunity to marry for love.." Eron says dismissively as he seats himself in a nearby lounger, sipping his wine content in his defeat of his wife's will.

Eruphel's reply nearly escapes her lips, when Eron's reply sums up the response adequately, with an added bonus. She gives him a glare for that. "A loveless marriage might be your lot, whether here or there. And if Alphros succeeds, it is your family you will be with again...in Gondor. I know you have been to the Marketplace, and along the way, you have seen many beggars and urchins, I am sure. They know no comfort, and merely exist day to day. Powerful men are men with coin, and coin buys comfort." But Farielle's tone is not missed by the lady, and she probes gently. "What insult and mockery? I have never known Lord Alphros to do such."

Farielle's head comes up and she glares at Eron, her fear of him momentarily banished by anger. "I am not so dishonorable!" For a few minutes, she stares at him, then looks back at Eruphel, fury dying away. "No, even at home, I might not have loved my husband. I would like to, but... " She shakes her head a little and tries again. "My father would never choose for me a man who would give me no honor or care. And - and if Lord Alphros doesn't succeed, I will never see my family again, and what is being Queen to comfort me in that?"

She looks away, flushing, and darts a glance at Eron. Finally, reluctantly, she answers, "He said I was but an object, and a - a whore, and then he s-said it was but a jest and I had no sense of humor, and if this is the action of a man of honor, he will /never/ be King in Gondor no matter his bloodline, and I can't - I WON'T marry him and be treated thus!" Looking up at the lady, she repeats herself from earlier, "Truly, my family, we are not paupers; my father will pay you whatever you ask."

Eron rolls his eyes as the Woman of Gondor continues to beg for a ransom rather than vows. "A woman of such good standing reduced to such..." he says quietly, apparently her outburst amusing him in some fashion. For the most part, he doesn't not interfere with Eruphel's line of conversation with the woman.

Eruphel gives Eron another look, perhaps appreciatively. Then, back to Farielle. "Alphros said you were an object and a whore?" Her disbelief is evident in her tone. "That sounds not at all like him. If anything...he is rather shy around women, or such has been my experience."

"He said," Farielle's voice is almost expressionless, she is holding herself so tightly, "'You are an object in a transaction between Lady Eruphel and myself.' And, 'I don't want you to go around seducing some innocent guard and having light-skinned babies who will call themselves princes of Gondor,' and, 'I see they didn't teach you young ladies of Gondor to have a sense of humor.' And 'it might not have been funny, but it was telling.'" She can't keep the growing fury out of her voice no matter how hard she tries; it is underlaid by a profound misery.

Eruphel blinks, surprised. "I...have to say I am surprised. I will...see if I can find Lord Alphros and I will ask him about it. If that is what he thinks of you, then you can expect he will reject you, in which case, I may well ransom you back to your father." She looks at Eron now, to see what he would add.

"Such affairs go beyond my scope, I select an option from three. where as the two of you find only two. I leave delicate things to delicate people." Eron says with a grin as he stands and sets down an empty wine glass. In fact, I must depart. I need to speak with some members of your guard, Eruphel. I feel it may be time to select a Lieutenant. Ladies." He says as he bows and departs.

"I don't know why he said those things. I would /never/ do that!" Farielle sounds almost like she might burst into tears - it must be hurt pride, she can't truly care what Alphros thinks of her. "And..." But a blaze of hope transfigures her face, and stops her words. And whatever Eron says or means doesn't dim it; she nods to him as he goes, without even thinking about it.

"No, I imagine you would never do that, which is why you are a candidate for his marriage bed. And yes, you are the potential basis for a transaction between Alphros and I. As in, if he likes you, I will receive a reward. But I do not present you to him because I need money." Eruphel's voice softens now. "Alphros is...one of the most admirable men I know, dedicated to a cause he may never achieve, or might not survive. So dedicated, that he has never put thought into the necessity of marriage and child-getting, which is very important. I admire Lord Alphros, and I want the best for him. You are...not perfect, Farielle, but a very good hope. I want good things for you, Farielle, and I want you to make him happy. Have you ever seen my Orrery?"

