Lady of Gondor

Lady of Gondor Ch Four - Awakenings
(Warning: Portrays character death, canon and original.)
Yavannie 2996; Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith
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Mellawen remembered being pitched about, then being wet, her dress becoming heavier and heavier, dragging her down. Suddenly something heavier than her dress kept her there, and something else pulled her up. But she could not see anything; the world seemed to be spinning around her. At first everything was hidden in the muddy water, then when she was pulled up all she could see was a blinding yellow, then the mucky brown again. She was suddenly thirsty, very thirsty, and she could not breathe, but something kept her from opening her mouth. Things seemed to be circling all around her, her world span out of control, but for some reason she did not spin into that whirlwind; what kept her afloat, she could not say. People were shouting but they seemed far away, and she could not hear what they were saying. The roar all around her was so loud! Then she stopped moving and felt the bark under her arms; someone wrapped her arms around the limb, and she held on as tight as she could. Then came, without warning, a huge crack -- and then darkness.

She lay there for a long time, fading in and out of the light. How long, she could not say, though it seemed like an eternity. "You've lost her"; "Keep her warm"; "What a loss"; "He's coming." Finally a cold white light penetrated her dark shroud. Not the soft warm light of summers in the country, but the harsh, piercing light of a near-winter sun, reflected off the gleaming white marble of Minas Tirith.

"Is anyone there?" Mellawen asked drowsily. "Where am I?"

"You are in the Houses of Healing, and someone is indeed here."

Mellawen forced her eyes open; too quickly, it seemed. "Aye, the light!" she exclaimed. Someone walked over to the window and pulled a sheer red curtain closed. Without the severe light, Mellawen could now see her room. She lay in a canopy bed, propped up on goose down pillows under a silk sheet and a thick velvet blanket, black and purple squares decorated in silver thread with scenes from Gondor's history: of the arrival of her people from Numenor, the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, the fall of the Dark Lord Sauron, and the King's riding away to the North. An ash table sat in the corner, upon it a clay bowl full of water. Heat warmed her stiff limbs from a fireplace nearby; and from a vase beside the bed came the fragrance of freshly cut flowers. Still visible through the window was a lush garden outside, neatly pruned.

Minas Tirith used to have many beautiful public gardens, but now most of them had either died off or been replaced by buildings, with two exceptions: the Pavilion of the White Tree, and this garden between the Houses of Healing. The White Tree was very important, of course, a gift from the Elves, but the only White Tree that Mellawen had ever known was old and thin, a mere phantom of its glorious ancestors. But this garden! The trees seemed to shimmer in the morning sun, and their leaves, red, gold, orange, and silver, decorated the garden floor. The sages say that this garden still had the power to heal the soul as well as the body, and Mellawen believed it.

At last Mellawen turned from the beautiful garden to look at her visitor, now staring into the fireplace. She thought him a stranger, some page of the city or a knight still in training; at least he wore the mail, black tunic, and grey trousers that marked the apprentices of the Tower Guard. But as he turned to face her Mellawen recognized the brown hair, the proud eyes, the strong shoulders.

"Borlin!" she cried. "Where did you get those queer clothes?"

"Well, doesn't that smart," her cousin retorted, but his eyes were gentle, and a soft smile played at his lips. "I saved your life not once but twice, and then I brought you all the way to Minas Tirith, to these Houses of Healing, and all you can say is, 'Where did you get the funny clothes?' No 'Thank you,' no 'I'm glad to see you, Borlin' . . . "

"But I _am_ glad to see you," Mellawen replied, "and no one has told me what happened, so I didn't know to thank you. Won't you? Tell me, I mean. You said you saved me from the river. What happened?"

