Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done.

Author’s Note: I am sincerely hoping that this story remains relatively simple! The princess was originally seen in my fic “A Monkey in Minas Tirith”. The look I am going for with the princess is that of Sybilla from the movie “Kingdom of Heaven”, with lots of color and exotic fabrics. The book Eldarion reads is a nod to Diana Wynne Jones’s “How’s Moving Castle”. I hope you all enjoy this story.

Chapter One: In Which a Princes Meets a Princess

The end of a war does not always bring peace. Major conflicts may subside, but petty squabbles rarely do so. And so it was that one fine spring day fifteen years after the fall of Sauron, a woman arrived in the White City, seeking the King.

She was not one of the Dunadain, nor one of the Rohirrim. She was one of the Haradric people, a princess whose family had been overthrown. When she was presented to the King and Queen, she bowed herself low, the folds of her bright gown rustling.

“I know you,” King Elessar said in surprise. “You came here as a small child, in the months following the fall of the Dark Lord.”

She smiled. “Yes, your highness. And now I have come to request leave to stay in your city, if I may, for my people have risen against my family, and I must needs leave for my own peace.”

Aragorn and Arwen welcomed her graciously, and granted her an empty house in the sixth circle, near the Great Library. It was not an especially large house, but it had many balconies and windows, and a large garden. Gardeners were hired to order this garden; painters and decorators came to clean and make the old villa livable again. The princess had brought many of her possessions with her, and soon the old house took on a new and exotic look. It was bright with fresh paint, and flowers grew in the windows and spilled over the garden walls. As for the princess, she was a rare and exotic treat. Seemingly tired of being a royal, she led a simple enough life, often walking the city alone or with her servant. Her neighbors kept a distance from her at first, but gradually curiosity overcame any hostility they felt towards the woman from Harad, and the princess became known by many.

As spring leaned towards summer, the young Prince Eldarion escaped his tutors and wandered the city. It was getting too hot to study, and his tutor, Master Tavor, was old and would be leaving him soon. Eldarion was free to wander the top levels of the city. He set out one morning with some bread and cheese from the kitchens, intent upon seeing the latest spectacle. News traveled fast in Minas Tirith, and Eldarion wanted to see what all of the gossip was about. He wanted to see the Haradric lady.

Eldarion strode down to the Sixth Circle, calling cheery hellos to those he passed, and receiving many hails in response. He walked until he reached the walls of the princess’s garden. After momentarily contemplating his options, he climbed up the high stone wall and peered over the edge.

The princess was standing in front of a bush of fragrant lavender, a basket over one arm and shears in one hand, facing away from Eldarion. She was wearing a long russet colored dress. She had hair quite like his mother’s, long and dark, although it was drawn up in an elaborate knot. Eldarion was also surprised to see that she was close to the men of Dol Amroth in coloring. He did not know what he had been expecting, but not that she would look like she came from the coast. If it had not been for the strange tattoos on her hands, he would have mistaken her for a member of Prince Imrahil’s court.

“I did not think it was polite in Gondor to stare,” the princess said.

Eldarion started. He had not thought she noticed him, for she had not turned around. Now she turned and smiled wryly at him.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Eldarion said quickly, blushing to the roots of his hair. “I did not mean any harm.”

“I take no offence, young sir,” said the princess, and beckoned to him. “Come down from there. I will not hurt you.”

Eldarion hesitated, then clambered over the wall. His father had taught him bravery and common sense, as well as courtesy, so he slipped down and landed feet first in the soft grass. The princess came towards him, still smiling a little. Closer, he could see that the collar of her gown was beaded and bejeweled with turquoise stones, and that the front of the gown was gathered together and clasped with an intricate brooch. She wore necklace of tiny dark beads. The whole ensemble gave off an air of understated richness, and Eldarion blushed again and bowed to her, inwardly writhing with shame that he had climbed her wall like a cretin.

“Now, who are you, boy?” she asked him, not unkindly.

Eldarion looked up into her eyes, both awed and shy. “I am Eldarion, son of Aragorn Elessar,” he replied.

The princess bowed to him, hands clasped in front of her. “And I am Seraphine, daughter of Azrafal, of the land of Far Harad. And now that we have dispensed with the formalities, may I inquire as to what you were doing up on my wall, Prince Eldarion?”

