They came to her room in the morning, and began to pack her things together. Farielle tried to protest, but was ignored. The dresses were packed - her paints were not. The servants barely looked at her, and as soon as they had a bag full of whatever they felt was necessary, they left, carrying it. Farielle watched them go.
Where were they going? And why? And... what was she supposed to do? They had taken most of her clothes - not that she had so many - but none of her other belongings. Perhaps - her stomach started to churn painfully, and she forced the thought away, clasping her hands tightly together. She was still standing there staring at the door when it opened again and Alkhaszor came in.
"Come," he said abruptly, holding the door for her.
"Where?" she asked, trying not to let her fear show in her voice. She failed, she could tell, by the sneer that crossed his face.
"It doesn't matter. Come."
"Lady Eruphel," she began, but he shook his head impatiently.
"She knows. I have left her a message. She intended to come, but has not returned. We cannot wait." His voice was curt, his gesture towards the door imperious.
Farielle took a deep breath and then turned and hurriedly snatched Hayrunissa up from the bed, ignoring the scornful look on the man's face.
She followed him down the stairs to the main door, where he paused and looked at her, frowning. "Put on your cloak," he told her at last. "And pull up the hood."
Silently, she obeyed, and they left the tower grounds. The great gates were pushed open for them to pass. Alkhaszor walked in silence, matching his steps to hers - she still tired quickly and easily. But it wasn't until they reached the harbor and he gestured her pre-emptorily aboard a ship, that she faltered. "Where are we going?" she asked again. He didn't answer.
She dared not hope.
Hall of Windows
The Hall of Windows spreads wide and spaceful around you. The tall, intensely ornamented sandstone walls ascend above you to the marbled circular dome that is decorated with a beautiful fresco depicting a series of naval encounters and dominated in the middle by a tall, proud black-sailed ship. From the smooth, reflecting red-hued marble floor, four columns ascend to support the ceiling and the dome. In both ends of the Hall are arched vaults under which are double doors made of dark teakwood, their arched frames embroidered with gold.
The six large windows from which the Hall has gotten its name are on the northern and southern walls of the Hall, two on the northern and four on the southern. In the middle of the northern wall is the widest of all doorways leading out from the Hall; the wide doors leading to the inner courtyard are almost never closed.
The Hall is furnished sparingly. In the middle is a low, rather small table, hand-crafted from the finest ivory. Next to it are several large, soft silk cushions, and a low marble pedestal upon which is set a golden chalice always filled with water. Another pedestal, about the height of a man's waist, is placed before one of the northern windows, and on the pedestal rests the Black Book of Corsairs.
In the bright daylight hours, the sunlight blazes in to the Hall of Windows, sparkling on the fine marble floor and reflecting up to the dome that recounts the stories of many adventures. Beyond the northern windows, the courtyard is tranquil, the fountain in its centre flowing quietly and comfortably.
This ancient manor has had many Lords. Lominakh, the Seaward tyrant and opponent of the Emperor. Khazamr, most famous of all Corsairs. And on and on into the past; a host of legends.
Now another has taken up residence, and it seems his touch might be softer. Walls that in the past were stained with blood and mounted with the heads of enemies have been cleaned and set with tapestries. The famed Black Book of Corsairs remains upon its pedestal, and the sun shines through tall curtained windows.
A wooden throne has been set upon a dais at the far end of the manor's main hall. And upon it sits Alphros, musing. A pair of guards stand at the door, and servants and others pass hither and thither.
Servants scurry out of the way and the two door guards come to attention as a column of guards, 10 in all, dressed in the livery of Heron and Tree, enter. They walk crisply, alert even here, surrounding one not in livery, in their center-the woman Farielle. The guards come to a halt, moving out so that they no longer completley surround Farielee, but instead let her see Alphros on his throne ahead of them.
From the group, Alkhaszor steps forward, bowing deeply, rising, hand over his heart. "My liege. The Lady Farielle, as you commanded."
