Chapter II
The sounds of the city came through the open window more and more infrequently as the day waxed towards noon. The room looking out onto the road was sparely furnished, with a long table, four chairs and a sideboard, and a fire burned low in the hearth at one end.
Idrin was sitting on a stool beside the tall, heavy-set man. She skimmed her hands silently along the pink scar running down his knee. He gave no reaction as she pressed and prodded at the bare skin.
"It is mending well, Angdan." She looked up at him. "You may return to work, but you are still not to walk far. Do not tax yourself, and rest — after such a tear, the tendon needs to regain its strength at its own pace."
"It's about time I went back to my smithy properly," said the swarthy man with a spark in his eyes. "There's much to be done, and the lad has been alone there too long." He chuckled quietly to himself, his gaze finding the padded brace propped against the table. "I'd never thought I'd miss my hammer and anvil so."
Idrin's lip curled as she got to her feet. She unfastened her satchel, dampened a cloth with the contents of a small bottle and wiped her hands. "Just remember to mind your leg."
"I will," returned Angdan. He rose slowly. "Shall I fetch Braignor to escort you to the upper circles, Mistress?"
Idrin considered his offer. "There is no need," she said at last. "'Tis the middle of the day. Spare the lad the errand." Had it been late in the evening, she would have accepted, but at this hour there would be only a few people about. She fastened her satchel, and Angdan walked with her to the door.
"Thank you, Mistress," he said.
"I shall see you again in two weeks." Idrin bade him farewell and went outside.
The streets were quiet as she made her way up to the sixth circle. It felt unnatural. With most of the population gone south to refuge, it was as though the whole city had been emptied. The deepening gloom made matters worse. Idrin frowned — where the sun should be shining, the morning seemed to cling to twilight. The sense of unease was eerie.
She had almost passed the stables beside the entrance to the Citadel when quiet murmurs caught her attention. Recognising Faramir's voice among them, Idrin slowed her pace. She pushed open the gate to the stable-yard.
As she reached the large building near the towering bastion, the scent of fresh hay mingling with the distinct smell of horses filled her nostrils. Her nose crinkled, and a grimace twisted her features. Idrin stopped short before the doorway. She breathed out forcefully, waited a moment, and then looked inside.
Stablehands went hither and thither, tending to animals and boxes and seeing to riding equipment in need of repair. The Rangers of Ithilien who had come with Faramir the previous evening busied themselves with saddling their horses, conversing softly. Of the four men, the Captain of Gondor was nearest the door, but he now kept silent. His eyes were cast down as he adjusted his mount's girth straps with deft fingers.
Idrin made to enter the stables. She checked herself suddenly, contemplating the layer of mucky straw coating the floor. After a long spell, she picked up her skirts. Holding the fabric well above the ground, she crossed the threshold carefully. Her gaze strayed to her shoes every so often.
When she came near the four men, Idrin noticed that all were clad in shining mail under their green hooded cloaks. Swords hung at their sides, and helms stood on a low bench at their feet. She saw now that Faramir was unsmiling, his eyes dark. Idrin recalled hearing rumour of the Steward's Council that had been held earlier that morning. She gazed at her cousin in silence.
"Is it wise to risk so much at Osgiliath?" she asked at last, walking closer.
Faramir turned and looked at her with a keen gaze. When he spoke, his tone was cool: "The Lord of the City judges we should not yield the River so lightly." He watched Idrin part her lips in silent exclamation and then close her mouth without saying a word. He shifted his gaze as she inclined her head.
"My men are at Osgiliath," Faramir continued. His voice was no more than a whisper. His eyes stared ahead without seeing. "I cannot leave them there to face this Enemy alone." He fell quiet. When he blinked, he saw his cousin was still looking at him in silence. He held her gaze.
Idrin returned no answer but after a moment gave a half-nod. "Be safe," she said, placing a hand lightly on his forearm.
Faramir touched her fingers. "Farewell." His voice was clear and solemn. He reached for his helm, took the horse's reins in his hand, and led the destrier from his box. Waiting silently nearby, the three Rangers followed him without speaking, leading their own mounts and offering curt nods of acknowledgement to Idrin.