"Well, you know that," Borlin answered, smiling weakly. "That dam broke, and one way or another -- I'm not really sure how, it happened so quickly, but you were there -- my father and your mother both ended up in the river, and then that branch knocked you in, and so I ran downriver and pulled you out. Farlin ran and got Mablung -- the farmer who lives closest -- and his wife helped us tend you. She said your only chance was to get back to Minas Tirith, where the healers could help you. So I brought you; Farlin stayed with Mablung and only came yesterday when your father sent a guard for him. The healers, they said pneumonia again; and they weren't sure if you'd ever wake up. But it looks like they were wrong. Guess Gandalf showed them!"

"Gandalf? He was here?"

"Yes," Borlin nodded. "He's been here for three days now, watching over you day and night and saying all kinds of strange things in a language I couldn't understand, nor could any of the healers." Looking closely at his cousin he paused, then smiled with relief. "Whatever he said, it worked."

After a long pause Mellawen asked the question Borlin had been waiting for. "Mother, and Uncle Arabor, they're . . ."

"They stayed underwater much longer than you, and I tried, but --" He looked down at Mellawen, and his forced smile melted away. "I -- I couldn't save them," Borlin said, brushing the tears from his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mellawen; I've failed you."

The colour drained from her face, and Mellawen sat there in shock for a moment. She shook her head, muttering to herself. "No, no . . ." Borlin looked over at her nervously, not sure what to do, when suddenly she sat up. "Mama, Mama," she whispered and took in a sharp breath of air.

Borlin ran over and sat behind her on the bed. He pulled her into his lap and rocked her back and forth, rubbing her shoulders and whispering, "It's all right, Mellawen, I'm here," into her ear.

"W-w-where's -- where's Papa?" she whimpered.

"He'll be here, soon," Borlin said soothingly. "Soon, Mellawen." At last he calmed her enough that she stopped crying, save the occasional teary hiccough. He laid her back down in bed and re-tucked her in.

~*~

The next afternoon Mellawen and Borlin were sitting in the garden. She was wrapped in a warm mantle, and Borlin wore another uniform, similar to the one he had worn the previous day. Afraid of the silence, Mellawen asked her cousin question after question, about life growing up away from Minas Tirith and how he liked the city so far, carefully steering the conversation away from any mention of her mother. At last she said, "I am a little confused on one thing. Back at the farm, Arabor said he could not come into Minas Tirith. But here you are, not just in the city but in the tunic of the Guard. And I know that, if a father is banished, so is his first son. So how are you here?"

Borlin's sad face contorted with a look of anger, almost quiet rage, but then it passed. At last he answered, almost to himself, "He never told you. He should have, long ago. But I can see why he wouldn't." Borlin looked down and saw Mellawen's questioning look. "This isn't my story to tell. I don't know all that happened, only what Father told me, but I can see Denethor probably won't tell you, not for a long time yet at least. And with Farlin and I in the city, people will start talking." He sighed. "Father wasn't banished from the city, he was exiled -- self-exiled." But then he hesitated. "It's a sad story, and a long one; you are tired, I'm sure, and should be resting. Why, if the Master Healer finds out, he will have my head . . . But if you are sure . . ." Mellawen nodded her head anxiously."

"Mellawen," he continued at last, "did you know we are cousins?"

That seemed a strange question, and unrelated to anything and everything, but easy enough to answer. "Of course, my mother is your mother's sister. Or was --"

"Yes, yes," he said, "but we are cousins again. Denethor was Father's brother."

Mellawen sat very still, letting the reality of Borlin's statement sink in as the white light of the city died slowly to a glowing red. _Brothers?_ Mellawen thought. _Father hardly ever mentioned him. Why, if he said that name more than once I don't remember it, and even then it wasn't as a brother. Mother's brother-in-law, perhaps, but brothers?_

Borlin sighed. "It's hard to believe you lived your whole life here and never knew what happened. But let me start at the beginning. Yes, they were brothers, grew up together here in Minas Tirith. Father wasn't known as Arabor back then; no, as Grandfather said, "A son of Gondor needs a proper Gondorian name; I'll have no Elf for a son." He was called Calithor. Denethor and Father studied under the same tutor growing up; and of course they both learned to wield a blade and draw a bow; it was expected. When Father turned twenty Grandfather made him Captain of the Tower Guard.

