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

Blood will out.

“Sit down.” Aragorn gestured Ostopher towards the couch. ”I have some questions for you. He sat beside the young man and gripped both his hands, observing the red wheals left by the manacles on his wrists and his somewhat laboured breathing. The boy appeared to be in considerable pain. At close quarters he could see the dark circles under his eyes. Ostopher was still wearing Maglor’s clothes and was much in need of a bath. He noted the racing pulse, hardly surprising given the circumstances. “Have you close kindred?” Aragorn enquired to put the lad more at ease.

“No, my lord. My mother died giving birth to me and my father was killed a few years ago when a house he was working on collapsed.”

“How old are you?”

“I will, I mean would have been twenty three come Mettarë.”

Aragorn groaned inwardly. The lad was even younger than he thought. “Did you attack and rob the jeweller?” he asked suddenly.

“No, my lord, I did not.” There was no alteration in Ostopher’s pulse rate. “I would not harm a defenceless old man!”

“Have you been harmed in prison either when you escaped or after you were recaptured?”

“No, my lord. I was not beaten. Until I ran away the warders treated me fairly. There was one I feared, but no one laid a finger upon me. They…” Again the pulse rate remained steady. Ostopher hesitated and cast a longing eye upon the pitcher of water Aragorn kept upon his desk.

“You are thirsty?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aragorn gestured to Faramir to fill a glass with water for the prisoner. It seemed the warders had found a way to punish the runaway without directly contravening Aragorn’s orders.

Ostopher thirstily drained the glass. ”Thank you, my lords,” he said gratefully.

Faramir retook his seat in the corner, his eyes never leaving Ostopher lest he try to attack the King.

“You are a carpenter?” Aragorn continued.

Ostopher’s eyes lit up. “Yes, my lord, as was my father before me and all my longfathers. It is said that the ship’s carpenter who sailed with Elendil was one of my ancestors. I was said to be good at my craft, my lord, and took pride in work.”

Aragorn nodded; glad to have satisfied his curiosity as to the young man’s ancestry. Elendil had brought refugees from all walks of life with him, but nowadays it was rare to find such obvious Númenorean ancestry in other than the noble houses of Gondor. He shifted his position on the chair he had inherited from Denethor. “Did you make this chair?” he asked suddenly.

“Certainly not!” Ostopher replied indignantly. “It is a most ill designed piece of furniture. A chair should be comfortable as well as functional. Any good carpenter would tell you that!”

Aragorn smiled wryly. Rising to his feet, he laid his hand on Ostopher’s brow and concentrated trying to sense the essence of the young man’s soul. He sensed pain, anguish and fear beneath the outwardly calm exterior. There was guilt there too and rage as well as a strong will, but no trace of evil. The enigma remained why he should have committed such atrocious crimes.

“What happened when you attacked Maglor?” Aragorn demanded.

“I struck him. He struck me. I lashed out to defend myself. He fell and struck his head. I have said all that I desire to on the matter in open court, my lord.”

“Undress now, please,” said Aragorn sternly. “I am determined to learn the truth from you and the law permits me to use any means I find fit.” He was deliberately harsh, offering neither a blanket nor reassurance like he usually would to a patient in more conventional circumstances. So far the only additional information he had gained was an account of how Maglor had struck his head, if indeed Ostopher was speaking the truth.

Ostopher’s eyes widened with unspoken terror. He hesitantly fingered the laces of his shirt.

“Do as you are bidden unless you would prefer I call the Guards back in?” Aragorn’s tone was like ice.

Ostopher reluctantly complied, albeit with typical Gondorian reticence. He removed his belt then drew his tunic and shirt over his head with some difficulty. Faramir collected the garments and placed them at the far side of the room. Ostopher sat huddled miserably.

“Put your arms by your sides and sit up straight!” the King ordered him.

Aragorn had expected to uncover some injuries but was shocked at the severity of the bruises now revealed. It was immediately apparent, even to the most untrained eye that the man had been in a fight. Ostopher had a huge spreading bruise across his chest and left side. Smaller bruises disfigured his upper arms. Somewhat shockingly, another vast bruise covered most of his belly. Punching a man below the belt was regarded a highly dishonourable way to conduct a fistfight.

Aragorn gripped Ostopher’s hands again. “Did Maglor do this to you?” he enquired.

“Yes, my lord,” Ostopher replied. “All save the bruises on my arms. I acquired those while being returned to prison.”

“Why did you fight with Maglor?” Aragorn demanded again.

“I cannot say, my lord,” Ostopher replied stubbornly.

Aragorn cheerfully could have shaken the stubborn young man. He remained impassive, saying nothing. Instead, he deftly examined the injuries. Ostopher gave a cry of pain when his side was touched.

“It amazes me that you are still standing,” Aragorn informed him.

“I had to,” Ostopher said simply. “I willed myself not to feel the pain while I was trying to escape.”

“You have at least one cracked rib. He pressed his ear to the young man’s chest. “Your lungs are sound but somewhat congested because it pains you to breathe as deeply as you should.”

Aragorn was faced with a dilemma. It was highly disconcerting to treat a man whose death warrant he was due to sign. Minus his clothing, Ostopher looked younger than ever, somewhat resembling a colt with his long gangling limbs. He had the broad shoulders and lean build of a true son of Númenor. Most likely he had been well muscled before his imprisonment. Such a young man would have been of great value in rebuilding the City, had he not turned to crime. Aragorn had a sudden flash of inspiration. He would use athelas to treat Ostopher’s bruises. The herb would relieve the pain and have a calming effect, which might make the boy more willing to talk, when combined with some Elven arts.

"Lord Faramir, please ask that boiling water be brought,” said Aragorn.

Faramir went to the door and spoke to the Guards outside. Ostopher looked more terrified than ever. His thin body trembled.

Aragorn left him thus for a few moments hoping that he might speak. He did not. The King had rarely encountered such stubborn resistance from a captive before. Most were quickly persuaded to talk by his natural air of authority. Ostopher was proving the exception. Aragorn felt a grudging admiration for him. His natural compassion prevailed. “Put this round you while we wait,” he said, picking up the blanket he kept with his healing supplies. “There is nothing to fear, “ the King added in a more kindly tone. “I have never put a man to torment and have no intention of starting with you. Torture would bring me down to the level of the Dark Lord and his minions. I seek only to ease your pain not to cause any. I have been a Healer far longer than I have been a King. “

Ostopher thankfully pulled the blanket round his shoulders. His tense posture and ragged breathing suggested he was unconvinced by the King’s words.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence elapsed before a servant tapped on the door and handed a bowl of steaming water to Faramir. The Steward placed it on a table beside the King. Aragorn rummaged amongst his healing supplies and took two leaves of athelas, which he first breathed upon, then crumbled and cast into the boiling water. “Breath the vapours as deeply as you can,” the King instructed. He took a cloth and dipped it in the bowl. Ostopher recoiled in fear.

“Easy, lad,” Aragorn said softly. "I did this for the Ringbearer when he suffered similar injuries.”

”But he was a great hero while I am your prisoner!” Ostopher protested.

“You are both under my protection,” said Aragorn. He started to bathe Ostopher’s bruises with the athelas mixture.

Soon the young man’s breathing eased. He sighed and visibly relaxed as a living fragrance filled the air. It was the bittersweet tang of salty air combined with roses and rue. Faramir, who had returned to perusing a scroll, gave an audible sign of contentment. The King gently dried the hurts then returned Ostopher’s belt to him. The young man thankfully secured it around his waist.

