A Dainty Dish

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Now, wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the King? – Traditional nursery Rhyme.

With thanks to Deandra.

“So how are you enjoying your visit to Gondor?” Prince Imrahil enquired of Merry and Pippin. Imrahil and the Hobbits were sitting by the fire with Aragorn, Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn after a convivial dinner.

“It is very nice - that is, apart from the food,” said Merry.

“That grieves me to hear,” said Aragorn. “I instructed the cooks to prepare their finest dishes for you.”

“It is not good simple Hobbit cooking, though,” said Pippin. “All those fancy dishes smothered in sauce so you don’t know what you are eating hardly! And they never serve mushrooms! Don’t they grow them in Gondor, Strider?”

Imrahil raised his eyebrows at Pippin’s casual form of address to the King. He refrained from commenting, as Aragorn seemed not to notice. “Mushrooms, Sir Peregrin?” he said in a horrified tone. “No lord or lady of Gondor would eat such a common food! Poor peasants, who cannot afford to eat any better, gather them in the woods.”

“When I was a Ranger, it was a pleasure to come across some mushrooms and cook them for my supper,” said Aragorn. “Pippin is quite right. Mushrooms should be served at the King’s table.”

“Your guests would be shocked, my lord,” Imrahil cautioned. “You are King, though; your word is law.”

“When I was serving in Ithilien, my men introduced me to the delights of mushrooms. Éowyn often instructs our cook to prepare them in Emyn Arnen,” said Faramir. “My father would never have had them served at his table, though.”

“The people of the Mark enjoy mushrooms, too,” said Éowyn.” If our Kings can enjoy them, I cannot see why the lords of Gondor cannot!”

“It is hard to change the closed minds of Men, I fear. Unlike the Elves, they do not appreciate the fruits of Yavanna that grow wild when they have sufficient coin to buy those that are cultivated.”

“I believe it is because many of the City folk cannot distinguish a mushroom from a toadstool,” said Faramir. ”Therefore, rather than run the risk of being poisoned, our lords prefer not to eat them at all!”

The rest of the company nodded, thinking that Faramir had most likely explained the puzzle. The conversation moved to other matters.

A week later, the King’s birthday was celebrated with a State Banquet. All the highest ranked lords and ladies were invited, and the invitations were gladly accepted. As special friends of the King, Merry and Pippin were the guests of honour.

The guests enjoyed a appetizing creamy soup, which was followed by some sort of vegetable stuffed with crab and covered with breadcrumbs. The guests then partook of a stew, before feasting on a selection of desserts.

“What a delicious meal!” exclaimed Imrahil. “The cooks have surpassed themselves!”

“We made good use of the crabs you had sent from Dol Amroth,” said Arwen sweetly.

“I did not recognise the flavour of the soup nor the vegetable you served with the crab,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth. “It was most enjoyable though.”

Most of the lords and ladies murmured their enthusiastic agreement.

“We’re glad you liked our favourite mushroom recipes from the Shire,” said Pippin.

“The soup recipe has been in my grandmother’s family for ten generations,” Merry added.

“We have been eating mushrooms?” Imrahil looked aghast.

“From your words the other night, I surmised that you and the rest of the nobility had never eaten them,” said Aragorn. “Therefore, I asked Merry and Pippin to instruct my cooks in the best ways to prepare them. From now on, mushrooms will be served at the King’s table regularly. I had forgotten just how much I enjoyed them until Merry and Pippin reminded me. Why should the lords shun a food, because the common folk enjoy it? If a food is good enough for my lowliest subjects, it should be good enough for their King, too.”

“I have learned a valuable lesson tonight,” said Imrahil. “It seems we all have much to teach each other.”

“ Indeed! We decided we liked the food here after all once we became accustomed to it,” said Merry.

“We would like to take some recipes from Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth home to the Shire,” said Pippin.

“I will send a message to my cook and request that he copy out my Household’s favourite dishes,” Imrahil told the Hobbits. “Perhaps you would allow my cook to sample some of your recipes too?”