She turned to watch them as they left the stables, her gaze fixed on their retreating forms. A feeling of dread filled her at that instant. The shrill cries of the winged creatures echoed in her mind. Would they face those fell beasts again? She felt a sudden coldness and blinked. Willing the dark thoughts away, Idrin let her eyes trace a patch of sunlight on the floor and sought the familiar sight of her surroundings.
The stables were fair and large enough to house five scores of horses, although it had been long since such a number was accommodated. Sturdy pillars upheld the roof on either side of the gate to each box. Arched partitions of dark wood divided one stall from the next, low enough to allow the horses a measure of interaction with their neighbours. Narrow windows were cut into the walls at equal intervals to let the light in, and fitted to them were shutters that could be closed to keep out rain and cold. Slender lanterns hung from beams in the ceiling, providing illumination when need arose.
Currently, the stables played host to the grey war-horses of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth who had arrived in Minas Tirith two days earlier. In their presence the building hummed with brisk activity, becoming more busy and full of life than it had been in many a year.
Seeing the stablehands go about their work, Idrin registered the lateness of the hour. Gathering her skirts once more, she made her way to the door carefully, heading to the Houses of Healing.
•
The rest of the day was as brown and bleak as the morning that had preceded it. Clouds veiled the sun. Time and again disembodied cries could be heard from high above the seventh level: the winged beasts of Mordor had returned, circling the stone fortress like harbingers of doom.
"Do you think they can hold Osgiliath?" Idrin turned from the window and the black night beyond. Her gaze found the Lord Húron. It had not been long since the ill news came that the Enemy had sent forth a host to win the passage of the Anduin, led by the dreaded Lord of Minas Morgul. She huffed. "'Twas madness to send them there. Surely it would be more prudent to conserve our force and man the City's walls instead?"
Húron looked at her with a discerning eye. "We cannot afford to lose companies, true, but what was decided cannot be undone. Denethor was aware of the risk."
Idrin let out a heavy breath. She knew as much as Húron did that the Steward of Gondor had never been a rash man, even if he did follow his own mind after listening to the counsel of others. Now, however, something felt different. The consequences of his pride could prove dire.
"I fear for him," Idrin said at last. "He does not sleep well as of late." She made to continue but held back her words. Then she sighed. "I only hope we do not pay too dearly for this decision. Enough lives were lost past June." She turned from the retired captain, her gaze fixing on the dark garden outside.
Húron studied her, taking in the hastily set jaw and crisp movements, and finally joined her by the window.
•
The next day brought no comfort. Word came that the armies of the Dark Lord had crossed the River and the company of Faramir were retreating to the Rammas Echor, greatly outnumbered.
"Mistress!"
The young orderly's voice brought Idrin's mind back from its wandering. She looked away from the eastward-facing window. The ladle in her hand had gone still. Hastily she made certain that the water in the large pan continued to steam and began stirring the contents of the pot sitting in it. The golden liquid was thick, giving off a scent not unlike that of tree sap.
"You are worried for your kin?" The orderly was watching her.
"Yes," Idrin sighed. She began pouring the viscous preparation into shallow jars. "There has been no news since morning."
The orderly went back to tying small labels to the neck of each jar. "Surely word will come soon."
Idrin let her hand rest on the empty pot as she placed it on the worktop. The girl had no menfolk in her family; she could not fully understand what an ordeal this was.
Emptying the pan of water, Idrin shook her head, trying to school her thoughts.
"I fear my attention is elsewhere," she said. "Could you see to the rest?" She made for the door, leaving to the orderly the task of cleaning and placing the filled jars on the shelf.
She walked up the sloping tunnel that led to the seventh circle, her thought turning to the small library standing near the south wall of the Citadel. Her grandfather Ecthelion had built it for her grandmother Almiel,¹ filling it with a valuable collection of writings. Books had always managed to chase away Idrin's restlessness.
The guard at the Citadel gate inclined his head and stepped aside, letting her pass. As the lamp-lit tunnel fell away behind her, Idrin halted, taking a moment to turn in a slow circle. Eastward, beside the great battlement that crowned the bastion, she saw a lone dark figure standing on a stone seat beneath the embrasure-sill. She blinked, wondering whyever a child was in the Citadel — the few lads currently left in Minas Tirith only ventured past the seventh gate on errands.