Eldarion fidgeted, fingering the edge of his tunic. “I was curious, my lady. I have seen men from Harad before, but never a lady.”

Seraphine laughed. “Next time come to the door, child. I do not bite.”

A loud chorus began on the porch then, and Seraphine turned and walked towards it, gesturing for Eldarion to follow. He did, and soon saw that the cacophony came from many cages of brightly colored birds, all singing as loudly as they could. He grinned. Seraphine set the basket of lavender on a table and continued on into the house. Eldarion followed, looking around in wonder.

This house was built in the Gondorian style, but the princess had made it her own. Exotically woven rugs covered the stone floors, and there were many low couches and wide cushioned stools to sit on. There were brass braziers for heat, though they were unlit now. Drapes of blues and greens hung from the windows, adding an atmosphere of coolness. Fancy vases full of flowers and feathers graced table and the floor, and there were many bookshelves. There were books everywhere.

“Are you a scholar, Lady Seraphine?” Eldarion asked, looking around the room in apprehensive wonder.

“Of a sort,” the princess replied. She was pouring water into two goblets. “I am interested in everything.”

Eldarion stopped in front of one of the cabinets and looked at the books inside. There were treatises on plants of the south, a history of Gondor, and several books of Elvish lore. There were also many books in a language that Eldarion had never seen before. The princess came over to him as he perused her volumes and handed him a goblet.

“Not many in my land are able to learn as they do here, but my grandfather indulged my love of study and gifted me with many books. I have continued collecting them since I came here.”

Eldarion sipped his water thoughtfully. “I like learning when it is interesting. My tutor doesn’t believe that learning should be fun.”

“Tutors often do not,” Seraphine said with a laugh. He liked her laugh; it was rich and fit her accent. She waved a hand at her books. “Take one. Read it. There are many for children your age that I am sure you will enjoy. And when you are finished, come back here and we will discuss it.”

Eldarion decided that he quite liked the princess.

When the King Elessar looked in on his son that night, he found the boy lying fast asleep in his bed, holding a slender tome loosely in one hand. Aragorn picked it up and studied it. The book detailed the adventures of a cursed young woman who set out to seek her fortune and ended up living with a wizard and his apprentice in a floating castle. Aragorn grinned and set the book on the bedside table, then tucked Eldarion up and blew out the candle.

“I think that perhaps the Lady Seraphine will be a good influence on our son,” he remarked to Arwen later.

Arwen smiled. “Then we should encourage his visits.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Chapter Two: In Which Eldarion Makes Ink

When he was finished with the book he had borrowed, Eldarion did not immediately go back to the princess. He was not certain exactly what to discuss with her. He had been absolutely delighted with the tale, but it was a story, not a history, like the Elvish lays his tutors drilled into his head. His tutors had never read him fiction, deeming it unimportant for a prince. He loved those poems, but they were not the same as pure imagined story. They had actually happened. And so Eldarion was quite beside himself as to how he was going to talk to Lady Seraphine without sounding like a fool. In desperation, he sought out the person most likely to know how to solve the predicament.

“Mother?”

Arwen was sitting at her desk, writing a letter while Eldarion’s younger sisters played on the floor. Eldarion guessed, from the length of it, that the letter was probably to Lady Eowyn in Emyn Arnen, his mother’s closest mortal friend. Arwen looked up at him with a smile.

“What is it, sweetling?”

Eldarion handed her the book about the moving castle and posed his question. Arwen studied the tome curiously for a moment before answering.

“I would start by telling her your favorite part,” she said at last. “And then go from there. You need to read more literature, Eldarion.”

Eldarion blushed. “Master Tavor didn’t like fiction. He said it was for people who are uneducated.”

Arwen frowned. “Your father and I both read fictional tales, Elda. Perhaps it is good that the venerable tutor is leaving us.”

“Would you like to read this one?” Eldarion asked on impulse. “It’s awfully fun. I think that Elboron and Elfwine would like it, too.”

Arwen reached out and hugged her young son. “I would love to read it. Write to your friends. Perhaps we can send them copies.”