“I shall ease the congestion in your lungs before I allow you to don your shirt,” Aragorn told the young man. “It is an Elvish treatment, which is quite painless and pleasant to experience.”

“Why are you doing this, my lord?” Ostopher asked in bewilderment. “I shall die soon.”

“I would not have you suffer needlessly,” said Aragorn. “Have you not heard the Hands of the King are the hands of a Healer? “He applied light pressure with his fingertips to Ostopher’s chest and back. The boy visibly relaxed under his healing touch.

“I have heard the stories, my lord, and now I know they are true!” Ostopher’s tone was full of awe. He looked at Aragorn with something approaching worship in his eyes.

The King groaned inwardly. The thought of signing this young man’s death warrant was becoming ever more repulsive to him. A lad like this should be at the beginning of his adult life, wooing a lass and looking forward to marriage and fatherhood, not preparing to die!

“I still do not understand,” Ostopher continued.

“There is no need to. Just be easy,” Aragorn said in a soothing tone. His hands moved to the back of Ostopher’s neck, which he gently massaged using a calming art that Master Elrond had taught him. Aragorn felt the remaining tension ebb away from Ostopher’s muscles and the young man’s shoulders go limp beneath his hands as he started to breathe deeply and evenly beneath his healing touch. Ostopher’s eyes were closed as if he were on the verge of sleep.

“Dead men can tell no tales. Tell me now what truly troubles your heart,” Aragorn said softly.

“I can die content now my beloved is safe from Maglor,” Ostopher said dreamily, more to himself than Aragorn.

“But will the lady live content?” Aragorn enquired softly.

"It grieves my heart bitterly to leave her, but I have no choice,” said Ostopher. ”I could not protect her, so I deserve my fate though she does not!”

Aragorn said nothing for a few moments but simply continued his ministrations. ”Perhaps you would let me be the judge of that?” Aragorn said quietly. He turned to face Ostopher fixing him with a kindly but compelling gaze. He was starting to understand what had happened but needed to hear the whole story from Ostopher’s lips. “You speak of Master Findegil’s daughter do you not? What is her name?”

“Melian," Ostopher said dreamily. “She is the fairest lady that ever lived! We should have been wed by now!”

“What did Maglor do to her?” Aragorn demanded quietly yet firmly.” I would know the whole truth!” He had used every art he knew to loosen Ostopher’s tongue. If he did not speak now all his efforts would be in vain.

TBC

Mask of Virtue Chapter Two

Don't judge a book by its cover.

The next morning the citizens of Minas Tirith were still talking about the dangerous criminal who had posed as a Guard in the Court of the Fountain. The people were also discussing the new ruling that the Guards must have their faces uncovered. Opinion was strongly divided whether it was a good idea or not.

Aragorn had slept badly. He felt strangely troubled by the haunted look in the young criminal’s eyes. Whatever had driven the man to take such desperate measures? Ostopher seemed to have such an open and honest face.

During Aragorn’s years of service as Thorongil, he had encountered men who had received letters breaking off a betrothal. Many a maiden had grown weary of waiting for her lover to return from fighting and chosen another, but none of the men had reacted like Ostopher. Aragorn had seen men under his command weep and rage against the perceived fickleness of the gentler sex, but not one had deserted.

Although Aragorn could ill spare the time from his other duties, he decided to try Ostopher’s case himself rather than leave it to the magistrates. Maglor had died during the night without regaining consciousness. Ostopher was now charged with two capital offences: the attack on a Citadel guard and his murder, along with the lesser crimes of assaulting prison warders and escaping from his prison cell. Since he would have to sign the warrant for the young man’s execution, Aragorn desired to learn what had made him commit such dreadful crimes.

Aragorn summoned Faramir and asked him about Ostopher’s original crime. The Steward soon returned with a scroll detailing the trial. It seemed that a wealthy jewel merchant in the second level had been attacked and left unconscious. Some precious stones from his shop had been found in Ostopher’s house, thereby proving the man’s guilt.

“What made the attack even more shocking,” Faramir added, “was that rumour had it the criminal was courting his victim’s daughter. He knew the family well and often dined with them. It was a cruel betrayal of the worst kind.”

“Had Ostopher committed any previous crimes?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir shook his head. ”No, at least none that were ever discovered. The young man was said to be a hard working carpenter who was skilled at his trade. One of my Rangers knew him. He had made some furniture for his mother who was highly impressed by the quality of the workmanship. He was making a good living and had no need to steal. Alas, when greed enters a man’s heart, it destroys him!” Faramir said sadly.

“Alas, indeed,” Aragorn replied suspecting Faramir was referring to his brother as well as to Ostopher. "Greed has destroyed far better men than this young fool I am trying today. May his fate be a lesson for others! I would have you accompany me while I judge the trial. You have the Númenorean ability to see into human hearts, and I would value your insights.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Faramir replied.

The Great Hall was packed with interested spectators when Aragorn and Faramir took their places.

When Ostopher was brought in the crowd booed and jeered. Minas Tirith respected her Citadel Guards and the murder of one was seen as an affront to every honest citizen. Ostopher walked stiffly as if in pain, his head bowed. He raised his head and stared at his accuser with a sad grey gaze when Aragorn addressed the crowd telling them what the prisoner was to be tried for. To the King’s horrified astonishment, a spark of what could only be described as joy seemed to glitter in Ostopher’s eyes when he learned he was charged with murder. Aragorn exchanged a glance with Faramir. He nodded. The Steward had seen it too.

The King listened carefully as the first witness, the chief warder at the prison, was called to give his evidence.

“I gave Ostopher a letter the morning he escaped,” said the man, slurring his speech slightly as if drunk “He read it and went berserk, attacking me and the other guards. We were lucky to escape with our lives, we was!”

“What injuries did you and your comrades sustain?” Aragorn enquired.

“ Er, a black eye and a cut lip, I think, my lord,” said the warder.” I can’t quite recall.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and curtly dismissed the man.

The next witness, a soldier’s widow, described how she had discovered Maglor lying in the alleyway. “ I was very shocked, my lord,” she said. “To see him lying by his doorway wearing only his drawers! It wasn’t proper at all! I’ve never seen such a thing in the City before. Lord Denethor would never have allowed it! Folks were always dressed proper in his day! It was such a shock what with Sergeant Maglor being a respectable Citadel Guard and all!”

Aragorn, who had been struggling to keep his attention during this rambling account, suddenly pricked up his ears.

“Did you recognise the man as Sergeant Maglor, Mistress?” he enquired. “The soldiers who reported the matter to me had no idea who the victim was.”

“Well, they never asked me or I could have told them!” said the woman. “Maglor was my neighbour for well nigh on twenty years. He was a quiet enough neighbour but too given to fancies if you get my meaning, my lord.”

“Perhaps you could explain?” Aragorn coaxed her.

"Bravest in his troop he was, leastways according to him, my lord," said the woman. “But we know all soldiers are brave, don’t we? My husband, may he rest in peace, most certainly was. Then the past year or two he has been telling me he was getting married, but I never seen any young lady with him!”

Seeing she would ramble on all day in this wise, if not stopped, Aragorn thanked her and politely but firmly dismissed her.