"But why would he say such things, if he is so admirable? I - I wanted to know if he would be kind to me. I thought maybe I could marry him, if he was kind. But I didn't even get to ask, and I couldn't look at his face to see what is written there, and ... and those were not kind things!" Farielle's voice wobbles. "How would I be perfect? If I didn't love my family, and cared for nothing but my own ambitions, no matter what it meant?" She stops, and blinks hard, and keeps the traitorous tears from falling. Dully, "No. What is an Orrery?"

"You can still love your family, dear, and love Alphros. Indeed, if Alphros succeeds, once again, then you will be in a unique position to protect and benefit your family to the new King. What better love can there be than that?" Eruphel takes a deep breath and sighs, shaking her head. "I will get him to reveal himself to you. And then perhaps you can reveal yourself to him. As for the unkind things he said, I could perhaps draw an apology from him as well. Come, see the Orrery." She leads the woman to a coner of her study, where a strange contraption sits. It is a map of middle earth, with a depiction of the heavens and the depths as well. Stationary rings orbit the middle plane, with depictions of the Valar and Ainur, elves, orcs and men all played out in a small diarama. Eruphel takes the rim of the orb and turns it, and the sun moves across the sky overhead. "Magnificent, is it not? It gives one perspective on the world overall, and makes you think outside these thick walls."

Farielle only shakes her head, mutely. The dichotomy is too great for her to imagine; a Harad King in Gondor... "I would rather he not apologize," she says very quietly, "If he only goes on to do the same sorts of things again." Following the other lady, she looks at the strange creation, slowly starting to actually take in what it is. "Oh... I have never... " Cautiously, she reaches to touch it with a finger. "Where are we?"

"He understands women ill, Farielle." Eruphel says softly. She reaches in to the orrery, pointing to a place where the sandy colored world meets the blue representing the sea. The sandy part is colored with actual fine sand, in fact. And there is a tiny city depicted, hardly more than a step. "We are here." She moves north, hardly more than a couple of fingers width. "Gondor is here. Side by side." She stares at the map, and makes the sun go over head, and then the moon. "Gondor and Umbar are like siblings, constantly fighting. We even share common blood lines, I am told, somewhere in the distant past."

Farielle touches the outline of Gondor's coast, then moves her hand out of the way of the moon. "I want my parents," she whispers, in pain and longing. "My brothers..." She is unable to say anything else for a while, and turns her face away, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. When she can talk again, voice a little rough, she says, "My histories say this, also. That when men came from Numenor, they made cities in the south as well..."

"I have been told we must fight, or your people will see us as weak and attack us, and we dare not let that happen, for we must be strong against our Enemy."

"Hmm." Eruphel says, the sound almost like a laugh. "We /do/ see your people as weak." She sighs and moves away. "I do not know what motivated my people ten years ago, or thirty years ago, to fight Gondor. I only know why I fight Gondor. My father is dead at their hands, and I take up his cause. He is a Hero, I believe, and somewhere, I think he sees what I do."

"What do you think is strength?" Farielle asks. She says nothing about Eruphel's father - equally as many people are dead at Harad hands as at Gondorian.

"Strength is many things, Farielle." Eruphel answers. "Strength, for example, is not in weeping, or wishing. Strength is in doing, in knowing, in holding someone to a promise, or forgiving them for breaking it. Strength is in fighting, and in waiting for fighters to return. There are many kinds of strength. Gondor seems weak, because they are...soft, yielding...it is hard to explain."

The look the girl gives her is puzzled, and in part, incomprehending. But she seems to understand - or think she understands - one thing at least; for the hope that had still burned in her eyes starts to fade. "You value hardness," she says at last. And politely, "Thank you, Lady, for showing me this map. I will take up no more of your time; your husband surely wishes you to rest."

"I suppose we do. Or rather, softness reveals expoits." Eruphel says. "I will retire early, but tomorrow, I will look for you, and perhaps we can face Lord Alphros together. And feed fish to his cats." she says amicably, like promising a walk in the Zoo. "Oh, by the way? This Orrery was gifted to me by Lord Alphros, to help me see the whole world, not just our little piece of it."

Farielle only nods and turns away, walking slowly back out - through the great library stacks - down the curving hallway to her room.