"Now by rights that title should have gone to Denethor, him being the older son. But there was a fire in his blood, and your father refused to sit still. He took command of a corps of rangers and led them across the Anduin. Those days, though, are a matter of history. Father was named Captain of the Tower Guard, and that suited him fine; he'd defend as best he could, but he would never kill, if he could help it."

"Denethor found his adventure in the east, killing Orcs and storming Southron strongholds; but Father, he turned west. He had always loved Elves, though I'm not sure where he first learned of them, and he wanted more than anything to meet some of them. Elves used to visit Minas Tirith, you know, but they had stopped coming long before Father and Denethor were born. Their father of course refused, but then a curious thing happened. Denethor had to choose a wife." Borlin chuckled to himself. "That shouldn't have been a problem, from what Father's told me." He smiled at the memory and tried to relate it to Mellawen.

~*~

(2951; Minas Tirith)

The doors burst open, allowing the brilliant spring sunlight to stream into the dark, musty library. Denethor stood on the step, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Then he saw her: Lindala, a Southron girl who, at fifteen, was two years older than him; her family had taken refuge in Minas Tirith the winter before when their tribe was attacked by Sauron's armies. Denethor marched down the steps to the plaza beyond toward her.

Calithor, hearing his brother's determined footsteps, stepped out from behind the heavy oak door and let it slam shut. By the time his eyes had adjusted to the bright light well enough for him to see what was happening Denethor was a third of the way across the square; Calithor ran to catch up with him. They were both in such a hurry, Denethor to reach Lindala and Calithor to catch up with Denethor, that neither looked where they were going.

At last Calithor reached Denethor and matched his stride, trying to determine where they were going. Then he saw Lindala and the glazed look in Denethor's eyes, and he grabbed his brother's arm. Denethor looked down at Calithor, noticing him for the first time; then he saw where they were standing: in the Pavilion of the White Tree, where everyone avoided, right under the Tree itself. It was dead, died waiting for the king like the rest of Gondor; its white bark was falling off, and the dead branches hung all around them, isolating them from the bustle of the city. Denethor and Calithor stood there on its roots for what seemed like quite some time, surrounded by the ghosts of ages long past, both of them afraid to move. At last Denethor whispered hastily, "Let's get out of here," and they ran through its dead branches. In their haste to get away from that ghoulish tree they ran right into the guard walking toward them.

"Your father wants to speak to you," he said sternly, and Denethor and Calithor followed him into the palace. Just before they walked in, Denethor turned back and looked for Lindala, but she was gone. The brothers marched past the throne room with its black marble pillars and white marble walls, narrow windows letting in sharp shafts of white sunlight, the long-empty throne of the king, and the Steward's chair, where their father usually sat. That chair, however, was empty, and the guard led them on down the winding hall. At last he opened a heavy oak door and marched up the winding marble stairs leading high into the tower. The marble steps felt cold and unforgiving underneath their boots, and the stairway, lit only by the occasional torch, felt foreign to boys used to study and play in the bright city below. At last the guard opened another oak door. He motioned for the boys to enter, then pulled it shut.

As the door clicked resolutely behind them Denethor and Calithor looked around. The floors, ceiling, and walls were all cold marble, and the room was dark except for the dying fire in the fireplace. On the walls hung battle standards and portraits of the kings and stewards of Gondor, imposing men all of them. Their father Ecthelion sat at a table where a faded map was laid out, his back to the boys as he stared into the fire. At last he demanded, "What were you thinking?"

"I . . ." Denethor began, but his father cut him off.

"You have your pick of any girl in the city," he asked, "and you had to pick _her_?"

"It's not like she's an Elf, father --" Denethor replied, but his father cut him off.

"She -- is -- not -- like -- us. She is a Southron. You see how many of them fall to the Shadow! And their customs are not like ours. They treat their women much more strictly than we do." Then he turned to Calithor. "And you, where were you in all this?"