The crowd muttered amongst themselves agreeing the Lord Denethor would never have allowed such goings on. Men attacked in the street wearing only their drawers! Whatever was the world coming to?

Ostopher was then brought forward, his hands and feet secured by heavy manacles.

The crowd murmured angrily and shook their fists at the young man.

Aragorn studied the prisoner closely. He was a tall, obviously of Númenorean descent with the carven features and dark hair typical of his people. He faced Aragorn calmly, a resigned expression on his face, in stark contrast to his agitation of the day before.

“Ostopher son of Cirondil, “ Aragorn began sternly. “You are charged with escaping from prison and the murder of Maglor, a Citadel Guard. You are further charged with the theft of his clothing, then of impersonating him and resisting arrest. You stand before me facing death. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I was sent to prison for a crime I did not commit,” Ostopher said firmly, looking Aragorn in the eye and not flinching when the King returned his gaze. “ I admit that I fled the prison for reasons I prefer not to disclose. I struck Maglor twice, one in anger, the second time in self-defence when he set upon me. I did not intend to kill him, though I regret his death not at all! “

“Explain yourself!” ordered Aragorn.

“I would rather hang than have the honour of someone I hold dear besmirched,” said Ostopher.

“I have ordered you to explain your actions,” Aragorn said sharply. “I am offering you a fair trial and the opportunity to speak in your defence. Do you not understand?”

“I can say nothing more,” Ostopher replied. “I willingly accept whatever fate you decree for me.”

“That scoundrel ruined both me and my daughter!” cried an irate voice from the back.

“Let the man come forward to speak!” Aragorn demanded. ”What is your name?”

An old man came forward. He pointed an accusing finger at Ostopher. “I am Findegil, son of Caranthir,” said the greybeard in reply to Aragorn’s question. “That scoundrel there wormed his way into my household, saying he wanted to marry my daughter. My wife, may she rest in peace, left me with six daughters to provide for. The eldest is of marriageable age and I am eager to see her settled with a man of her choosing. She told me last year that she wanted to marry that good for nothing, who now stands before you, my lord. He seemed a decent enough fellow and earned a good living as a carpenter. Never was I more deceived in a man than I was in him! One day, when I was alone in my shop, Ostopher crept up behind me and hit me over the head and stole some of my most valuable jewels. I was certain the thief was someone who knew that I was working late that night. I usually leave well before the evening meal and take my most valuable merchandise home with me. The Guards searched the houses of my acquaintances and found the jewels in Ostopher’s home, so there was no doubt he was guilty. Not that my foolish daughter would believe it! She even refused to break off her betrothal until a few days ago. I was delighted when she suddenly announced she would marry Maglor, who was an old family friend. Now this villain here has gone and murdered him and I have to find another husband for the girl! May you only be blessed with sons, my lord! The sooner you hang that Ostopher, the better!”

“I never harmed you, sir,” Ostopher interrupted.

“Be silent!” Aragorn admonished sternly. He sighed inwardly. It seemed the reason for Ostopher’s misdeeds was all too clear now. ”I have one question for you, Master Findegil,” he said. “Did you clearly see Ostopher’s face when he attacked you.

“No, my lord,” Findegil replied. “I was bending over my workbench engrossed in fashioning a necklace for a merchant’s wife. He wanted their family crest set in diamonds to mark forty years of marriage to his lady. I awoke in the Houses of Healing. A curse on the young villain!”

Aragorn dismissed the man. A grim picture was gradually starting to form in his mind. It seemed that Ostopher was indeed as wicked as the evidence suggested. And yet…he sensed no evil in Ostopher’s presence despite the overwhelming evidence.

Just then the noon bells rang. Aragorn ordered the court to adjourn for the midday meal, after which he would sentence the young man to death. The thought repelled him. Why should this be? He was King and it was his duty to rid his lands of evildoers such as Ostopher. Justice in the North had been a very different matter. As Chieftain, Aragorn was responsible for judging wrongdoers, but serious crime was very rare amongst the Northern Dúnedain. They were too preoccupied eking out a meagre living and keeping Orcs at bay to turn upon one another.

Aragorn felt he needed air. Instead of joining Arwen as he usually did, he took a walk in the gardens.

He came across his Steward seated upon a bench. Faramir leapt to his feet.

“My lord, I am sorry, I did not see you approaching,” said Faramir.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” said Aragorn. ”Come sit beside me, I would hear how you perceive Ostopher?”

“My heart does not sense that he is as an evil man, nor a liar,” said Faramir. “Yet it seems clear enough that he murdered Maglor because he planned to marry Master Findegil’s daughter. Or is there more to this matter than meets the eye? Do we see the entire picture since Ostopher will offer no explanation.”

“I would rather face death than have my lady’s honour besmirched,” said Faramir.

“As indeed would I,” Aragorn replied gravely. “ However, since we know nothing of any threat to a lady’s virtue, I must pronounce the death sentence within the hour. Maybe I was deceived by Ostopher’s appearance? A king cannot be influenced by an innocent seeming face, or let an evildoer escape because he has an air of Númenor about him.”

The two men sat lost in thought for a few moments.

“Sire,” said Faramir, struck by a sudden flash of inspiration. ”If Ostopher was indeed set upon by Maglor, would he not bear some marks of violence upon his body to prove it? Could you not ask a healer to examine him? The law states that all possible methods may be used to uncover evidence when a capital crime has been committed.”

Aragorn smiled and clapped his Steward on the shoulder. ”Well spoken, Faramir! I will examine Ostopher myself for any injuries sustained in a fight. I can, perhaps, also persuade him to reveal what secrets he is hiding. I know many Elven calming arts that can make a man reveal the secrets of his heart.”

Too well did Faramir remember Aragorn's Elvish healing arts. He flushed with shame to recall how he had wept and revealed his pain and grief when the King had treated him with them. How weak he must have appeared in the eyes of his lord! He vowed inwardly it must never happen again.

Aragorn was so focused on the planned course of action with Ostopher, that he failed to notice his Steward's discomfiture. Faramir made no comment as King and Steward rose from the bench together and returned indoors. Aragorn despatched a messenger to order the Guards to bring Ostopher to his study. He was determined to learn the whole truth if only for his own peace of mind. As Gandalf had been fond of telling him, death should not be dealt out lightly.

About half an hour later, Aragorn, having collected his healing supplies, was awaiting Ostopher’s arrival in his study. Faramir was with him, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, pretending to be engrossed in a scroll. “Enter!” he called when the expected knock came on the door.

Four burly Guards escorted the still shacked prisoner into the room.

“Remove the wrist manacles, then wait outside,” the King ordered.

“But, my lord!” one of the men protested. “He is dangerous and violent. We cannot leave you with such a man!!”

“You can and you will!” Aragorn replied sternly. “How can I examine him if his wrists are bound? I assume he has been thoroughly searched and relieved of any weapons? I wish you to wait outside the door until I summon you.”

“I would not harm my lord king!” Ostopher said indignantly. “You have my word upon it.”

The Guards reluctantly obeyed the King’s command. Aragorn and Faramir were left alone with Ostopher.

TBC

Star of Hope

"I saw a star that was falling, I wish'd the wish of my soul." - Traditional Irish song.

“You wished to see me, my lady?”

I shuffled my feet nervously. Master Elrond was never other than courteous towards me, but I still felt like a timid little girl in his presence.