Eldarion grinned, delighted. This idea was a fine one, and he immediately borrowed pen and paper from Arwen and wrote to his “cousins” in Rohan and Ithilien. The three boys were in close contact, although they did not see each other often. He planned to run down to the princess’s home after the letters were sent, but he soon became involved in a game with his sisters, which involved flinging their toys across the room on a makeshift catapult. Their mother watched for a while before joining them. The queen was not one to have her children kept from her, nor to shun a bit of mischief.

The next day, however, Eldarion set off to the princess’s villa with several jars of Emyn Arnen honey and a few beeswax candles, and an explanation as to why he had not yet brought her book back. A housekeeper let Eldarion into the house and showed him to a room he had not been into before. It was obviously a workroom of sorts, for there was a high oaken table and a simple fireplace inside. Lady Seraphine was there, mixing something in several stone bowls. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Hello, Eldarion,” she said. “Fare thee well?”

“Yes,” Eldarion replied. “Mother sent you some honey and candles from Emyn Arnen. Auntie Eowyn makes them; she keeps bees. The honey is the best in Gondor. Father says it’s because she’s from Rohan.”

The princess laughed and took the basket. “Thank you! Thank your mother. This is a gift indeed.” She sniffed at the candles, nodded, and set the basket on the table, then surveyed him majestically for a few moments. “I am twenty-five.”

“I am eleven,” Eldarion replied, grinning. It was a neat loophole around formality.

“I was almost eleven when I first came here with my grandfather. I believe I gave your father and the halflings a monkey.”

Eldarion hooted, delighted. “Elrohir! They named him after one of my uncles.”

Seraphine laughed aloud. “I imagine he appreciated that.”

She went back to her mixtures, and waved Eldarion over to look. Up close, he could see that each of the bowls contained paints. He asked if she painted.

“No. I am making these for the Librarian at the Great Library. His supplier recently went the way of all men, and he has no one to make the inks he uses to illuminate his manuscripts. I know how to make ink, and so offered to make his colors,” Seraphine said.

“Oh.”

Eldarion watched with interest as Seraphine crushed berries to add juice to her mixtures. There were all sorts of things on the table; bowls of foul smelling liquid added a pungent aroma to the air. Eldarion realized that the only reason he didn’t have a headache was because the windows were open. As the princess reached for each item, she explained to him what she was doing.

“You must crush the berries to get the juices out. Berries are good for bright colors, which is what I am making now.. Add salt and vinegar to the juices, as they keep the color fresh and prevent the mold from getting to it. This is a pomegranate from the fruit stall at the market; its juices are a sort of deep red. I have elderberries, blackberries and walnuts, as well. Each makes different ink. I daresay you known all of these items?”

“I didn’t know how to make inks from them,” Eldarion replied carefully. He did not want to seem a fool. “All of our ink is made for us, at home.”

The princess nodded. “I can teach you how to make your own, if you like. There is an old tunic hanging on the back of the door. Go and put it over your clothes.”

Eldarion did as he was told, pulling the long tunic on over his fine one. He noticed, as if for the first time, that the princess was wearing a long smock over her own dress, and had her hair tied back in a colorful scarf. It made sense to protect their clothing; both her smock and the table were liberally spattered in juices. Seraphine handed him a bowl and a strainer, and set him to grinding berries into juices. It was, Eldarion thought as he helped produce a deep red ink, the funnest lesson he had ever had with anyone apart from his parents. When he left Seraphine’s house later that afternoon, fingers stained purple and a huge grin on his face, he carried a small glass bottle, which he delightedly presented to his father that night.

“Where did you get this?” Aragorn asked, holding the bottle up to the light and admiring the red-purple color.

“I made it! Lady Seraphine taught me how. She was making some from the Librarian, but she let me make some for you, too. She said it’s ink like the Haradrim make, and that it will last much longer than normal ink.” Eldarion clasped his hands behind his back and bounced a little, altogether pleased. “Do you like it?”

Aragorn smiled as he set the bottle down. “Very much. Thank you, Elda.”

That night, after Eldarion and his sisters had gone to bed, Aragorn and Arwen sat together in their parlor. Aragorn took the bottle of ink and spread a sheet of paper on the table. He took a quill, dipped it into the ink, and wrote, “Aragorn Arathornson, trying ink made by his son, Eldarion.” The ink flowed smoothly, writing his words clearly on the paper. Good ink, not thin or stripy. He wasn’t surprised. Haradric ink was generally well made and expensive.