Calithor turned away; he didn't trust himself to look at Ecthelion. For the first time in his life he hated his father, loathed him. Suddenly Calithor was to blame for Denethor's impulsiveness, something that was just not his fault. But Denethor always was the favourite, that was plain enough.

Even then the brothers had a strong sense of honour. Calithor never confronted his father and continued to play the part of the good son as best he could; yet he never forgot that conversation, either. Denethor, for his part, never talked to, smiled at, or looked for Lindala again. There were other maids to choose from.

~*~

(Yavannie 2996; the gardens of the Houses of Healing)

Borlin frowned slightly, thinking back on the story. "I still don't understand what happened next. One day Denethor was always surrounded by a crowd of the most eligible young ladies, to hear Father tell it, and the next he had eyes only for Finduilas. She must have had some of her brother Imrahil's Elvish looks, and I'm sure she had other charms as well, but what set her so above the other maidens in your father's eyes, I'm not sure . . . he idolized her. Unfortunately, her father saw the way Denethor looked at her, and he knew he could demand anything for the right to marry her. And a high price he named: he wanted not just one but two daughters married. Denethor could marry Finduilas if Father agreed to marry her sister Ivriniel."

Mellawen noticed the misty look in her cousin's eyes and retrieved a kerchief from a fold in her dress, but Borlin shook his head. "Finally," he continued, "Father had the bargaining power he needed. He and Denethor went back to their father. Denethor wanted Ecthelion to force Father to marry Ivriniel, but Father refused -- unless he got to visit the Elves." Borlin paused, his brow furrowed. "You know, I think he really loved her; he just wanted to see the Elves so badly, he would use anything he could as bargaining power. Ecthelion let him go -- he had to, he never could deny Denethor anything he wanted -- and so Father met the Elves at last.

"He never would say what he saw there, but he came back changed. He walked with an inner grace and talked in a calming tone. And his skin -- it glowed, somehow: a soft blue, not cold and sickly, just other-worldly. That summer he married Mother, and Denethor of course married Finduilas. Not long after I was born, but you were a while in coming. Your father always saw it as a shortfall on his part, this inability to produce a son. He loved you, but he needed an heir, and he felt he had something to prove; so he threw himself with amazing vigour into his work.

"That's when the real trouble began, when Father came back from the Elves. You know the saying, 'Go not to the Elves, for none meet the Eldar and return unscathed.' He refused to answer to Calithor but would only respond to the name the Elves had given him: Arabor. And he begged his father to let him leave Minas Tirith; said he couldn't stand the harsh glare of the city, didn't see how he ever stood it. That next summer, three days after I was born, Ecthelion gave him a mighty gift: a farm south of the Pelennor Fields, and a reprieve -- but not a release -- from active duty in the Guard. We moved out not long after that, Father, Mother, and me; of course I was only a baby at the time --"

"Away from the city?" Mellawen asked incredulously.

"Yes, away, out into the country," Borlin replied. "This last week has been the first time I've spent in Minas Tirith, at least since I've been old enough to remember it, and I have to say, it's -- different. But, yes, we all moved out to that farm, not long after I was born. If things would have stayed that way, everything might have been different."

He looked lovingly at the garden around him, but then his eyes caught the glimmer of the buildings beyond, tall and so serious. He sighed. "This is a beautiful city, Mellawen," he continued. "But it is still a city. You were at the farm a few short months, and think how much good it did you. I have been there my entire life. Your city takes my breath away. Yes, it is impressive, but it's more than that. Minas Tirith is _too_ bright, _too_ impressive. It burns the eye." He paused, tears in his eyes. "Mellawen, you have to understand. Denethor didn't mean Father any harm, but times were hard. The Shadow was growing, and forces were moving. Your father had to marshal an army, and he needed a lieutenant. So he summoned Arabor. Father didn't want to go, but he didn't have a choice; remember, he was still a captain, at least on paper."