“It is my son’s third birthday tomorrow. I should like some small celebration to mark the occasion for him.”

“Ah, yes, Lady Gilraen, the tradition of Men to mark the day of birth, since the day of begetting is so rarely recalled amongst my brother’s kindred.”

I lowered my eyes, hoping Master Elrond would not see the light of memory in my eyes that his wordskindled. Oh, but I did know the day of Aragorn’s begetting, that special night is still as clear in my memory as if it were yesterday. These memories are too precious and private to ever speak of to Master Elrond, kindly though he is. Maybe, one day I will tell my son that he was begotten upon an auspicious day. Maybe…

It was a rare gathering for the Dúnedain. As many who were able came from the scattered villages amidst the ruins of the old capital, Annuminas, where they made camp and prepared to celebrate Loëndë.

The celebrations began on the longest night of the year, a night feared by the servants of darkness. My parents were amongst those present. I gladly greeted them, having not laid eyes on my mother and father since my wedding day.

“Are you happy in your marriage to Arathorn?” my mother enquired of me later that night, taking me aside, her keen gaze scanning my still slender form. I could sense her disappointment that I was not yet with child.

“He is kindly and treats me always with respect,” I answered. Truth to tell, I still hardly knew my husband. He had been away most of the time even before the Lord Arador's death. Since he had become Chieftain earlier that year, Arathorn had even less time for home and hearth. As Lord of the Dúnedain, he was needed to care for our people and lead the fight against the minions of Shadow. I tried to be a good wife and ease his cares when he was at home. I had not opposed my mother's wish for the marriage; and I was content enough, honoured to be wed to so worthy a lord.

“Have you grown to love your husband?” my mother persisted.

I could only say. “He is a good man. ”I had never lied to my mother. It was useless, for Ivorwen’s gift of farsight always enabled her to see into my mind.

My mother frowned but said no more on the matter, instead encouraging me to try the wine, a gift from Elrond of Rivendell.

The sun sets on even the longest day. We sat watching it sink below the hills while we told tales of old Númenor and sang of the great deeds of the Sea Kings and the Faithful.

“Will you walk with me, my lady?” Arathorn appeared beside me as if out of nowhere, my cloak in his hand. He draped the soft woollen mantle around my shoulders. Arathorn slowed his pace to match mine, and took my hand as he led me along the shore of Lake Nenuial. The moon had risen and cast a silvery glow across the rippling waters.

“To think that these ruins were once a great and prosperous city,” my husband sighed, his voice full of sorrow. “Alas, for our people!”

“Maybe one day it will be rebuilt,” I said, wondering why I should voice such wild dreams. Tonight they appeared almost as a certainty to me. It was as if I could see a fair city, where now there lay only tumbled stones.

“The young may have their dreams still,” Arathorn said sadly.

I pressed his hand. We stood there for I know not how long, watching the bright path of the Star of Eärendil across the evening sky, the silence broken only the music of the waves gently lapping against the shore.

Suddenly, a light flashed in the West.

“Look!” said my husband, a smile easing the grim cast of his features; “a shooting star. You should make a wish, Gilraen.”

I silently wished that I might give him the heir he longed for, the heir we all needed.

We watched star after star streak across the sky under the sovereign eye of Gil-Estel.

“Come,” Arathorn said at last, “it grows cold.”

He let me back to our large and well-appointed tent, set a little aside from the others as befit the Chieftain and his lady.

Arathorn took me in his arms and kissed me. I found myself responding with a newfound fervour; pulling at the fastenings on his cloak as he bore me down to our warm nest of hides and furs. That night I was not just a dutiful wife, but also a happy one. Perhaps it was the wine, or the stone remnants of our people's past glory surrounding us, that awakened my heart. I know not. I know only that I enjoyed the intimacies of marriage for the first time. My passion equalled his as I freely and joyously surrendered to my lord.

“Never have I seen so many shooting stars as there were last night!” my mother remarked over breakfast the next morning. ”You look well, today, child. That Elvish wine must have suited you.”

Alas, my joy would be short-lived. Arathorn had to ride away again ere nightfall when a report arrived of Orcs gathering in the East.

When he returned a few weeks later, I had news for him.

“I carry our child, my lord,” I said.

My husband's weary face lightened. I will never forget the joy that lit his deepgrey eyes as he smiled and tenderly embraced me.

Arathorn was at my side more often during the following months. I grew large with his child and spent my days dreaming of filling our home with the laughter of many sons and daughters.

Soon after the turn of the year, my mother arrived to care for me. We expected the child in mid-March, but our Aragorn was eager to enter the world and arrived as soon as February took its leave. The moment I first held my son was the happiest I have ever known.

“You are smiling, Lady Gilraen. Do you find our customs amusing?”

Master Elrond’s words interrupted my memories. “Indeed not, lord, but my son is a child of Man, not an Elf.”

“Your son is the Hope of Men, my lady,” Elrond said gravely. "He will learn his lineage when the time is ripe. I shall ask the cooks to prepare special treats in celebration for his birthday on the morrow; and we will have gifts and games. Our Estel cannot yet know his true name, but he shall know that he is loved.”

I smiled my thanks. For now, my Aragorn must remain hidden, but in the fullness of time he will blaze forth, as a star of hope for our people. Until then, I can only wait and hope.

"The strife is o'er, the battle done;

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

"The strife is o'er, the battle done;
The victory of life is won;
The song of triumph has begun: Alleluia!" - Traditional Easter hymn

With grateful thanks to Raksha,

Aragorn and Faramir quickly cleansed themselves in the warm soapy water, towelled themselves dry and started to dress in the assortment of garments that Tasariel had provided. It was obvious that the Healer had lent them her best towels and King and Steward wondered if the clothing had belonged to the sons she had lost. Tasariel's kindness touched their hearts.

“Let me look at you before you put your shirt on,” Aragorn told Faramir. ”I wish to check the bite on your back.”

“What of you?” asked Faramir, ”You are moving stiffly. Do you want some more of Mistress Tasariel’s ointment?”

“That can wait until later, ”said Aragorn. ”But fear not; there is nothing seriously amiss; merely some already over-taxed muscles having been pulled in the fight. The pain is not too bad today.”

Pulling the borrowed tunic over his head, the King turned to face Faramir and picked up the lantern. Faramir sat on the straw-covered floor, clad in the borrowed breeches; and suddenly burst out laughing.

“What is so amusing?” Aragorn demanded, approaching his friend.

“You in those clothes!” Faramir chortled. The High King of the West was indeed a sight to behold. The tunic was both far too short and much too wide. It hung like an ill-fitting sack from Aragorn’s shoulders, flopping just below his waist. The breeches reached only to his mid-calves, and fit so loosely at the waist, he had to secure seemingly endless folds of material with his belt.

“You will not look much better once you stand up!” Aragorn retorted, noticing that Faramir's borrowed breeches were even baggier than the ones he was wearing. The sight reminded Aragorn that Faramir had lost flesh recently, and that the loss had weakened Faramir and made him more likely to take harm from the spider's poison. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he moved behind his friend, fearful that further exposure to the spider might have inflamed the bite on Faramir’s back. Lifting the dark hair aside he breathed a deep sigh of relief that the small, red mark remained cool to the touch and unchanged in appearance. Fortunately, Faramir’s shirt and tunic had protected his body from any further stings caused by the spider’s hairs.