Farielle is silent. Her eyes dart around the room, then come to fix on Alphros, a wary watchfulness in them, but little else. She is very thin still, much more so than when he saw her last, and there are shadows under her eyes - as if from prolonged sleeplessness.
The King-Claimant's gaze lifts as the pair approach, and he a faint smile he inclines his head in a nod of greeting. "Alkhaszor... Well done, once again you have carried out your orders to the letter." His unseen gaze strays to the Gondorian woman and he adds: "Lady Farielle... I am pleased that you have not come to harm and are returned to us. Welcome to Gimilzain."
"Sire." Alkhaszor's gaze shifts briefly to Farielle, then back to Alphros. "I hope that I may still be of use in this..." he hesitates, "matter."
The veil. Fari flinches visibly when her eyes land on Alphros' 'face', and she swallows and looks away, her breath coming more swiftly and her hands clenching slowly into fists at her sides.
Standing besides Farielle is the young Priestess, standing as straight as an arrow with her head bowed gently, hands folded before her skirts. The girl keeps her eyes lowered to the finely wrought floor, S'aria having kept her silence for most of the time. "I thank you for... bringing my along, my lord. I know you and I have just met... yet you have showered me with such courtesy. It is my hope I may assist you as well," she says with reverence in her voice, before her eyes flicker briefly to Farielle, a shadow of fear and worry in their dark depths.
There is something vaguely beatific in the way Alphros looks on Farielle, ere the Acolyte of the Dark Citadel speaks and he looks to her. "You need say nothing of it, S'aria. In fact, your presence here is most pertinent, as there is to be a wedding, and a wedding needs a legally celebrant, does it not?"
But first, the King-Claimant's eyes drift back to Alkhaszor. "Yet before we speak of that... Alkhaszor, you have served me well, whether in Umbar and Gondor, and for this I will reward you ere your duties once more carry you away." The King-Claimant stands, drawing forth his wicked southern-wrought blade. "Kneel."
S'aria's voice brings Farielle's head back up with a start, and something else comes into her face then, a sort of desperately determined hardness. She still very evidently refuses to look at Alphros's face; her gaze, when it wanders his direction, never lifting above his shoulders.
Alkhaszor speaks in a lyrical language, the words too soft for Farielle to comprehend, but sounds deeply concerned. His protests, though, trail off-for a moment Alkhaszor stares in surprise. Then he kneels, silently.
The Easterling's dark eyes flash with realization, her olive-hued face turning quite rapidly back towards the would-be king. She replies with a formal salute, a fist coming to her chest as she bows forward deeply, "It would be my honor, sire," she says, her voice ringing confidently out through the hall until Alphros addresses his Knight and she returns to reverential silence. Her dark gaze, however, seems to be watching the pale-skinned woman out of the corner of her eyes, observing her features with quiet interest.
"Yes, I do," Alphros answers with a smile, though there is something much too cryptic in the way he says it, something that suggests not all is quite as it seems. "But first, you... Alkhaszor. You have served me well, and so I deem your time as a squire of our new, glorious order is done... Kneel a Black Squire, but arise a Knight of your King."
And with that, a simple tap on the shoulder; a dark mimicry of the Gondorian way, except that the tip of the scimitar catches Alkhaszor upon the cheek - "So you will remember this," explains the King-Claimant - and the knighting is done. Alphros turns and walks back up to his throne. "And now, Farielle..."
"My liege, I am deeply honored," Alkhaszor says, the blood tricking down his cheek. Still kneeling, he bows his head, hand over his heart and stays that way in a moment of reverence before rising. He does not wipe the blood away.
The knighting ceremony goes on and finishes, but the Gondorian girl seems barely aware of it. She is very tense, and trembling faintly.
"Will - will you take that off, please?" Farielle asks, her voice high and thin with distress. She edges a half step away from S'aria, and never looks away from the middle of Alphros' chest. Her face is very white.
Alphros ignores her request. Instead, he asks a simple question: "Farielle of Gondor... You do want to marry me, do you?"
The Priestess of the Eye remains quiet, noting the step away from her with a purse of her lips. She straightens up enough to look between the two of them, her dark eyes darting between the two very different looking individuals - pale, frail Gondorian Princess and the dark-haired King Claimant.