~*~

(Yavannie 2984; south of the Pelennor Fields)

It was late at night, and the farmhouse south of the Pelennor was dead quiet. Arabor's family lay sound asleep: baby Farlin in his crib, and six-year-old Borlin and his mother Ivriniel snuggling in the bed she usually shared with Arabor. Below the quiet night was broke by the creak of a door swinging open, but the three sleepers upstairs did not wake. If any of them had, they might have heard the slow plodding feet climbing up the stairs, the crackling of the fire as it was stirred when the door opened, or the soft crack that followed a few seconds later.

An arrow whistled through the air, followed by the quiet thud of steel arrowtip piercing flesh and the high, piercing shriek of the Orc as it fell. Borlin sat up immediately, looking around frantically. As he began to focus he heard many other sounds: the wails of his baby brother, the door slamming below as his father ran in from the yard, his father hurrying up those same stairs to see if he had any family left to save. Borlin tried to get up to comfort Farlin, but he couldn't: the Orc lay dead across his legs, his black blood spilling out across the blanket.

Arabor rushed into the room, threw the Orc-carcass off Borlin, then ran over to hush Farlin. Borlin got out of bed and made his way over to his mother. She could sleep through anything! Borlin stood on his tiptoes to reach her, placed his small hand on her shoulder, and shook as hard as he could. "Mama, wake up," he said, quietly at first, then more loudly. "Mama . . ." He began, but then he looked at his mother's face. Calm it seemed, almost as if she were dreaming. Her open eyes looked toward the fire, but they were blank, taking none of it in, and they had already started to glaze over.

Borlin shrieked. "Mommy, Mommy, wake up, Mommy . . . M-mommy, wake up!"

Arabor turned from the crib and knelt beside Borlin. He pulled his son toward him, rocked him back and forth. "It's all right, Borlin, it's . . ." Then he looked at his wife and saw her blank, glazed eyes. He fell silent, lowered his head, and wept into his son's nightshirt. At last he released Borlin, walked over, and stooped down in front of the bed. He reached over and placed his fingers on Ivriniel's eye-lids, then closed them and said solemnly in Elvish, "From Iluvatar, to Iluvatar."

~*~

(Yavannie 2996; the garden between the Houses of Healing)

"We never figured out how he . . ." Borlin began. Suddenly the tears he had been holding back fell down his face and onto his hands and the grass below his bench. He started to wipe his cheek with his shirt sleeve only to remember too late it was made of mail -- after he cut himself. Mellawen handed him the kerchief she had produced earlier.

"You'll have to get that looked at," she said wryly. "But at least you're in the right place."

Borlin laughed grimly. "My Mellawen. Of course you understand now -- father wouldn't have anything to do with Minas Tirith or her wars, and least of all his brother. Especially if it meant having to leave his family; he was afraid to leave us alone at all, sure something would happen to one of us. Denethor tried to reward us for Father's service, but Arabor wouldn't have it. Blood money, he called it. And he was probably right, a bit.

"When Father resigned his commission, Denethor severed all ties with him. He thought it some sort of Elvish sorcery. You see, Denethor and Arabor had grown so different they hardly recognized anything of themselves in each other. Gondor was the most important thing in the world to your father. It protected everything he held dear, and without Gondor he could never protect you or your mother from all the evil in the world. But Father, to him Gondor was a tool to protect what he really cared about. When he rode off to war with Denethor, it was to protect us, his family, but then Mother died anyway. No, if fighting for Gondor meant leaving us unprotected, he would stay with us.

"Who was right? I'm not sure. Maybe they both were. All I know is, if your father had been at the river with us when that flood happened, perhaps he could have helped save your --"

"But it wasn't Father's fault," Mellawen interrupted.

"No, you're right," Borlin said gently. "It wasn't Denethor's fault. Men go to war, and sometimes they die -- or suffer worse than death, in Father's case. But does that make it any better? I don't think so."

He sighed, and they were silent for a long time. What can you say? At last it was Borlin who broke the silence.

"Go to sleep, Mellawen. Tomorrow's a big day."