“Does your face still hurt, ion nîn?” Aragorn enquired.

“It stings but a little,” replied Faramir. His voice was quiet, but Aragorn caught an undertone of weariness, reflected in the younger man's eyes.

“Let us try Mistress Tasariel’s salve then,” said Aragorn, picking up the jar and applying a generous amount to Faramir’s injured cheek and neck. The King then checked Faramir’s heartbeat, finding it slightly too rapid for his liking. He would have liked nothing better than to tell him to rest and use some Elven relaxation treatments to ease him after his ordeal, but there was work to be done. He turned his attention to Faramir’s injured ankle, while the Steward donned his shirt. The ankle was starting to swell, while above it, ugly scratches disfigured his calf.

Faramir flinched when Aragorn gently felt the injured limb. "I will bathe the grazes with the athelas mixture and bind your ankle for the time being,” the King said. ”I will treat it properly once the creature’s carcass is disposed of. Do you wish to remain here to rest?”

Faramir shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, my hurts are but slight. If you can just help me mount Zachus, I will come with you. Some of the villagers might panic at the sight of the creature. I would not let you go there alone.”

“I am blessed by your loyalty, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, patting Faramir’s shoulder affectionately. He tied the bandage securely and proceeded to gather up the dirty laundry, carefully shaking out the soiled clothing to ensure no spider hairs had stuck to it.

“Are you dressed, Masters?” Tasariel’s voice called from outside. "I have brought you some tea and my neighbour has scones fresh from the oven.”

Aragorn opened the door and stood there blinking in the bright sunlight.

The two women vainly tried to maintain their calm and avoid staring at the sight before them. The neighbour, a red-cheeked younger woman, was the first to yield to her mirth. Tasariel soon followed suit and both women laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.

Aragorn maintained his dignity for a full ten seconds before joining in the laughter. “I fear we are rather tall for our borrowed garb,” he said good-humouredly.

“And far too skinny!” Tasariel retorted. “Has my salve aided Master Falborn?” she enquired.

“It has indeed, Mistress, I thank you,” said Faramir. ”We greatly appreciate all your kindness to us.”

“I would be interested in the recipes for your healing salves,” said Aragorn. Elrond’s remedies were far more potent against serious maladies, but the Elves had little practice in treating the everyday ailments that plagued mortal country folk. Tasariel beamed with pleasure.

Aragorn helped Faramir outside. The two friends sat on a log, enjoying their tea and scones as they awaited the arrival of the menfolk.

Beleg and his sons were the first to come in from the fields. ”I might have guessed it was you two sluggards who had interrupted our work again while you pass the morning eating food from our wives' hearths!” he snorted. “What is it this time? Giant butterflies or cats the size of horses? Or some strange creature that shrinks your britches?” He guffawed with laugher.

“We have laboured hard this morning,” said Aragorn coldly. ”The monster we slew would freeze your blood and that of men far greater!”

Borlach then arrived and Aragorn quickly told him all that had happened. The headman did not entirely understand the full nature of the beast Aragorn described, but he nodded in agreement to Aragorn's plan. Borlach called his people together and told them in a loud voice: “Master Morrandir and his son have done a great service to our people. They have slain the creature that struck down Mistress Vanreth and her child. He would have us go down to the riverbank to see this monstrous spider and burn its carcass.”

Thoron laughed rudely. ”Giant spider indeed! I'll not leave the harvest to chase after children's stories. No doubt they killed a common boar! At least we will dine well tonight.”

“Maybe you are too afraid to risk looking upon a monster and prefer to hide in your mother’s fields?” Tasariel said tartly.

Thoron scowled. “I fear nothing!” he retorted with the bravado of the young and untested. ”Had I seen this creature, I would have killed it myself.”

“No one needs to come if they lack the stomach for it,” called Aragorn. ”It is best that the very young children remain behind and any woman who is with child. However, if you see this creature and know what it looks like, it may save your lives should any others ever appear in these parts. If they do, you must send a message to Minas Tirith and inform the King that an evil beast troubles your village again.”

Thoron laughed bitterly. “A fine lot of good that would do. What would the King care about poor folk like us? He left us defenceless when he exiled Lord Fontos!”

“The King cares for all his people,” Aragorn said firmly. ”You are especially under his care until Lord Fontos returns. I shall tell him that a giant spider was found near your village. He will listen to Captain Morrandir.”

“I believe you,” said Tasariel.

“As do I,” Hareth added. “Such a great Healer must surely have the ear of his lord!” Her daughter nodded. Vanreth was still rather pale and leaning heavily on her mother’s arm.

“Come then to the riverbank,” said Aragorn. ”We must hasten ere the carcass attracts scavengers. Bring torches and oil to burn the creature’s remains.” He helped Faramir rise from the log and mount Zachus.

“It seems Master Falborn fell over when in his cups again,” Thoron said in loud whisper.

“Hush! Would you risk the wrath of fierce warriors who have the King's ear?” Tasariel cautioned.

“I should like to see what attacked my baby and I, but fear I cannot walk that far,” Vanreth lamented. ”My neighbour would care for Gwinhir.”

“Are you certain, Mistress?” asked Aragorn. ”What lies ahead is a sight most foul.”

“Nothing could be worse that the horrors I imagine in my dreams,” answered the young woman.

“Come then,” said Aragorn. “You can ride with me to the riverbank. Roheryn can easily carry two riders.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Finrod. “I would have my lass rest easy.” He lifted his wife up behind Aragorn on the great horse.

The procession slowly wound its way down to the riverbank at the pace of the slowest villager. As they approached the spot where the dead spider lay, those with a keen sense of smell wrinkled their noses in disgust.

“We are almost there,” said Aragorn. ”I warn you, the carcass is not a pretty sight.”

Six of the younger women paled at his words, and hurried back toward the village with two elderly men.

“Cowards!” muttered Thoron loudly enough for those departing to hear.

Vanreth trembled slightly. ”You do not have to see the creature,” Aragorn told her gently.

“I want to,” she said staunchly. ” Please ride on.”

They rounded a bend in the path and there lay the corpse of the spider, exactly as Aragorn and Faramir had left it. No crows hovered above the dead monster. Even the flies kept their distance. Several of the women cried out. Thoron took one look, paled, and promptly retched. “It must something I ate,” he mumbled to Tasariel, who had come swiftly to aid him.

Aragorn dismounted. ”That is the creature we slew,” he explained. “The spider is close kindred to Shelob, ally of the Dark Lord, she who waylaid and wounded the Ring bearer in the pass of Cirith Ungol. This creature has preyed upon your village in secret; and would have killed men, women, children and beasts had it grown to maturity. It lived underneath yonder willow in the hollowed out river bank.”

Finrod summoned up the courage to delve into the spider’s lair. ”It is full of animal bones!” he exclaimed. “I think the bones come from pigs, cats and chickens. Small wonder our livestock kept vanishing!”

“Gather wood for kindling to burn the monster,” Aragorn ordered. “Look upon it and remember! Should you ever glimpse such a creature again, walk wide of it, and send at once to the King in Minas Tirith. It is his charge and duty to rid to see Gondor rid of such leavings of Shadow.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Borlach. “How can we ever thank you and your son sufficiently for ridding us of this menace?”

Aragorn tensed, wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was; but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.

“It is our duty as the King’s Captains to aid those in need, “said Faramir, sparing his Lord the need to dissemble. Aragorn simply inclined his head graciously.

