Rath Sangahyando - A Street in Umbar
The glistening black Rath Sangahyando cuts through the western edge of Umbar. A high wall of blueish stone lines the west side of the street. A tall tower rises behind the wall, amid a lush green garden. An ornate silver coloured gate punctuates the wall's midpoint. The gate is closed.
Lominzil stared down the street. He felt almost numb - despite his brave words to himself, he had not truly expected to find his sister; not so soon, not so easily. He settled cautiously back into the corner of wall, and stared blindly down the street. Where had they been taking her? He didn't know; had no way of knowing. He didn't dare to follow; he would have to wait and hope they brought her back. Perhaps, when they did, he could find some way of letting her know he was here.
He didn't dare to allow himself to think that they might not bring her here again. That they might be taking her somewhere else - permanently.
...
Has it been a day? Two? Three? Or more... Farielle wasn't sure. She was still in shock; stunned by the abrupt change of her life. Again. And with no time yet alone, she has not had a chance to pick the poisonous seeds out of her doll. They watch her, always. But sometime, she promised her self. Soon. She would force herself to stay awake; the women must sleep sometime.
She walked through the streets of Umbar in a daze, staring at nothing and seeming to see no one, surrounded by watchful guards.
Umbar in February is cool and dry, even in midday. The black Rath Sangahyando is smooth and glossy, huddled tight with people travelling to and fro.
A ragged figure reclines on the side of the road, seeming much like a discarded bundle of sorts. A little chipped bowl with a few coins sits before him, and his pale, silver-like eyes - the only thing alive in his dark, dusty face - sleeplessly watch the silver gates of Seaward.
The marching boots drum on the road, coming from the harbors towards the Tower. The road clears before them; people pushing against each other to get out of the way. The slight figure of the Gondorian woman in their midst is cloaked and veiled - the cloth wrapped loosely about her face, leaving her eyes unobscured. Her pale blue-grey eyes; twins to those of the beggar that she doesn't see. The beggar who doesn't move out of the way as the cortege approaches.
One of the guards snarls something in Haradaic, aiming a kick at the ragged man.
It connects soundly with the beggar's thin ribs, drawing from him a dumb yelp of pain and incomprehension. 'Batsai', as he is known by some, scuttles off to the side of the road, hugging his begging bowl and making placating gestures with his rag-wrapped hands and hooded head.
Subtle, however, is his glance to the mostly covered woman: a bitter smile and a flicker of the hooded blue eyes, looking away.
A cry of pain. From somewhere very far away, Farielle hears it and looks around - and stumbles, almost falling. The guard nearest her steadies her, matter-of-factly, but not without respect.
Eyes wide with shock fix on the beggar's face - his eyes... Even as the guards beside her urge her on, she turns her head to look over her shoulder, searching for the thin, dirty form. "It's just a beggar," says her guard dismissively. "You'll see plenty of those, my lady."
Batsai is standing by the road. Stretched to his full height, he is taller than any on the street, shoulders squared in warrior's stance. He does not move, but merely raises his hand, bound in rags, to the woman - as if at the swearing of an oath.
Then he sits down and is against lost from sight.
Even through the guards that surround her, Farielle finds the man; her eyes drawn to him as iron to a lodestone. She watches a moment longer, then turns away, dropping her gaze to the streets. It is as if a dam has broken, and all her thoughts rush into her mind; pushing away the frantic, desperate repetitions that have claimed her until now.
"Many?" she asks, as if horrified. And "Give him a coin," she says, twisting her face - even though unseen through the veil - into an expression of distress and sympathy. "The poor man!"
"My lady," says the guard, patiently. "You cannot feed every beggar in Umbar! They are gutterscum, beneath your notice. They could work, if they wanted to - they are just lazy and live off of the blood of their betters. Leeches!" He spits.
But Farielle insists, and at last, grudgingly, the man obeys, striding back to drop a copper into the beggar's bowl and to say to him roughly, in Haradaic, 'Be off with you! This is no place for your kind!'
Beaming at the woman's guard, Batsai puts his hands together and bows, his expression saying what words - for mute and deaf is this beggar - cannot.
The guard rolls his eyes. "OFF!" he says loudly. "GO!" As if saying the words louder will make them heard. He stabs the air with his finger, pointing down the road away from Seaward Tower, then half-draws his sword menacingly.
Batsai - or, perhaps, Lominzil Girithlin is his true name - emits a frightened whimper and skulks into the crowd, tossing back fearful glances at the guard's sword.
It couldn't be! Not here! Farielle looked over her shoulder again, but the beggar was gone. Lomin? But how... Her fingers clenched around the doll. It couldn't have been. She must have been mistaken.
Farielle didn't notice when they led her to another room instead of her own. A larger one, with a huge bed in the center of it. She stood where they left her, staring at the wall but not seeing it. Around her, she was vaguely aware of the two maids unpacking things, talking quietly together, going through...
She jerked herself from her abstraction and looked around in horror, then hurried to follow the women through the connecting door into a smaller room with two beds. Yes. This would do. She went to the corridor and ordered the guards to bring another bed, a small one. She didn't wait to see if they obeyed, but went back into the second room and looked around.