“Eldarion seems to be learning more enthusiastically these days,” Aragorn remarked. “Do you think it is the Haradric princess’s doing?”

“Yes. He was telling the girls all about her this afternoon, and promising to show them how to make ink. I had to disallow that until they are of an age to not throw it at each other. But it seems that Eldarion’s interest is peaked.”

Aragorn cleaned his pen and put it away, obviously thinking deeply. Arwen watched him, nimble fingers embroidering tiny golden flowers into the hem of her oldest daughter’s new blue gown.

“His current tutor retires to Lebennin next week,” Aragorn said at last. “Eldarion is in need of a tutor who will broaden his horizons and interest him. Perhaps Lady Seraphine will be willing to take on his education.”

“I think she is a wise choice, as well,” Arwen agreed, smiling. “I will invite her to tea tomorrow, to discuss the proposition.”

Accordingly, the next morning a handwritten note from Queen Arwen reached Lady Seraphine. The princess read the invitation to tea and sent back a positive response. When the page had gone, she went to dress. An audience with the Queen, no matter how informal, was not to be taken lightly.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done.

Author’s Note: Positive feedback is loved and appreciated.

Chapter Three: In Which Eldarion Gains a Tutor

It was a very hot day for this time of the spring when Seraphine set out for the palace. She had wound her hair up into a workable knot and was wearing a simple cotton chemise under her light silk gown, but was still thankful to reach the cool inner sanctums of the royal family.

A valet showed her into a small parlor and left her. Seraphine stood looking at the paintings on the walls, waiting for the Queen to come. They were fine paintings, scenes from Elvish lore. The colors were muted but rich, the characters blending into the woodlands of the background. The Elf lady was dancing, or fleeing, or both. Luthien, then. Seraphine smiled. Excellent craftsmanship.

“Do you enjoy the paintings, my lady?”

The princess turned and bowed low as Queen Arwen entered the room. The queen shook her head and gestured for her to rise.

“Please, princess, I hope to be on even footing with you,” she said lightly. “Do sit down.”

Seraphine sat down in a comfortable chair, across a small table from Arwen. A maidservant set a tea tray on the table and took herself away. Arwen poured two cups of tea, passed one to Seraphine, and sat back. The two women frankly studied each other.

Arwen saw a tall young woman with dark hair and eyes, and an olive complexion. She was dressed in fine but not flamboyant silk gown, lavender with flowing sleeves and a sash the color of marigolds. There was a color of gold and gems on her throat. The Haradric woman was beautiful, exotic, and refined, with a grace unpossessed by many of the noble women in Gondor. And there was intelligence in her eyes.

Seraphine, for her part, saw an ageless and wise woman with humor and kindness plainly written across her face. She obviously knew much of what occurred in her kingdom, and cared deeply about her family and her people. A woman with such traits was widely revered in Harad, and often asked for council. The princess had heard that the queen ruled alongside her husband. She was not surprised.

“Lady Seraphine, I asked you here today to discuss my son, Eldarion,” Arwen said at last. “His tutor has recently retired, leaving him to his own devices. Eldarion told me he has sought you out, and is delighted with what you have taught him.”

“He is a precocious child, my Queen,” Seraphine replied. “And eager to please. His imagination is great.”

Arwen nodded. “Precisely. His tutors thus far have ignored it.”

Seraphine frowned. “Discouraging imagination is hardly a way to teach a child. Forgive me, my queen, but I believe that a future ruler needs both imagination and logic to rule a land properly.”

“And on that very idea, I would like to offer you the position of royal tutor, Lady Seraphine. What do you think of it?”

Seraphine sat back in her seat, contemplating it. A position would mean an income, and her family’s money would not last forever. Teaching was honorable; she had enjoyed teaching before. But the novelty of learning with her now was that Eldarion was not obligated to come. Seraphine doubted that the same appeal would hold if Eldarion was told that she would be overseeing his education. When she said as much, Arwen nodded again.