Aragorn tensed wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was, but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.

The people searched the riverbank for kindling and had soon built a large bonfire around the dead spider. Aragorn and Tasariel then drenched the pyre with oil.

Borlach handed the torch to Aragorn. “You, my lord, should set the fire ablaze,” he said.

“Thank you, Master, but I can think of two who have greater cause to wield the brand,” said the King. “My son Falborn and Mistress Vanreth.” He helped Faramir down from the horse, while Finrod aided his wife.

The Steward and the country girl cast the torches into the kindling. The flames blazed up high and bright.

“So may all traces of the darkness that engulfed this place be banished!” said Aragorn as the fire climbed toward the sky.

“Our visitors have laboured hard this day,” Tasariel remarked to her husband.

“Humph, it seems they have not been idle after all,” Beleg conceded. ”Easy work compared with reaping, though!”

Leaving several men to keep an eye on the fire, King, Steward and country folk made their way back to the village. The women who had stayed behind had prepared food, but few had the desire to eat it. Most of the farmers soon returned to the fields. Tasariel sat near the long table in the village's centre, peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Several young children ran around the huts, scuffling over a ball made of stitched cowhide; shouting as their bare feet kicked up clods of dirt.

“I will tend your ankle properly now,” Aragorn told Faramir.

The Steward settled himself comfortably in the shade of a large tree and took off his boot with some difficulty. Aragorn carefully removed the bandage and gently felt the bruised and swollen ankle. Faramir winced. Aragorn held his hand a few inches above the injury and Faramir felt the pain ebb away, leaving his ankle feeling strong again. He sighed blissfully.

“That is amazing!” exclaimed Tasariel who had been watching, unnoticed by the two men. “I can see the bruises fading before my eyes!”

“Ara, um my ada has wondrous healing skills,” said Faramir fervently.

“I can see that, ”said Tasariel. “What are you doing now?” she enquired of Aragorn.

“Massaging the ankle with an Elven healing touch to ease the swelling and stimulate the circulation,” answered Aragorn.

“Well, I hope Master Falborn is on his feet for the day after tomorrow,” said the woman. “We will all dance at the harvest celebrations.”

“He will be,” said Aragorn.

“We have a king and queen of the harvest,” trilled a little girl as she skipped past with her companions. “Just think, to be king or queen for a day just like the real ones in the City! I wonder who will be chosen?”

TBC

The Vase that was Broken

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

With grateful thanks to Raksha

A Tale of Telcontar

“Tell me a story, ada, please!” Eldarion pleaded. He was sitting with his father in his mother’s sitting room eating his tea. The Queen had taken Farawyn to visit Éowyn for a few days and the young prince was bored.

“What sort of a story?” asked Aragorn.

“A tale of your battles and brave deeds,” said Eldarion.

The King began to tell his son about how they had fought the orcs and the cave- troll in Moria, using his spoon to illustrate how he had wielded Andúril. Before long, father and son had risen from the table and were mock-fighting enthusiastically.

A sudden loud crash brought the game to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, no; we broke Naneth’s vase!” Eldarion exclaimed.

Aragorn surveyed the scene in horror. All of Arwen’s vases looked much alike to him. He seemed to recall that this was a special one; a family heirloom that had belonged to Celeborn and Galadriel and had been made for them before the breaking of Beleriand. He gingerly picked up the fragments.

Eldarion frowned. "Naneth will be cross." He looked up at Aragorn, his small face earnest. "I did not mean to break so old a thing, truly, Ada." )

Aragorn caressed the child's tousled black hair. “ It was not your fault, ion nîn,” he reassured his son. "I should have known better than to mimic a battle with you in Naneth's sitting room. Let us send for Uncle Faramir and see if he can help.”

The Steward, who was working late to allow Aragorn to spend more time with Eldarion, appeared within a few minutes and inspected the damage. “ I fear it is beyond repair,” he said. ”At least it does not look to be very valuable.”

“ It is!” Aragorn contradicted. “ It is Elven workmanship dating from the First Age. It had pride of place in my lady’s room.”

“I have rarely been in your lady’s private rooms, so had little chance to appreciate its beauty,” Faramir said diplomatically. “ I suggest we summon the City’s craftsmen and find a vase of equal beauty ere she returns.”

“A good idea, mellon nîn, always you think of something!” said Aragorn, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

The King’s enthusiasm for the plan abated somewhat after spending much of the day inspecting the wares of a seemingly endless procession of craftsmen, all of whom had dozens of vases to show him. Aragorn’s head began to ache at the sight of each additional vessel of silver or gold or multi-coloured glass. Eventually, with Faramir’s help, he chose a silver vase encrusted with sapphires and rubies. It seemed well made and was quite costly, but the expense would be worth it if it staved off Arwen’s wrath.

Aragorn went to bed weary and slept badly, dreaming he was being buried under a mountain of vases of every hue and description imaginable.

The King’s heart was in his mouth when his Queen returned and took her accustomed place in her sitting room. He decided to wait for her to notice the vase before confessing his mishap with her treasured heirloom.

Suddenly, she espied the new vase and her eyes lit up. “How beautiful!” Arwen exclaimed. “And how thoughtful of you to buy me a surprise gift, Estel!”

“I fear your grandparents’ vase was broken while Eldarion and I were playing,” the King said sheepishly.

“The priceless heirloom?” Arwen looked puzzled. “That is silver inlaid with pearl and I put it away safely as soon as Eldarion could walk. The one that was there was a gift from the Harad Ambassador, which I always considered hideous! How could you fail to notice the difference? Men are so unobservant!”

Aragorn sighed with relief, before ruefully realising he had wasted a good deal of time and money.

Arwen picked up the new vase and studied it. Then, embracing her husband lovingly, gave him a tender kiss.

Returning his wife’s loving embrace, Aragorn decided the vase was worth every coin after all.

Along came a spider

With very grateful thanks to Raksha who wrote by far the greater part of this chapter, including the confrontation with the spider.

Warning - This chapter contains violence and may disturb arachnaphobes

Along Came a Spider – Traditional Rhyme

Curled up quietly in the cool comfort of her burrow, well-fed from a meal of fresh, juicy kitten, she is startled by noises outside the lair. Frogs? Beavers, or the impudent otters? Surely not weasels, for she has rid her river bank of those rival predators. She awakens fully and extends her senses.

Men! Loud, rude Men! Can they not give her a day’s peace, the noisy, brutish things! The sounds and shudders continue. Something knocks at the trees and rocks that shelter her. A horse is snorting a challenge to her. And beyond, she hears the voice of its master.

Well, he will soon learn to walk wide of Shelob’s daughter; that is, if she leaves him living to walk at all. Perhaps she has been too forbearing. She has stung Men mostly in defence, since their presence has assured her penned animals to easily capture, especially their juicy young fowl and rabbits. She is too small and immature to feed upon most of the Men as well, though one day she will take them as she pleases. Yet it seemed they would not respect her territory. They must be taught a lesson! Small she might be, but no cloddish Man could match her for skill and speed. Just two days ago, she had felled a female and would have had borne its tender manling to her larder, but for the coming of a great herd of stomping farmers. But another such Man? Little hazard to her! And the few horses they had here were skittish and dull-witted.

She extends her forelegs, feeling their bladed hairs bristle, ready to throw. Lifting her back, she charges out of her lair.