Alkhaszor smiles just the smallest bit, the corners of his eyes crinkling up-first at Farielle's demand, then at Alphros paying it no heed. And still this same expression holds as he awaits Farielle's answer.
Her breath is coming faster and lighter, nails digging into her palms. Shaking visibly now, memories clashing in her blue-grey eyes. "No," she says. And again, "No... " Almost it sounds like she answers someone else. But she hasn't lost herself yet, despite the assault on her mind. And with an attempt to ground herself in the present, she asks, "What have you done to give me any desire to marry you? Even the most smallest kindnesses seem be-beyond you."
"If that is how you feel, Farielle... Then I am going to show you the first of these kindnesses."
The veiled King-Claimant ruminates for a moment. "I am not going to marry you."
The new-made Knight looks relieved: That is, Alkhaszor lets out an almost imperceptible sigh and his shoulders relax ever so slightly. He looks to Alphros but does not yet ask whatever question is upon his lips.
At Farielle's words, S'aria takes a tenative step forward, saying, "Lord Alphros, if I...", before the veiled-man speaks and her eyes go wide with suprise, the Easterling looking dumbfounded for a moment. Quickly though she regains her composore, her stern, dark eyes returning to the pair before her. "Well then I suppose my services will not be needed tonight...", she remarks.
"I don't even know you," Farielle continues, and then her eyes fly in shock to the man's face. "You won't?" A bottomless relief flashes across her face - but then it is consumed by darkness. A black room and a veiled man... Her eyes widen, staring but not seeing.
Then with a gasping indrawn breath, Farielle jerks her gaze away to stare at the floor. A little drop of blood falls from one clenched hand; the nails having dug through skin. "Please, sir," she says, making an effort to keep her voice steady. "Let me go home."
"You are home, Farielle," Alphros answers as his gaze sweeps back to S'aria. "Your services are still needed, priestess. I did not bring Lady Farielle here to marry me. Indeed, I brought her here to marry Alkhaszor. A noble match, don't you think?"
.
"WHAT?" Alkhaszor nearly explodes in surprise-or is it anger? "My lord...with all due respect, I beg you." He glances to Farielle, glaring at her. "I would give voice to my objections, but not in open court."
A wry smile twists across S'aria's lips at Alphros' words, a chuckle flowing from deep within the priestess. "Well, then... it sees the ladies of Umbar will still be able to swoon for your excellencies hand, or at least a bachelor's favor." If she is suprised she gives nothing to show for it, though there is much amusement in her dark eyes, and something more, she seems to be quite impressed by the veiled-man. "The ceremonry requires blood of both participants. I fear... it will be a little difficult to collect if they both are unwilling."
"Him?" Farielle says with loahting. She is just as shocked as Alkhaszor - and just as unwilling. But something else takes precedence. She stares at S'aria, and then says flatly, swinging her gaze back to Alphros' chest regions. "I will not give blood to that priestess for any reason. Ever."
S'aria's eyes are cold and without compassion as Farielle's gaze meets her own, an endless sea of darkest shadows. Her expression however, is far more animated, that impressed smirk lingering on her lips. She inclines her head towards the man, her smile only growing. "And here I was about to protest that it was beneath your dignity to force one to marry you, my lord. And here you have founda way to preserve both dignity and your reputation in the eyes of all Umbar. I must say, your wisdom has impressed this meek follower of the dark one..." she says dipping in a bow so deep, her dark bangs touching the floor.
She gives Farielle a brief glance, but otherwise there is no hesitation in the words the come next. "If you make this request of me, my lord. I have no choice but to accept. There are occasions when the laws can be suspended, especially due to the formidable demands of politics." A smile, wicked and delighted at once, crosses her features as she gives him a salute, "So I shall accept, Lord Alphros." And then she turns, seeking out the nearest servant one hand lashing out, as her voice rings throughout the hall. "Bring me the finest goblet in your lord's possession!" Sending the man promptly scurrying off.