It would fit there... Farielle tucked the doll under her elbow and began to tug at the desk. The maids watched her, frowning, but finally one began to help her. The third bed made the room very crowded, but Farielle didn't care. There was no way she was sleeping in that other room - that other bed - unless forced.
Lominzil... the name ran through her mind like water, sweet and cool and refreshing; and she swung from a desperate hope to an equally desperate fear to utter despair. That night, she couldn't eat. Nor the next morning...
She had to find him again. Something that Lord Alphros had said tickled at her brain... oh yes. She was to be given an allowance. A faint smile flickered over her face. She would give it away - there were plenty of beggars. She would give his money to them. All of them. If Lominzil were truly there, if she had not been dreaming or fooling herself by her own desires - or seeing things still from the drugs she had been given - she would find him.
...
One day - another. And another. Farielle got weary of the endless searching; the endless streams of beggars and poor. She hadn't found him - perhaps it had only been a dream. Each night, she sank into her bed thinking she would give up. Give up and unstitch the seams of the doll, and eat the seeds hidden there. Each morning, she woke, fiercely determined to find him. One more day, just one more day...
It was worse now than it had been - she no longer was allowed any time alone. The women slept in the room with her - some small voice inside reminded her that was her own choice - and the guards followed her everywhere. And nightmares still woke her. The only good thing about these endless terrible days was that she had not seen - she shied from the word 'husband' - Alkhaszor. Restlessly, she stood up and hurried from the room; the guardsmen falling into place beside her. She ignored them, wrapping the veil they insisted she wear about her face. She had to find him.. she had to!
It is dizzyingly hot this Southern noon, and the Rath Sangahyando glistens and shimmers. People dressed in flowing linen walk the streets, trying not to crowd each other. Batsai, despite warnings and kicks, remains watchfully across the gate of Seaward Tower, lying on a rough mat.
Despite the heat, Farielle has insisted on going out. On none of her other forays into the city, handing out Alkhaszor's money to the deserving (and undeserving!) poor, has she seen the man again. And the intervening days have brought doubt and fear to that shining moment of revelation. Was it really.. could it have been... the drugs aren't still making her see things? Sickening mood-swings from hope to despair have made her nearly frantic. And she cannot wait until the evening cool. Now she comes, with the two guards, out of the gates of the tower, and hesitates, looking around. Where to go first?
The deaf beggar sits up, tilting his head in a surprisingly intelligent gesture toward the veiled lady.
The guards look - bored. Resigned. They haven't been able to talk their new mistress out of her idiotic missions of mercy, and there seems to be no harm in it. Other than her being in danger of being mobbed by urchins scenting the makings of their fortunes.
The girl turns left, randomly, catching sight of a bit of movement, and first hurrying, then deliberately slowing her steps. "Hello," she says in slow, careful Haradaic, stopping by the beggar, and reaching into her pouch for a copper penny. She stares hungrily at his face.
Batsai takes a drink from the chipped begging-bowl, which someone has filled with water instead of coin. He pulls his hood tighter over his face and tucks his rag-bound hands into his sleeves, and smiles at the lady.
His eyes are the same blue-grey as before.
"He is deaf, my lady," inserts one of the guards, not bothering to hide his disgust. "You'd best save your practicing for some other wretch."
"Deaf," Farielle repeats, not taking her eyes from ... yes - Lominzil's face. She holds the penny out for him to take, her gaze fixed to his, astonished, wondering. A smile spreads over her face in dawning joy, then she suddenly wipes it away. She can't be happy to see a beggar. No one must know.
The beggar's smile becomes idiotic at the sight of the penny. He reaches up to clasp Farielle's hands, taking the penny. And she may feel a little scrap of parchment being slipped into her hand...
Farielle clings to his hands - it is perhaps the greatest effort she has ever put forth, to let go, as if she does not care. "I am sorry," she says to him, foolishly, such an idiot girl, not only is he deaf, but surely he couldn't understand common even if he could hear it! "That you are deaf... I will give you two pennies." Her hand goes to her pouch, bringing out a second penny - and leaving the paper safely hidden within.
It seems Batsai will do a little jig of joy at the unexpected income, but he merely smiles wide and bows to her, his forehead touching the ground.
And she watches him yet, trying her best to keep a look of sympathy and distress on her face - but in truth unable to move away. He is water to the dying, snow in the desert... At last, reluctantly, but impelled by the knowledge that she dare not bring her guards' attention down on him, she moves away.
And there is the note. Farielle goes about her self-appointed duty, until she dare to return to her room.
And Lominzil watches his sister leave, fingernails digging into his arms to prevent his leaping up and following her, and perhaps running into one of the guards at her side, knife first.
All the rest of the day, she was hyper aware of the tiny piece of paper in her coin purse. And terrified someone would come and demand to look within it. But though she had hardly noticed it, the servants treated her with more respect now. Aside, she thought bitterly, from haunting her every step.
That night, when she dressed for sleep, she let the purse fall onto her bed among her clothes, and then, when she took the gown and handed it to one of the maids to care for, gave the pouch a nudge under a corner of blanket. And as she lay in bed, eyes closed, tense and rigid as a board, listening to the breathing of the two maids; she held it in her hand, unseen. Until, at last, several decades later...
It was written in smudged charcoal - only one line: I will find a way; be ready.
She closed her hand about the paper, crumpling it into garbage, and fell asleep, smiling.