“When we return home we will collect all our favourite recipes and despatch them to Gondor,” said Merry.

“Let us drink a toast to all our peoples and their culinary traditions,” said Aragorn. He smiled at the Hobbits, recalling a long ago birthday he had celebrated at an inn in Bree. The mushrooms had tasted as good then as they did today, despite the humble surroundings. He reminded himself that the simple pleasures of life were often the best.

A/N

This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt "Mushrooms " in the AA Group.

A Price above Rubies

Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.- Proverbs 31.9-11. The Bible.

Based on an idea of Raksha's

With grateful thanks to Deandra

Aragorn had spent an enjoyable hour sparring with Faramir. King and Steward had been honing their skills with sword and bow, before Faramir left to spend a few days with his family in Ithilien. The two men had parted in good spirits. Aragorn was looking forward to spending the rest of the day with his wife and children. He hummed contentedly to himself as he approached his wife’s solar.

“May I see Andúril, Ada?“ asked Eldarion as his father entered the chamber, his sword still at his hip. The little boy ran to his father’s side.

“You may look, but not touch; the sword is very sharp,” Aragorn cautioned.

“Did you defeat Uncle Faramir?” the little boy asked. “I wish I could have watched.”

“You shall, next time you have no lessons,” Aragorn promised. “Uncle Faramir defeated me with the bow while I bested him with the sword. It was a close contest, as usual.“ Aragorn unsheathed the weapon and held it while his son studied it longingly. “You will have your own sword once you are grown up. Eldarion, I promise you will have a truly splendid one.”

“No other sword could be as fair as this,” Eldarion said wistfully, stroking the hilt. ”But, I will kill lots of bad men with it!”

“Estel, Eldarion, I do not like such talk, or naked blades indoors!” Arwen chided. She was pacing the room, trying to pacify a fretful Farawyn.

“I am sorry, my love,” Aragorn said contritely, sheathing the weapon. “Is Farawyn teething again?”

“I fear so,” Arwen sighed. “She has been crying most of the day.”

“Shall I hold her?” the King volunteered.

“Thank you, Estel,” said the Queen, gladly handing over her daughter. “I will leave her with you while I help Eldarion’s nanny put him to bed.”

“I’m not tired!” Eldarion protested. “Why do I have to go to bed before the sun does in summer?”

“Little boys need their sleep so they will grow up to be big and strong. and grow tall enough to wield a sword,” said Aragorn. “I will come and tell you a bedtime story later, ion nîn,” he promised as Eldarion left with his mother.

The King tried to settle on his favourite chair. He rocked Farawyn in his arms. Still she cried. The King sang an Elvish lullaby. Farawyn cried all the louder. Aragorn tried a healing touch to soothe his daughter. She continued to wail dolefully. The King stared desperately round the room for a means to distract her. A beam of evening sunlight was playing on his sword. “Look at the pretty jewels, see how they sparkle!” Aragorn cried, reaching for the sheathed weapon and showing the baby his sword hilt in a bid to distract her.

Farawyn’s eyes lit up. Suddenly, she clamped her mouth down on the hilt and started to chew it contentedly. Usually, Aragorn would have been horrified to have his precious sword used as a teething ring. The silence, though, was blissful. Farawyn looked so pleased with herself; he had not the heart to take it away from her. The hilt was solid mithril, so she could not do it any harm and he had cleaned it after his bout with Faramir earlier that day.

“Farawyn has finally settled!” Aragorn said delightedly when Arwen returned.

“Fancy letting a baby chew on a sword hilt!” his wife scolded. “Give her to me now. It is time for her to be fed, while Eldarion is waiting for the story you promised him.”

Aragorn was engrossed in telling his son a tale, about how he fought off a dozen Orcs single-handedly, when a servant interrupted to say the Queen required his presence at once.

“I will finish the story tomorrow, ion nîn,” said Aragorn kissing his son on the brow. He called to the nanny in the next room to take care of Eldarion and hastened to his wife.