Eyes blazing, Alkhaszor stares hard at Alphros, then turns the same look at Farielle. "I was wed, I have an heir. And only one heir will I ever have. But if you order it, so be it. I will obey. As for the lands of the Bragollach and Girithlin, this woman...would be a small price."
Farielle lifts her eyes, glaring back. She totally ignores S'aria - the girl's perfidy is no surprise to her, though perhaps there is a little sadness for her. "I will not marry you," she says. "I can do nothing against your - lord," she spits the word disdainfully, "if he chooses to force me. But I will never consent to wed you. And I see what your claims of honor are worth, if you will take a woman against her will."
Alphros dips his head in thanks to S'aria. As the priestess attends to the preparations, he answers Alkhaszor: "Do not think me ungrateful, Alkhaszor. In fact, I will see to it with all my resources that your heir is liberated from the Farside Tower."
But as for Farielle? The Gondorian woman could scream and set off fireworks, for all that it would do to ruffle the King-Claimant's unphased mien. "Sometimes, the brute hand of force is necessary for the greater good. The greatest of all kings, Ar-Pharazon, married Miriel did he not? You will marry Alkhaszor anAlkhaszor, as I have decreed, Farielle of Gondor. I know that you will never comprehend the boundless and unseen kindnesses I have done you - the horrors that you might have otherwise faced in Umbar had you fallen into other hands," he glances at S'aria with a humourless smile; the sacrificial pits of the Dark Citadel are far from rumour. "And I shall you reward you with suitable honour. You will serve as the Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen Mother; I think she will enjoy the company of a fellow Gondorian after so many years. And though mother is the dead of my household, I am appointing you Chamberlain to see to its daily running; a duty you will excel at, I am sure."
A servant returns, bearing an ornate chalice; a relic of ancient Numenor.
"You may proceed, S'aria," Alphros says.
"Hold your tongue, woman," Alkhaszor snaps angrily. "Did I not just say I have only one heir and only ever will? We will be married in name only. In fact, my liege, I would ask that if I am to be married to this woman," he does not even look at Farielle, "then she receive proper training at competent hands so that she is used to the ways of Umbar and its people. I will not have her carry my name and disgrace me with her...ignorance."
"And you said that you did not wish to repeat his errors," Farielle throws back at Alphros. "I see also what your word and honor are worth. You will never be king in Gondor. You are not fit." For all her youth, for all the fire of anger rising in her blood now, there is nothing in her voice of this. Only the simple pronouncement. The judgment of one in whose blood runs the blood of elves and of Numenor. He may dismiss it if he likes, as the ranting of a woman; most likely he will. Her eyes flick towards Alkhaszor - still filled with the same disdain.
The King-Claimant smiles slightly at Alkhaszor's words; perhaps the Gondorian man's feisty manner pleases him? "I shall see to her training myself, Alkhaszor, as shall S'aria, if she is still willing to be of assistance to me."
His eyes drift back to Farielle. "I have tolerated many crass words from you, Lady, but I pray... Do not act as if you know ought of me. You do not. Nothing. I am more fit than you know; the paths of wisdom that I have walked range far beyond the ken of your ilk, enslaved by your petty Lords as you are! I bring you freedom! No accept it and be wedded with dignity, as is your blood right." The King-Claimant nods to S'aria, falling silent.
A fine golden goblet is brought into S'aria's hands, and the Easterlings steps forward first to Alkhazor. There is something strange in her willful eyes, a deep unholy tranquility - as if the stuff of life has been snuffed out of her gaze, leaving something thoroughly inhuman in its place. Yet she speaks with her own voice, moving with flawless and confidence and grace. She lowers the golden goblet, clasped between both of her hands for him to see, her gaze meeting the man's own. "Please extend your left hand, sir-knight, palm up. You will contribute it yourself, I hope?", she asks with a tilt of her head before she turns her head, midnight bangs fluttering with the rapid movement to look to Farielle. "I assume she will be difficult... Have one of the guards hold the arm out and I will do the honor's myself," she orders the guard, a slight smile of amusement playing across her features.