“The summer is approaching, Lady Seraphine,” she said. “Perhaps we may try an experiment. Eldarion can continue to seek you out for entertainment, as I am sure he will, and you teach him without his knowing, as you have been doing thus far. Perhaps then he will agree to you as an official tutor in the autumn. Some of the best learning is achieved when you do not realize you are being educated, after all.”

Seraphine laughed and had to agree. “In that case, I will take the position, with much thanks.”

When Seraphine returned to her house later that afternoon, she went to her desk and began to make notes. A summer holiday presented much that to be learned while still being amusing. She and the queen had discussed many aspects of lessons and ideas while at tea, with the queen presenting what she and the King desired their son to gain from his education. It appeared that they were open to nearly everything. Elessar had walked the world before he became King. Their son had a lot of experience to live up to.

Seraphine had quite enjoyed the tea meeting. Instead of being the aloof and untouchable monarchs to whom she was used, Elessar and Arwen were kind and loving. The princess herself had rarely seen her parents; the closeness of family was something that she appreciated. She had know it once, for a short time. A kind of ache filled her, and she pushed it away swiftly and concentrated on making her notes. The past was past; there was no use in dwelling on it. Seraphine dipped her pen into a pot of ink and began to write.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done.

Author’s Note: I feel that if Tolkien took things from our world and used them in his, than it’s all right to do the same here. But then, his world is a pre-history of ours, isn’t it? I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Chapter Four: In Which the Royal Children Learn Henna

“Elda, where are we going?”

Eldarion stopped mid-stride and spun to glower at his sister. Miriel was a bright girl, normally, but she had an audacious knack for stubbornness. She was currently standing on the roadside, arms folded, glaring at him.

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” Eldarion told her. “But you will really like it!”

Miriel drew herself up to her full and inconsiderable height, tossed her dark head, and continued to glower at him. She had a good glower; it was just like their father’s, only female. “I don’t like surprises! Tell me!”

Eldarion sighed woefully. “I can’t. I guess I will just have to go on by myself. It’s a shame, really. But you know the way back home, Miriel, so I’ll see you later.”

He turned and strode off down the street. Moments later he heard Miriel running to catch up, and grinned. Sometimes being tricksy was the only way to be with his sisters.

Eldarion led the way to Lady Seraphine’s door, and bowed to the housekeeper when she opened it. They were shown to the back garden, where they found the princess lounging on cushions beside a low table. Perhaps lounging was not the correct word, as she was painting her hand.

“Good morrow, Eldarion,” she called, glancing over at him.

“Good morning, Lady Seraphine,” the little prince replied. “I brought my sister, Miriel, to meet you.”

Miriel curtseyed politely, and Seraphine brought her hands together and bowed.

“A pleasure to meet you, princess,” she said.

Miriel blushed and nodded. She was not normally shy, but being in the presence of this exotic woman, in her orange dress and jewels, seemed to have robbed her of her tongue. Eldarion patted her on the shoulder; she followed him closely as he went to the low table.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously.

Seraphine was dotting an intricate pattern in dark paste on her fingers and nails, using a small paper cone. The paste covered her other tattoos, which appeared to have faded.

“Fixing my tattoos,” the princess replied. “It must be done every so often you see, as the skin on the hands sheds. Normally a servant would do it, but I have no servants who excel at henna, and so I must make do.”

Eldarion and Miriel sat down on the plump cushions she waved them to, examining the various items on the table. Miriel seemed more interested in the tabletop, which had been decorated with inlaid stones in a neat pattern.

“You must add essential oils to the powder, to bring it to the right consistency,” Seraphine explained, indicating several small glass bottles. “It also helps with the color, which should be dark, not orange. You must make the paste the night before, using just the henna powder and a bit of lemon juice. Keep it in a cool place, and add the oils to it in the morning. Some sugar helps the paste to stick to the skin better. The paste should be smooth, like a light pudding. It must mature for a day before it will be good enough to work with. When it is ready, you spoon it carefully into the applicator-usually a paper cone like this one-and you are ready to paint.”

Seraphine waved the paper cone under their noses, and smiled when Miriel breathed in the fragrant scent deeply. She held up her hand for them to inspect. The design on the back of her hand was a peacock, and there were vines on each of her fingers. The children gaped in amazement.