Arwen, her face pale, was gazing fixedly at Andúril’s hilt. “There is a jewel missing!” she exclaimed. ”Farawyn must have swallowed it! How could you be so irresponsible? My poor baby!”

Aragorn took the sword from her and studied it. A large ruby was missing. “It should not do her any harm,” he said.

“It could have sharp edges and cut her inside!” Arwen fretted. ”You are a Healer, you must be able to do something!”

“It is smooth and small enough to pass through her when nature takes its course,” Aragorn said with more confidence than he felt.

The baby had begun to cry again, and Aragorn reached to take her from his wife.It was impossible to tell though, whether it was the commotion, pain from her teething or the fact she had swallowed a jewel, that was distressing her. The King carefully undressed the baby and gently felt for any trace of the ruby, but could find none. She reacted indignantly by biting his fingers when he felt in her mouth. Arwen, meanwhile shook out Farawyn’s clothes, but could find no sign of the stone.

Unable to do anything else, Arwen reluctantly put Farawyn to bed just as the servants arrived with their dinner. Though neither had much of an appetite, they picked at their meals in silence. Aragorn was uncomfortably aware of the fierce glare his wife favoured him with throughout the course of it.

When bedtime came, Arwen banished her husband to his dressing room. She spent the night dozing fitfully, expecting any moment that her baby would be taken violently ill.

Aragorn became increasing infected by his wife’s fears. As a Healer, he knew the stone was unlikely to cause harm, but as a father he was terrified that some harm would befall his beloved child. When he fell asleep, he was plagued by hideous nightmares of having to cut into his little daughter to retrieve the ruby when it blocked some vital organ, while Master Aedred shook his head and pronounced the child dead. The King cried out and woke up shaking in distress just as the cock crowed, heralding dawn. A wakeful Arwen took pity on him and permitted him to join her in the marital bed. Farawyn slumbered peacefully in her cradle.

The King and Queen were glad when the maid arrived bearing their morning tea. The girl set the tray down then hovered hesitantly by the door.

“What is it, Nienor?” enquired the Queen.

“Nothing, my lady, save the housemaid found a red stone under the rug this morning. She thinks it’s a ruby and that she should tell you, but the housekeeper says it must just be a glass bead and she shouldn’t bother you over such trifles.”

Arwen hugged the astonished Nienor. “That is the best news anyone could tell me!” she exclaimed. “You may have the rest of the day off. First, though, send the housemaid to me; she shall be richly rewarded!”

An hour later, the King and Queen were breakfasting in the solar. The stone had been identified as the missing ruby. A craftsman had been summoned to replace it in the hilt and the housemaid given five silver pieces as a reward.

“I am so sorry, I was angry with you, my love,” Arwen said contritely.

“I deserved your wrath. I would never forgive myself if any ill befell my children,” Aragorn replied.” They are a treasure far above any rubies in value.”

A/N Tolkien wrote that Aragorn and Arwen had daughters but did not name them.

I assure readers I have not abandoned my other stories.

This is not a prompt story, but can be taken as a Tale of Telcontar.

Seeking the Sun

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been made from this story.

With grateful thanks to Raksha.

I walked from door to door in the July heat until my feet were blistered and bleeding. It seemed no one wanted to employ a seamstress of low degree. There were far too many such as I seeking employment in Minas Tirith; women who knew only enough of the homely arts to tend their families in some smallholding or croft. I was neither broideress nor tailor. I possessed only my mother's old sewing kit and some experience in using it. And all I had left to wear were the clothes, now growing dirty for want of a place of my own to wash them in, that I had stuffed in a sack when my man and I had fled our cottage on the Pelennor before the Southrons had burnt it down. I spent the last of my small hoard of coin several days ago.

Some folk have advised me to ask the King for assistance. Never! I am widowed because my husband followed the Northerner to the Black Gate, where no man in his right mind has ever ventured! Who is this man who calls himself King anyway? Lord Faramir should rule, as did his longfathers before him. This usurper from the North must have tricked him into surrendering his birthright! And what manner of a Man marries an Elven witch? How can such a union be natural?