"Let this be a lesson in politics for you, Lady Farielle. So consumed were you with your own self-pity that you failed to see what was inevitable. If by no other authority, than the natural authority of wisdom... Lord Alphros has shown himself to be fit for a king. He conducts himself like a noble man, with the silver-tongue of a scholar, and the wisdom of a High-Priest. Whereas you? Sulking month after month like a child... And you question who is fit to rule?", she says with quiet pity as she gathers the required fluids.
"I will not," Alkhaszor says, his eyes steady as they meet S'aria's. "I will not give my blood in marriage to this woman. This is a marriage in name only, not a sacred bond. There will be no union of souls. And no blood. I have been married once-I have made my vows in blood to that woman, and though she is dead, this one here.." he jerks his head toward Farielle, "will not replace her. My -wife-" he emphasizes, "willingly and gladly came with me to Umbar, willingly and with joy gave her vows to King Alphros. -She- was a true woman of Gondor. Not this...this insult to my heritage, as Farielle is."
Farielle doesn't bother to respond, crossing her arms and holding her head high, her eyes filled with contempt.
"Forgo your blood price, S'aria," Alphros says with a faint frown. "I shall write a missive commending your fervour to the High Priestess herself, but this is to be a marriage of the Law, and naught else."
"You meant without blood, my lord? Forgive me... I assume you meant without consent," notes the Priestess with a slight frown. With a bemused chuckle she takes a bottle of wine from a nearby servant and pours it into the cup, "The ceremony requires blood mixed with wine. And so without blood, I suppose it will be just wine." Swirling the contents with one hand, her dark eyes dart between the unwilling bride and groom once before gripping the goblet with both hands she hoists it high into the air, turning to face the direction of mordor. "May the Dark Lord of Mordor upon his throne look down at this simple wedding ceremony and find itfit in his eyes. May He fill you both with his dark spirit so that you will know everlasting pleasure and endless blessings. And May he grant you strong, wise, and fit progency until your heart is content. And at last, may he through his dark favor see your ambitious brought to fruition. Now, if either of you dare break this blessed union, may he strike you dead..." She turns back to them, a dark, cruel smile gracing her lips as she steps towards both of them, offering the cup of wine with one hand as she chuckles, "In the name of our Dark Master, I know pronounce you man and wife." And then without a word, she turns the cup and lets the wine spill across the floor.
Alphros watches as it is done. And then he says in Sindarin: "Forgive me, Alkhaszor. I would not have had an emissary of the Dark Citadel pollute this more than it is... But some things are necessary."
By no word or flicker of an eye does Farielle give any validity to this farce of a marriage. She cannot stop the priestess from saying the words. She cannot bodily remove herself from the location. But she will not acknowledge it. She stares, arms still crossed, into the air at nothing.
'So be it,' Alkhaszor says, nodding to S'aria and then looking to Farielle. 'And now you are my wife and thus under my command.'
He looks to Alphros, nodding slowly. "Sindarin Some things are necessary, my lord. And I am wondering if having this vile woman trained by her," he gestures to S'aria, "would meet with your approval? Perhaps the Dark Citadel and worship to its lord can knock some sense into her."
Alphros rises from his throne and steps down from the dias. 'My thanks, priestess. As a Lord of Umbar and the King of Gondor, I seal this union in the Law.'
The King-Claimant looks to Alkhaszor. "Sindarin This is a fair request... I will see that it is done." Then to husband-and-wife, in Westron once more: 'You are now Lord anAlkhaszor and Lady anAlkhaszor... Honour to you, greatest among the nobility of Gondor. You,' he looks to the husband, 'Have already received my gift; the Zagaragan, that lies waiting for you in the harbour. You,' he looks to Farielle, 'Shall receive my bounty as well.'
Alphros pages: Sindarin This is a fair request... I will see that it is done.
There is no response to this either. For all intents and purposes, Farielle is not there.