"Good evening."
The voice that broke the silence was polite.
As Idrin's eyes adjusted to the low light, she saw that the small person's head was turned towards her. He was clad in the black and silver livery of the Tower, and a tall helm was beside him. It was no Man-child, she realised, but the Halfling who had come to the City with Mithrandir.
"Good evening," she returned, beginning to walk towards the stone seat. "You are Peregrin, are you not?"
"I am," the Halfling replied. "Peregrin Took, or Pippin, if you like." He looked long at the young woman as she moved closer, taking in the garb she wore. "You are a healer?"
"Indeed, I am," she answered. "My name is Idrin."
Pippin gazed at her, wondering at her courtly bearing and what brought her the Citadel. After a while, he caught himself and looked away, but her eyes were fixed on the eastern skyline. He spun on his heel and his spirits plummeted.
Above the Mountains of Shadow stretched massive clouds, dark and brown and touched with crimson-red. They looked ominous, brimming with blazing flashes. No rumbling noise issued from them, but there was a distant impact to the air, like a clap of thunder with no sound.
A sudden breath of wind ruffled Pippin's mop of almost golden hair,² and he sighed. "It's terrible to simply stand and wait for battle to come. Being idle makes everything look so bleak."
"It does," Idrin agreed, and as she turned her eyes towards the great curve of the Anduin, the Hobbit saw a shadow pass over her face. "And not knowing if your loved ones are safe makes it worse. My brothers and cousin are at Osgiliath."
"My friends are in Rohan, and I would dearly like to see them again," said Pippin. "I suppose I might, if King Théoden comes."
Idrin did not speak, regarding the silent Halfling, but after a moment she shook her head. "Come, Master Peregrin, it does no good to dwell on such thoughts." An instant of quiet passed. "I am bound for the library. Would you care to join me?"
Pippin gazed at her, blinking. "The Citadel's library? I was given to understand that it was private." He suddenly peered into her face.
Idrin looked at him and her lips twitched. "The guests of the Steward's family are also free to use it," she said.
The frown creasing the Halfling's brow fled as understanding dawned. "You are kin to the Lord?"
"My mother was his sister," Idrin answered, allowing a spell of silence to follow her words. "What do you say? Will you come with me?"
Pippin looked over the fields of the Pelennor and darkness weighed on his heart again. "I would be poor company," he said. "My thought is heavy this evening, and that's why I'm out of doors — the night air might help clear my head."
Idrin nodded. "That is why I go to the library myself." She took a step back from the wall. "But if you do not wish to join me, then I shall bid you good-night."
"Good-night, lady."
Watching her walk towards the library, Pippin knew he would find no rest that night. Gandalf was gone and the East looked more menacing than ever. He turned his gaze to Osgiliath and the Mountains of Shadow beyond. Hopping down from the seat, he began making his way to the sharp edge of the bastion with its wide embrasure, his thought going to Frodo and Sam.
Behind him Idrin reached the Court of the Fountain. She turned her gaze to the small library beside the King's House, facing the White Tower. The single lamp nearby cast feeble light on the building and the low shrubbery surrounding it, giving it an air of neglect. The night was dark indeed.
Idrin looked up. Even the stars seemed veiled, but there was a light flickering in the chamber high up in the Tower of Ecthelion.
She frowned. That room was ever locked, and her uncle had the sole key. She had never discovered the chamber's importance. Perhaps it was that it afforded privacy, or that it held belongings dear to him.
With a final look at the wavering light, Idrin averted her eyes and turned her footsteps towards the library. The room's secret was a mystery for another day.
¹ Tolkien does not give us any details concerning the wife of Ecthelion II. Naming her Almiel is of my invention.
² The History of Middle-earth: Sauron Defeated, Part One, Chapter XI
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On Original Names: A list of the names I have created for this tale and which first appear in this chapter, along with etymologies.
• Angdan — ironwright; from the Sindarin words ang=iron, and tân=maker.
• Braignor — sudden fire; from the Sindarin words braig=sudden, and naur=fire.