I feel faint now with hunger. Even the taverns will not employ me. I suppose they want comely wenches who can laugh with the customers. I suspect all can read the sorrow in my eyes, for I cannot hide it. They see the grief of having not only lost my husband, but my parents and sister too, to the Black Shadow. And my baby, my helpless unborn child, was also lost. I know there is one way a woman can always earn a crust, but how could I do that? 'Tis a thing worse than death!

Sometimes I think my soul is dead already. My body simply waits to follow.

I pause because my legs refuse to take one more step. I hear murmurs from a crowd that has gathered in the street. The people look and point, their faces impatient. What do they await? I ask a woman what is happening and she tells me the King is due to pass by. I have no wish to set eyes on the cause of my misery. I try to turn away, only to stumble upon a stone and almost fall. Then an idea comes to me. I am as good as dead, so this usurping foreigner can put an end to my misery. Maybe I can first strike a blow to avenge my husband? I stoop, ignoring the aches in my wearied bones, and pick up the stone.

It surprises me how small the procession is. Just a handful of horsemen ride into view. The man wearing a gem upon his brow in the middle of the group must be the King. The others all wear the black and silver livery of the Tower Guard. A woman rides at his side. She is garbed in the finest silks. I hear her laughter as she turns her face away from me, toward the tall rider. Is this the Elf he brought to be our Queen? What could she know of care and loss? I push my way to the front and cry, "Shame on you, King Elessar, for leading good men to their deaths and leaving the women to starve!" I aim the stone. He turns to look at me. His eyes! I have never seen the like. He seems to gaze into my very soul. I see the expected flash of anger; but then his eyes soften with a look of concern and something else. Kindness? I do not understand! The stone slips from my grasp. My sight dims and I sink to the ground.

When I regain my senses, I am lying on a soft bed, much to my surprise. I expected to be in prison. My worn garments have been replaced by a nightgown of fine linen. A woman in Healer's garb sits at my bedside. She smiles at me and asks whether I would like food and drink. I eagerly accept. No doubt I will die soon, but at least I shall eat first. I greedily devour the broth and watered wine that is brought to me. The Healer then brings me a robe and tells me that I shall soon receive a visitor. To my amazement, only a few minutes later, the King himself enters the room!

I had no intention of doing so, but find myself inclining my head respectfully. I keep my head bowed, not wanting to meet those eyes again.

"Look at me!"

I want to resist but cannot. I find myself meeting his grey gaze. His voice is stern but his eyes are filled with compassion.

"What is your name, Mistress?" he asks.

"I am Niniel, daughter of Alcarin, widow of Hador, a seamstress," I tell him.

"And what is your quarrel with me?" he demands.

I find myself pouring out my story to him. He listens intently, saying nothing.

"Mistress Niniel, try to remain calm," he says at last. "A woman in your condition..."

"What condition?" I interrupt bitterly.

"Surely you know you are about five months gone with child, Mistress?" the King says.

"You mock me, lord!" I retort. "I miscarried of my child after my husband died following your banner!"

Just then a woman enters, wearing a silver-grey cloak over a dark blue gown. A fairer lady I have never seen. She is more radiant than the stars. She places a gentle hand upon my belly. "You are indeed with child," she says. "I sense its life force waxing strong within you. Doubtless you were carrying twins and lost one of them while the other thrives. It is not uncommon."

I burst into tears: tears of joy that something of my husband still stirs within me and tears of sorrow that I have no way to support a child.

The woman tries to comfort me. I realise she is none other than the King's Elven bride. I think I was wrong when first I saw her. This lady is no stranger to sorrow. Mayhap she is a fitting Queen for Gondor after all.

"But Mistress, since you were destitute and starving, why did you not seek help?" the King asked once my tears subsided. "Steward Faramir first opened houses of refuge for the war-torn in March; and I have added more since I entered the City.

"I did not want charity," I replied. More tears welled up in my eyes. Was there no dignity left to me?