The darkly clad Priestess gives Alphros one final sweeping bow, her graceful movements almost dance-like as she slowly retreats from his throne. "It is done," is all she says softly, her words but a hushed whisper before she returns to the edge of the room. Still gripping the fine goblet in both hands, she looks with an attentive gaze between the two newly-weds, her lips pursed slightly. The puddle of blood-red wine remains in the middle of the audience chamber like a gaping-wound.
"My thanks, my lord, and thanks, also, from my lady wife, though at the moment she is rather too indisposed to give proper thanks. With your help and the blessings of the gods, this will be remedied, and I thank you for seeing to it," Alkhaszor grabs for Farielle's wrist, and as he bows, he gives her a strong tug to try to get her to do the same."My thanks and gratitude, also, to Lady S'aria."
Alkhaszor's fingers bite into Farielle's wrist, yanking her off-balance. And surely leaving bruises. She does not bow, though she does bob about rather, trying not to fall over from the sudden pull.
A smile weaves onto S'aria's face at Alkhaszor's words, the young Easterling dipping her head forward in a nod of recognition. "It was my pleasure, sir Knight. I never imagined my first public union would between you and the Lady Farielle," she says with a soft chuckle.
Alphros answers the bow and the bob with a deep incline in his head. "Honour to you," he says. "As affairs here at Gimilzain are not yet complete, I ask that you take your Lady wife back to Umbar, to Seaward. The familiar surroundings may do her some good. I will send a missive with you, asking that Lady Eruphel continue her hospitality... this time as a guest rather than a prisoner. Though naturally, some security will be necessary, which I shall provide."
The King-Claimant gestures to S'aria. "The Acolyte has offered her services to me, and Alkhaszor has requested them. So, if you are willing S'aria, I ask that you visit Lady Farielle and instruct her in the lores that you possess. In return, I shall continue to commend you to the High Priestess."
Then he looks back to Alkhaszor. "I shall send you word as soon as I am able, when we are ready to move here, Alkhaszor. In the meantime, I shall attend to the matter of your son. You may go, if that is your wish... Though I ask that you allow your Lady wife to linger for a moment, so that I can grant her my boon."
"I will stay and listen, lord," Alkhaszor says simply. "Thank you."
Suddenly looking slightly embarassed, the Easterling Priestess starts to show her age as she looks to the floor, her olive-hued cheeks taking a rosy-hue. "I shall... certainly try to teach her if that is your desire, Lord," speaks the girl as she looks up, for the first time looking guilty as she glances sideways to Farielle, the girl rubbing her arm a little. There is humanity in her features now, for it was easy to hide such feelings during the ceremony, but now forced to address the matter directly such is not the case. "However, I fear the Lady Farielle may... hold my accepting your request to perform the marriage-ceremony against me. It was my desire to become her friend, but now I fear that it an impossibility. I cannot say how cooperative she will be from now on with me," she says with a hurried whisper. "Though I certainly still desire to be of service to you."
The Gondorian, having caught her balance, continues to stare into nothingness. There is no expression on her face; and none in her eyes. If anyone here had seen her shortly after she was recovered from Vain and his men, they might find something familiar.
"I understand your concerns, S'aria, and so you must exercise patience... Something that I realise the Dark Citadel, preeminent as it is, does not always have to call on. You must be patient with her, as I have, and as she has with us." This is said with a slight twisting of his lips; Alphros steps to one side and gestures to a servant, who disappears.
"I must go to make my plans, but first, Lady Farielle, as I have promised..." The servant returns, with three companions. "You are a true Lady now, and so should be attended thusly. I am giving your own maids, and a guardsman as is appropriate." If he observes her strange mood, he says nothing.
The three summoned folks step forward; two women, a younger Harondorian and a slightly older Umbarian, and a middle-aged Umbarean soldier. "Hikalla, Leena, and Tariq... They served me well in Farside, and in the years between, and now they are yours."
This requires no comment. Farielle has been a Lady from her birth.