Faramir’s stomach lurched as the creature scuttled from the burrow with surprising speed. At his command, Zachus had reared and struck the nearby ground with battle-force in his strong front legs. The spider had reacted as planned. What a monstrosity it was, larger than even he had thought, the size of a small wolf! He could see the long stinger and the vicious beak of which Samwise had spoken of as Shelob's armaments. Faramir manoeuvred the reins so that Zachus blocked the spider from escape, yet paced out of the reach of that stinger, visible even from the gelding’s back. Eight legs, evil horned head, covered with black and brown bristles except on the barer back; the spider paced and watched them. He could swear that there was a malignant spark of awareness in the clustered eyes. This was no mindless beast; the thing could think!

This is no farmer! The spider backs up fast. She has never seen so furious a horse. Those pounding legs could actually hurt her! She must get behind, or between the legs, jump at it, get a good sting in its hide. Then it will go down, and she'll settle with the rider. She knows that one, the tall West-Man who smells faintly of Elf. She'd already given him what-for when he'd troubled her lair before; though her juice no longer courses through him to mark and hold him as hers. Better fire off some darts to slow them down!

The spider backed up, hissed and rose up slightly on limbs half as long, when stretched, as Faramir's own legs. The Steward barely had time to rein in Zachus and turn him back a few paces before he felt something sharp slam into his cheek. Aragorn had learned from Legolas that young spiders could throw their own body hairs as weapons. Something wet trickled down his face; probably blood. The skin hurt where it had been cut; but the shot was less strong than an arrowhead and less damaging. He had no time to feel for it now. Faramir felt Zachus twitch and shudder beneath him. He looked down to see a light trail of blood on the brown shoulder. Faramir bit down his rising rage; unwound the rope that he had coiled round his saddle horn, and looped an end around his wrist. Leaning forward, he whispered encouragement to Zachus, then turned him back toward the spider. "Now!" he cried, moving the horse into a gallop and lashing out and down with the rope.

Skhshaaaaaaa! That hurt! The nasty West-Man has a sting of his own. There is no time to throw more bristles; the rider is striking out with his rope, flailing her. She can't get past or behind him; the horse is too fast, the hooves too big to risk a sideways charge. What to do, what to do?

"Good, Zachus; Faramir crooned under his breath; "toward the willow, go!" Their plan was working! The spider was confused, too beset to strike back, and they were almost at the place they needed her to be.

Aha! A sudden inspiration comes. The spider hops as the rope stings her; but does not recoil. Instead, she leaps up, seizes the rope, and pulls with all her considerable might. She shrills a victory cry as the West-Man tumbles from the horse's back down to the ground. The spider marches forward to reclaim her errant prize. This time she will not leave him alive.

The first thing Faramir saw, as he struggled for breath; was the spider; making a steady and deadly approach. It looked much bigger from the ground! The first thing he heard was Zachus' war-cry; followed by the sound and sight of the gelding rearing up between himself and the monster. Faramir scrambled to his feet as Zachus pounded the earth in fury, narrowly missing the spider. There was no time to mount; they had to keep pushing it, not much farther now. "Forward!" Faramir told the mighty bay. Zachus obeyed the command, pawing the ground as he slowly edged onward; prompting the creature to edge backward. Faramir forced his bruised shins to work; danced ahead, around and behind, and snatched the rope back from where the spider had dropped it. He hastily looped the rope around his hand and then attacked the spider with a shorter length, whipping at the legs, keeping out of reach of its visible stinger, working with Zachus to drive her toward the largest of the willows.

She starts to worry; for this Man is far quicker, far more hardy, than any she has encountered in her travels west from the mother-nest. Wait, wait for it; now, there it is, a sudden pause in that stinging line of his as he shifts position. She rears up and fires off more darts; five of them this time. Ah, she's pricked his neck, right below the jaw. And she's struck the cursed horse as well; the beast's scream of pain pleases but does not distract her. While the West-Man stops to pull at the dart, the spider charges full at him. Now she has him in her sights! He's moving again, but not fast enough! He is almost beneath the biggest willow tree; is he fool enough to think it will shelter him from her? She shrills a victory cry as she scores the West-Man's lower leg with one of her claws. His pain gives her precious moments before he can wield the rope again to sting her. She scrapes again, and again, cutting through the coverings on his legs. This time, when he falls, she is close enough to pounce on the Man's foot and seize the ankle in her claws. He struggles, but she pulls with all her might, bringing that ankle closer and closer to her beak and the venom behind it.

"Away!" Faramir cried out to Zachus, gritting his teeth through the pain caused by the spider-bristles' sting and the turned ankle in the spider's claws. The horse was hurt, and would only get in the way now. One more pace, and the spider would be put in the right place. Faramir scrabbled forward, and yanked his captured leg hard. There! The right place, but he was still caught. The creature is horribly strong for its size. He could not get purchase, could not right himself to attack the spider that held him. "Elbereth," Faramir called out, his breath catching in wearied lungs. " A Elbereth Gilthoniel..."

"Release him, spawn of darkness," Aragorn's voice cried, stern and commanding, from above them. The spider swivelled to look up at the source of that call.

Aiiii! What trick is this, the spider questions as she screams. A foul wetness has poured down upon her, burning her very eyes. She can still see, barely, but it hurts to look. She shuts three of her wounded eyes; and recoils, releasing her grip on the West-Man, as something big alights from one of the large tree's branches. The sun burns her eyes even further, nearly blinding her as it comes out from the clouds. She cannot see this new assailant; and wonders briefly if it is one of those monster Eagles she had glimpsed when she had flown from the mother-nest as a terrified youngling. She strains with her tiring eyes: It is a second Man; even more dangerous than the first! She can smell Elf-taint on him in greater measure; not just any Elves either, but the worst kind, the High-Elves. Best to flee now, back to her burrow, where she can tunnel down to fastnesses so dark and deep that they will never find her. Then she can sleep and heal her eyes. She will grow bigger and stronger, too strong for either of these Men or any other to hurt.

The spider turns, but the willow-leaves rustle; and a huge shape comes through. It is a great horse. He moves with fearsome speed, blocking the path back to her burrow; head lowered, whispering warnings of Elven death. The Man advances upon her. He brandishes what looks like a length of light, sharp and cruel. She turns to face him and raises her back high, ready to sting.

"In the name of, Elbereth, Arien and Eärendil; I proclaim that thou shalt die here,” Aragorn vowed in Quenya. Faramir, who had pulled himself up on shaky legs, noted approvingly the use of Quenya and the names of the bringers of light, a fitting pronouncement to doom a monster of so demonic and dark a lineage “I, Heir of Isildur son of Elendil, send thee back to the darkness that spawned thee, for the pain and death thou has dealt to my people." With that, Aragorn sprang forward, swift as an eagle upon its prey. Andúril flashed once, then twice, in his hand.

The spider's last scream faded to a hiss, ending with its final twitch. It lay still, its greenish-yellow blood sinking into the grass. Faramir leaned against the willow's thick trunk, weary but satisfied. Their plans and preparations had worked! He blessed the hours of training he had undertaken in the past to learn Rohirric rope-work. "Aragorn, are you well;” He asked his friend and king, who was wiping Andúril with a fold of his cloak.

"Very well," answered Aragorn with a smile; "now that this evil-spawned monster is dead."