"It is no charity to offer work to a experienced seamstress," said the Queen, smiling.

"As King, it is my duty to help my people," said Elessar.

I look at him and at that moment I know I love him. Not of course, as a woman loves a man, but as a flower must love the sun.

A/N. This story was inspired by Pentangle's wonderful "Conversion”. The idea is used with her permission.

This is an expanded version of a story written for the Prompt “Eyes” in the AA Group.

A Tale of Telcontar.

A Pair of Star crossed lovers

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.

A pair of star-crossed lovers

Warning This chapter may disturb sensitive readers

With grateful thanks to Deandra.

Still Ostopher hesitated. “It is hard for me to speak of it,” he muttered.

“Why not start at the beginning?” Aragorn suggested gently. “How did you meet Melian?”

“I can scarce remember when I did not know her,” Ostopher replied softly. “We played together as children and I loved her even then. When I grew to manhood, I realised I wanted her to be my wife. Melian is not only beautiful, but also good and kind, and devoted to her younger sisters. Her mother died when she was but fifteen years old, and she has been like a mother to them. We had planned to have her two youngest sisters dwell with us once we were wed. Her father provides for his family well, but has little time for his daughters.”

Aragorn nodded sympathetically. “And what of Maglor?” he enquired. “Master Findegil said he was an old friend of the family?”

“Master Findegil treated Maglor as the son he never had!” Ostopher exclaimed bitterly. “Had Melian’s mother not made him promise on her deathbed that her daughters should have husbands of their own choosing, Maglor would have taken Melian as his bride! She both hated and feared him. He would watch her all the time when he dined with the family, finding reason to brush against her or take her hand since she was about fourteen years old, and first blossoming into womanhood. The more his advances repulsed Melian, the more he seemed to desire her! He was furious when he learned she planned to wed me. A few days later her father was attacked, I believe by Maglor, who must have planted the jewels in my house. I was sent to prison for a crime I did not commit. Melian promised to wait for me, even if it meant she died an old maid. I knew she would never wed Maglor willingly. When her letter arrived telling me she had accepted Maglor’s hand, I knew something dreadful must have happened.”

“I understand now why you escaped from prison,” said Aragorn, still soothingly rubbing the young man’s neck and shoulders. He tried to keep his tone neutral.

“I went first to Melian’s dwelling, but as her father was there I had no chance to speak to her,” said Ostopher. “I then sought out Maglor. He was just leaving his house to go on duty, wearing his uniform. He was about to put on his helm when I asked him what he had done to Melian to make her consent to their marriage. He laughed at me and told me how he had taken her by force, boasting about how she had screamed and struggled, but to no avail."

Aragorn listened in horror. This was far worse than he had suspected. If what Ostopher said was true, Maglor was no better than an Orc! On the far side of the room, a shocked Faramir almost dropped the scroll he was holding.

“I struck him on the face in fury,” Ostopher continued, his eyes flashing with anger at the memory. “He set upon me, mocking me for not having taken her first, all the while raining down blows upon me. I struck out to defend myself and he fell back against the doorway, hitting his head. He fell down senseless. It was then I thought to take his clothing from him and disguise myself. I planned to wait until sundown and then seek out Melian, so that we might run away together and seek a new life far from here!”

“What if your lady had no wish to be wed after what had happened to her, or if she carried Maglor’s child?” asked Aragorn.

Ostopher had obviously not considered this. Yet, without hesitation, he replied, “Then I would have treated Melian as my sister. Had there been a child, I would have raised it as my own, and loved it because my lady bore it.”

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Faramir. This was indeed something far deeper than simple youthful desire that Ostopher obviously felt for Melian.

“One thing still puzzles me,” said Aragorn. “Why did you leave Maglor in the alleyway in full view of passers-by?"

“I wanted to humiliate him as he had humiliated my love!” Ostopher said fiercely. “I wish now I had taken all his clothing! My poor sweet Melian! How could any man use her thus?” The young man slumped visibly now that he had unburdened himself. Unable to maintain his composure any longer, he wept bitter tears. “I failed her! I should have been able to protect her, but I could not! I deserve my death, but I do not want to die yet! I had such hopes and dreams for the future!”