S'aria glances to Farielle, a very sad look in her eyes before she looks back to the throned Lord and gives him a hurried nod, "I shall do as you say then, my lord. And I thank you for your commendations to the Dark Citadel... I fear I have been kept back from advancing due to my relative and so your recommendations does much to dispel the illusions of my older superiors," she says with a bit of her usual confidence returning albeit slowly. Her eyes flicker to the new guards, "My, my... what a fine entourage. No Priestess gets such honors, save her eminence herself."
Alphros dips his head. "I trust that you will both have a safe voyage back to Gondor." He inclines his head again to S'aria, and then with a glance for Farielle, disappears into the shadows of the hall.
Silence reigns between the two, Priestess and Princess, the shadows of night seeming to engulf all sound between them as Aphros' servants and soldiers guide them into a waiting room while the boats are prepared. The newly appointed guards are there as well, keeping watch over the two with quiet, bored gazes. Yet S'aria appears far from normal, she is constantly glancing to Farielle, her large eyes looking wider and wider, glistening with a thin sheen of moisture. She seems far from the graceful, confident Priestess of Sauron she was in the hall, and much more a child struggling to fight back tears. Finally, she breaks the silence, one hand tightening into a fist at her side, the girl turning her face away from the Gondorian, "I... had to do it, you know! I... told you this was going to happen... I was right, wasn't I? Maybe not in the details... but in the generalities at least!'
Farielle looks at S'aria, and then away, and makes no response. Indeed, she acts as if she is an automaton. If someone moves her, she does not resist. But she makes no movement on her own, and she speaks to no one. Whatever of emotion she may feel is locked away deep inside. Shock, perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.
A slender, tan-skinned hand lifts to the young Priestess' cheeks, glittering tear-drops bespeckling her cheeks as she looks at the pale-woman - her bottom lip wavering. Its as if it has only just dawned on her what she just did, but that cannot be possible, right? "Farielle... I... please, say something. Everything isn't over... I... I am sorry, you know that right? I did not want to..." She seems to be just stammering at this point, and quickly steps over and reaches for Farielle's arm. If given the opportunity, Farielle will find that she is not trying to hold her hand, but get a look at her wounded palm. "Did... did he do something to you when he asked you to marry him? It looked like... something unnatural was happening," she says without looking up at the other's face, sniffing a little bit.
Farielle's hand lifts limply, the fingers curling open as S'aria looks. The girl herself remains as withdrawn as ever. It is not as if she is deliberately ignoring S'aria specifically however, but as if she removes her inner self for safety. Last time, it was to survive torture.
On the palm - on both palms, if S'aria checks - is an arc of small wounds where Farielle's fingernails had dug into flesh and drawn blood.
S'aria produces a jar from her satchel, a paste which she applies to the injury. It numbs the pain almost immediately. For a moment, it seems the girl is managing to calm herself of her guilt through this process, carefully apply a bandage to Farielle's hand before she ties it off neatly just above the thumb - a few tears dribbling across the bandage. Whether or not the silence is to torture her, it seems to be doing so, for when she looks up again, tears are streaming down her face. She looks up into those lifeless eyes, her own trembling, "Come... come on Fari... be angry... anything but this. Hit me... please, if you can hear me and your people truly practice mercy... hit me... that would strike these foolish emotions from my heart," she says pleedingly, even going so far as to lift the now bandaged hand up to her face, wiping a tear-studded cheek against it.
Something must be going through Farielle's mind, for a faint expression does surface in her eyes - though it doesn't seem to be in response to anything S'aria has said. But the Gondorian girl looks sick - as if someone has punched her in the stomach. She makes a faint motion - still entirely divorced from the easterling's actions - rather as if she pushes something away from her, something unseen. Then she looks around the room, blindly at first, but slowly coming into focus. The guards. Scurrying servants of this place. Her maids, who are bringing her few belongings... Farielle's gaze fixes on the bundles. Yes. There is the doll.
Those tearful black eyes follow the pale-skinned girl's each movement, as if searching for some emotion she might miss if she looks away for but a moment. "Come on... I know you want to. Be angry! Take it out on me... they used to beat me back in Nurn... almost every day. I can take it," she pleads desperately, her tears continuing to fall in a steady rain. Yet even she seems to realize the futility, and without even waiting for a reply she hurries over towards the particular bundle Farielle is looking at, so very eager to please it seems. "What... what is it? Your old dress?", she questions taking one of the baskets from the servant-girl and carrying it back to Farielle, "Do you want to change?"