“You have done it!” said Faramir, reaching to embrace Aragorn in a warrior’s arm clasp.

“We did it,” Aragorn amended; then embraced his friend. He stared down at Andúril and wiped a final speck from the blade. “There were times I wondered if I would ever draw this sword again,” he murmured as he sheathed the weapon. ”Yet Andúril feels like part of mine own arm. The sword has not forgotten me even though I almost forgot it.”

“Years of skill and practise do not vanish overnight,” Faramir replied, gladdened almost beyond words by the proof that Aragorn had lost none of his old prowess. He sank back against the tree trunk. His ankle throbbed and he could hardly stand. Something was amiss. Zachus; where was the faithful steed who had served him so well today? "I must find Zachus; his hide was pierced by the spider's bristles."

"As was your own,” replied the King. Aragorn came over to Faramir and gently took his chin in his hand, turning Faramir's head slowly back and forth.

"Not badly;" Faramir said; "but Zachus was spooked by those evil darts. I would find him ere he hurts himself."

"I think you were hurt worse; Faramir. Zachus has just gone down the bank a ways, to drink. I will fetch him back. Bide a moment, but do not touch your wounds; ion nîn,” commanded the King. He walked over to Roheryn, his gait somewhat stiff to Faramir's concerned eyes. Aragorn mounted the grey stallion with less than his usual ease, and they trotted off through the willows and wild grass.

Faramir glanced down at the creature; glad that the evil thing was dead rather than sleeping like its victims. Andúril had nearly cloven the spider's head from its body. He sighed; for the pain in his cheek and neck was rising, like ten or more wasp stings at once. And his ankle throbbed; though he could still put weight on it, so it was neither broken nor sprained. He was fortunate to have a King who was a healer as well as a warrior. And Aragorn's guess that a tincture of athelas mixed with water would hurt and distract the spider had proved true.

Looking at the spider's lifeless form, Faramir remembered again the horror in the voice and eyes of Master Samwise when the hobbit had told the tale of his battle with Shelob. It must have been so much worse for him than this day's brief skirmish! To think that the child-sized gardener had faced a monster that was four or five times the size of this spider, and hundreds, if not thousands of years older and more cunning. Both he and Aragorn had begun warrior's training in early childhood; but Samwise had not. Samwise had had only the strength of hand and heart, and a small sword he barely knew how to use. Faramir resolved to write a letter to his halfling friend when he returned home. Samwise would be glad to know that the telling of his great deed had helped rid this vale of one of Shelob's get.

Faramir felt every one of his aches and pains, and a sudden desire to sleep. He could not relax though, not so close to the foul thing, dead as it was. The birds chattered loudly; as if emboldened by the death of the unnatural creature.

Aragorn returned with both horses. He dismounted, tethered Zachus, then approached Faramir. The bay was sweat-streaked, but seemed otherwise unaffected, aside from the evil looking cut across his powerful shoulder.

“Your wounds need tending, ion nîn,” Aragorn said firmly. He assisted Faramir to sit on the grass.

“Zachus is hurt too,” the Steward protested.

“He has a thicker hide than any Man,” said the King. “And Legolas has told me that the hairs of the Mirkwood spiders, though painful, carry no poison. I removed the spider's hairs from Zachus' shoulder; and there is sufficient athelas here to treat you both." He extricated the spider bristles from Faramir's skin with a needle taken from his healing kit, then took up the bottle containing the athelas and water mixture and gently dabbed some on the Steward’s wounds. "Are you hurt anywhere else?” he enquired.

Faramir shook his head. ”Only my ankle.” He swallowed hard as the stench of the spider’s blood, likely the blood of Shelob and the demonic Ungoliant herself, fouled the air. He started to feel dizzied.

“I will treat your ankle back in the village,” said Aragorn. ”We need to leave this place.”

“Should we not take the spider back with us to show the villagers?” Faramir enquired.

“We have nothing to carry it in and the stinging hairs could cause further injuries even now the creature is dead. Better that we should ask Tasariel for some oil and I come straight back and burn the foul corpse,” Aragorn replied, applying some of the athelas mixture to the bay gelding’s shoulder. Zachus snorted, but otherwise patiently permitted his ministrations.

“But should the villagers not see the creature?” Faramir persisted. ”They need to recognise it lest any more of its kind lurk in these parts.”

“I will ask Borlach to summon them here, then,” Aragorn said firmly. ”’Tis but a few minutes walk. There, that should ease Zachus, I will help you mount.” He supported Faramir as the Steward hobbled toward the horse; and helped ease him into the saddle.

000

Tasariel stared in alarm as Aragorn and Faramir rode back to the centre of the village. “Are you hurt?” she enquired anxiously. ”What is that vile fluid? Your clothing is drenched with it!"

“We are well, Mistress,” Aragorn assured her. ”’Tis but the spider’s blood that spatters our garb.”

“The Valar be praised!” exclaimed the Healer. "Your 'son' is bleeding though, the poor lad is hurt!"

“His wounds are but slight His skin was pierced by the spider's stinging hairs. We have slain the creature; yet we must return to the riverbank with Master Borlach and the other village elders. The remains of the spider need burning as quickly as possible. But first, I would have your people see the entire corpse, so they know we spoke the truth, and to better watch out for any others that might lurk nearby.”

Tasariel espied a girl leaving one of the huts, carrying what looked to be her father’s lunch in a basket. ”Go and fetch Master Borlach from the fields,” she ordered. ”Tell him it is a matter of grave import for all the village.”

“It will take her a while to fetch him,” the woman said. ”His fields are past Beleg’s on the other side of the village. You both look like death! What you need is a good wash and a change of clothing and a nice cup of my tea. I have some salve for stings too.”

“That will have to wait, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Apart from the linens you are kindly washing for us, we have no other garments save what we are wearing.”

“That is easily remedied,” Tasariel said firmly. ”Now get down from those great beasts of yours. One of the lads will look after them. Your linens are ready for you and I have breeches and tunics you can borrow. Go to your hut and I’ll fetch you some water.”

Aragorn felt too weary to argue and realised the good sense in her words, maybe more even than the good woman knew. Prolonged exposure to the juices of any of Sauron’s creatures was known to be harmful and though the Dark Lord’s power had been broken, he preferred to be free of all traces of the vile creature. He was starting to feel somewhat nauseous too. He helped Faramir inside the hut. They both sat down heavily upon the straw.

To King and Steward’s surprise, Tasariel, together with another woman brought two bowls of hot water, soap, a pot of salve, their clean linens, towels and an assortment of clothes. “Call when you are ready and I’ll bring you some tea,” said Tasariel, placing a bowl on the table..

“And some of my good fresh scones,“ added the other woman. She put the second bowl on the floor beside Faramir. She looked vaguely familiar to Aragorn and he realised she had companioned Tasariel the night Faramir had ran naked through the cornfield. Obviously she was a near neighbour.

King and Steward began to remove their clothes as soon as the women had departed. They could hardly wait for the soap and hot water, rare luxuries of late.

Aragorn was unlacing his boots when he was startled to hear an exclamation pass Faramir's lips. But when he turned to see what had provoked his friend, he saw that Faramir, seated on the ground, was smiling.

"Look what was nearly fell into the bowl," Faramir announced. Aragorn bent down to see. There, on the Steward's outstretched palm, skittered a small and thoroughly common long-legged spider.