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, then, overcome with compassion, drew the sobbing lad against his shoulder. He gestured to Faramir. The Steward went to the door to call a servant to fetch some tea for the prisoner. A few minutes later, the servant returned with the hot, sweet liquid.

Ostopher’s sobs were slowly starting to subside. Aragorn released the boy who shamefacedly wiped his arm across his tear-stained face. “Drink this,” said the King handing him the cup, to which he had added a few calming herbs. “I have decided to delay sentencing you until I can determine if your story is genuine. A healer needs to visit Mistress Melian to discover if you are speaking the truth.”

Ostopher looked horrified. “My lady has suffered enough!” he protested, “I would rather die than have her further distressed and her good name besmirched.”

“You can put your mind at rest,” Aragorn reassured him. “Mistress Melian will choose for herself if she wishes to tell her story or permit an examination. I will send a kindly and experienced midwife to visit her while her father is at his shop. If she is indeed with child, she will need help and care throughout her pregnancy.”

Ostopher thought for a moment then conceded, “Your words are wise, my lord. I had not thought of that.”

“As for you, Ostopher,” Aragorn continued, “I want you to get dressed now. You will not be returned to the prison, but confined within the Citadel in a secure room. If I order the manacles to be removed, do I have your word, you will not try to escape?”

“Yes, my lord. I would not betray your kindness,” Ostopher said fervently, adoration again in his grey eyes. He pulled Maglor’s shirt and tunic back over his head, regarding the garments with no small measure of revulsion.

“I will have food and drink sent to you, and fresh clothing,” Aragorn told him. “You will feel better once you shed Maglor’s garb. I also want you to have a bath and then take rest to ease your ribs.”

“Yes, my lord, I will do everything you bid me,” Ostopher promised. “Thank you.”

Aragorn called for the Guards to re-enter and gave his new instructions regarding the prisoner. Ostopher was to be taken now to a detention cell usually reserved for visiting dignitaries that became drunk and violent. He also ordered them to remove Ostopher’s leg irons and treat him gently. The Guards looked none too pleased at their orders, but knew better than to disobey. Ostopher was taken to his new prison at a slow pace in deference to his injuries.

“What do you make of his story?” Aragorn enquired of his Steward, once the door was closed and they were alone.

“The boy appears sincere, but it is hard to believe that a Citadel Guard should behave thus!” said Faramir. “I once had a Ranger who committed a similar heinous deed, but the Guards who protect the White Tree are Gondor’s finest, in whom the blood of Westernesse runs true! Yet evil can be found anywhere, and the greatest might fall! For was not the Dark Lord himself one of the Maier, as was Saruman?”

“Indeed,” said Aragorn. “History tells us that any might go astray. I suggest that we visit the place where Maglor was found. I plan as well, to call at the Houses of Healing, and find a suitable woman to see Mistress Melian. It puzzles me why the lady has made no complaint about Maglor’s behaviour if he has used her so cruelly. It seemed that she was prepared to accept his hand in marriage.”

“I would suggest Dame Ioreth visit the lady,” said Faramir.

Aragorn looked surprised. “I do not doubt the good dame’s skills, but this is a matter of utmost discretion.”

“The lady chatters a good deal, but never about matters of consequence,” said Faramir. “She can be discreet when needed. She has been a midwife and Healer since before I was born. When we were able to rescue female prisoners from the Easterlings, they were placed in her care. If anyone can learn what happened to Mistress Melian, it will be the good lady.”

“Very well,” Aragorn conceded. “I will ask Dame Ioreth to visit Mistress Melian, but first let us visit Maglor’s home. There are many other tasks that demand my attention, but I would solve this mystery once and for all.”