And now Farielle does hear the words S'aria is speaking, for she turns her head a little towards the other girl, though she still stares as if nothing the easterling says makes sense. She ignores the dress.
As if in a panic, S'aria starts to throw things out of the bundle one after the other, trying to find what it is Farielle wants. It might amuse the servants to see a Priestess behaving so much like an eager-to-please handmaiden but she finally finds the doll, holding it up as she sniffs at the older girl, "T-this? Is this what you want, Fari? I... don't even have my old one..."
Single-mindedly, Fariell reaches for the doll, patting it all over like a child checking her baby for injuries. There is a strange order to the way she touches it - but everything she is doing just now is strange. Content, she holds it in her arms, and reverts to stillness.
The young Priestess blinks at this, not seeming to comprehend what Farielle is doing as she starts to take care of the doll. She passes the bundle of belongings back off to Farielle's servant, pushing to her feet as she watches other woman's strange behavior. Stubborn even in self-pity, the teenager grabs a hold of the Gondorian's blouse sleeve, giving it a tug. "Come... on. Do not be like this... You were getting so much better. I... I can help you make it right. I will make it up to you somehow, I swear." She gives her dark head a shake, her tears still coming though more calmly now as she mutters, "By the spirits, how did I do such a thing?"
Perhaps Farielle thinks S'aria means to take the doll when she pulls at her sleeve, for she jerks back, cuddling the toy defensively close.
The guards look at each other expressionlessly; the maids watch as if they don't know quite what to think. The older one is more impassive; the younger has an expression of open pity on her face.
"Fari... You are not a child! You are older than me by two years!", S'aria protests with growing weakness, her wet eyes full of guilt and pain as she looks at the other woman behave in this manner. Swallowing, she finally steps back, letting go of Farielle's sleeve as she sees the futility. Her expression hardens and she crosses her arms, attempting to be angry herself now but it seems all to obviously an act. "Are you not a Gondorian Princess? A proud heir to the throne of your nation? You should behave like it!"
The Gondorian girl's eyes move to S'aria and then away, uncaring. What does it matter what she calls her? What she thinks? Farielle saw and heard her actions of earlier - and her delight in them, the coldness and the hardness. The gloating. None of this matters. She holds the doll tightly, and waits.
And it is that look that seems to break S'aria's heart as deserving of such punishment as she may be. Her eyes grow wide, and those useless tears surge forth again, her fingers trying to futiley wipe them away from her face but at least a few end up dribbling off of her chin. "I am sorry... I am sorry...", she blubbers, "I... didn't mean for it to be like this, I wanted to help you... honestly. I wanted to help you get back home. I wanted to prove you were wrong about me that we..."she simply gives a shake of her head, letting her words trail off, hot tears scattering through the air. She then simply buries her face in her arm, one moves away, finding corner out of the way with some cushions where she can cry it out, and perhaps even linger in thought over that dark spectre that tugged her into this position in the first place - her own ambition.
The maids shift uneasily, and the younger one, clearly unable to bear S'aria's weeping, hurries over to try and comfort her. The older one merely sniffs. Any servant of Sauron deserves whatever she gets, in her very obvious opinion.
Farielle was very cold. She clutched the doll and thought numbly that it was well she had brought it. And the seeds she had sewn inside - the crumpled, dried flowers and leaves. S'aria's words eddied around her, but she ignored them. She should have known; should never have even partly trusted one of /his/ servants. At least she had the seeds. As soon as she was alone, she would pick out the stitches and eat them. It would be quick.
She shivered, feeling sick, as she remembered that terrible, evil ceremony. Married... in the name of Sauron. With the blessing of his priestess. To a man who thought nothing of forcing her still more into their company - who expected her to /learn/ from them. Who hated her. Learn what? she wondered, then shrugged mentally. It didn't matter. She would be dead.