000

After a detour to speak to Ioreth at the Houses of Healing, King and Steward, accompanied by their guards, made their way down to the Fourth Level, and asked directions to Maglor’s home. It was a small unkempt house, which contrasted sharply with the neat dwellings on either side. A narrow alleyway ran alongside the buildings. The only evidence of a fight seemed to be a shattered plant pot from a row on a wall, which divided the house from a neighbour’s.

Aragorn studied the doorpost carefully. There, in a crack in the stonework, several dark hairs were lodged at about the height of a man. He drew Faramir’s attention to his find.

“It appears that Ostopher’s story is true,” said the Steward.

“Indeed,” replied Aragorn. “It looks as if it were indeed an accident. Had Ostopher sought to kill his victim, he would not have left him breathing, or where he would be found quickly. See, there is room behind the house, where a body could lie concealed for days while the killer made good his escape.”

“This discovery hardly helps the young man, though,” said Faramir. “The law makes it clear that killing a Citadel Guard, whether by design or accident, is a most heinous offence. For my own part, I believe Ostopher deserves mercy.” He bent to examine the evidence then straightened up, his hand unconsciously rubbing his shoulder, still painful from his war wounds.

“Does your wound still trouble you?” Aragorn asked him suddenly.

“It is nothing, sire, a mere twinge,” Faramir replied hastily. He dared not risk forfeiting Aragorn’s regard by allowing his scars of mind and body to be revealed again. Seeing Ostopher breaking down earlier had been highly uncomfortable to behold.

The two men remained silent on their way back to the Citadel. Faramir returned to his own apartments, while Aragorn tried to deal with some of the vast mountain of paperwork on his desk. His mind, though, was not on the task. He kept thinking of the plight of the young couple.

The King was just about to put his work aside, and join Arwen for the evening meal, when a servant announced Dame Ioreth wished to see the King.

When the lady entered, she was in a state of high indignation. “How could anyone have so ill used that poor child you sent me to see?” she demanded of Aragorn. “How that poor, lovely girl has endured in silence, I shall never know! She was glad of a shoulder to cry upon, and after a while permitted me to examine her. Her injuries were still visible where that monster attacked her!”

“You mean to tell me that Mistress Melian was violated, Dame Ioreth?” asked Aragorn, struggling to get a word in.

“Haven’t I just told you so, Lord Elfstone?” the woman replied, hardly pausing to draw breath. “The devil who used her thus even wore his helm, so she could leave no visible mark upon him when she tried to fight him off. At least I could tell the poor girl that she is not with child. She agreed to marry her attacker, as her woman’s courses were late. I was able to reassure her that her ordeal was to blame for delaying them. Melian’s mother made her promise on her deathbed to care for her sisters. She was terrified that should she appear to have lost her virtue, her sisters would suffer, and would never find good husbands. Not that her mother should ever have died, as I told Master Findegil myself, after his fifth daughter was born, that his wife should not bear any more children. Not that he’d listen to me, or his wife, as he wanted a son. Foolish man! One of his daughters could have taken over his shop when he grew too old to run it, and hired craftsmen to work the precious metals. Melian has a good head on her shoulders, but is far too beautiful for her own good to keep a shop.” Ioreth was finally forced to pause to catch her breath.

“Thank you, Dame Ioreth, you have been most helpful,” said Aragorn, dismissing her.

“I hope you plan to punish the monster who violated this innocent girl,” said Ioreth, not moving towards the door.

“He was killed by Melian’s betrothed,” Aragorn told her.

“The lad deserves a rich reward!” Ioreth said as she left.

Aragorn sighed. In his heart he agreed with her. But how could he release Ostopher unless he agreed to reveal the full story? The people would riot if it seemed the murder of one of their beloved Citadel Guards went unavenged. Faramir was sadly correct. In the eyes of the law, a most heinous offence had been committed. The law failed to take into account the far worse deed that had led to Ostopher’s actions. It would be kinder to send Ostopher to the gallows than free him to the mercy of an angry mob. Yet how could he send a good and honourable man to his death, whose only crime had been to seek to protect his lady?

The King buried his head in his hands. For the first time since their marriage, he went to join his wife with a heavy heart.

TBC