“I thought those were real tattoos on your hands, like sailors have,” Eldarion said in amazement.

Seraphine shook her head, setting her hand down on the table and blowing on it gently. With her other hand, she tidied.

“In Harad, we use it for nearly everything: festivals, rituals, celebrations.” She smiled reminiscently. “At weddings the bride’s hands and feet are covered in intricate designs, even more so than what I have now. After they fade, she wears certain designs that denote her married status.”

“What is it like in Harad?” Miriel asked eagerly. She had found her tongue again.

Seraphine leaned back and contemplated for a time. At last, she spoke.

“It is very hot there, even hotter than here. Cities rise up from the desert, usually by the oases where the precious water is found. There is not much natural color, just the dull gold of the sand and the bright blue of the sky, which is just the color of your dress, princess Miriel.” Seraphine fell silent for a moment, gazing off into the distance. “And so we wear color. Pinks and blues and reds and greens. The colors of life. Even the poorest individual has some garment in a bright color. On special days, everyone dons their finery, so that the cities resemble flower filled gardens.”

“What sort of special days?” Eldarion asked eagerly.

“Oh, festivals and wedding days,” Seraphine said. She carefully blotted her hand with a damp cloth that smelled like olive oil. “Much like how it is here, only different. On weddings, we take a mumak and paint it with bright colors, and decorate it with gold harnesses and bells, and with richly embroidered fabrics. The females are the ones used, as they are smaller than the males. The newlyweds ride it in celebration.”

Eldarion and Miriel exchanged a delighted look. They had heard of mumakil before, or course, but only in the context of fear and war. They were a legend of terror in the City. Never before had they heard that you could ride on one for pleasure.

“I want to go to Harad,” Eldarion announced, and Miriel nodded vigorously. “Our parents went there once, long ago, but I have never been.”

A shadow passed over Seraphine’s face. “It is in turmoil now, Eldarion. Perhaps in a few years. For now, I would not venture there.”

They were all silent for a time, after that. Seraphine stirred the henna mixture in its porcelain bowl and spooned some into the paper cone. She turned to Miriel, smiling, happy again.

“Come, princess Miriel, let me henna your feet. That way you can still wear your fine dresses, but have lovely feet as well.”

Miriel’s odd shyness returned and she blushed. “I would have to take my shoes and stockings off.”

“’Tis all right. I am wearing sandals, myself,” Seraphine said, stretching her bare feet out for them to see. They giggled.

“Miri, we’re half-Elves! We are allowed to go barefoot! Mother goes barefoot all of the time,” Eldarion said, nudging her. “Go on, it’s all right.”

Miriel grinned and tore her shoes and stockings off. She needed no more urging.

When lunchtime came, the royal children were both barefoot and hennaed, and were playing chess at the gaming table Seraphine had brought out. The housekeeper was clearing the low table of the fragrant henna materials and laying out a sumptuous lunch. When called, they abandoned their game and came to sit on the cushions again.

Eldarion looked over the dishes on the table. There was a large bowl of rice, a bowl full of a thick, yellow sauce, and a plate of flat bread. Two goblets held water; Seraphine’s contained a deep red wine.

“You have had curry before?” Seraphine asked, arranging her orange skirts as she sat down.

Eldarion nodded. “Yes, at big dinners. It was very spicy.”

“I like it,” said Miriel.

“Then eat!” laughed Seraphine. “It is not particularly fancy; just a regular dish that families eat often. But it is filling.”

The children sat and ate. This was good food, certainly spicy, but hot and filling. The curry was filled with chicken and onions, and was poured over the rice. Eldarion chewed his bread thoughtfully when he had finished it, while Miriel stretched out on the cushions and fell asleep with her head on his knee.

“Lady Seraphine? Do you miss Harad?” he asked.

Seraphine sipped her wine, contemplating. “No, not really. It is a good place, but not at all like Gondor. Most women of the higher classes, for instance, rarely leave their homes. Your lady mother helps your father rule the kingdom; it is not so in my country. But I do miss the music.”

Eldarion frowned. There was good music in Gondor! There were often concerts in the palace or at the homes of nobles, concerts of sweet music, and often the Elves performed their lays. The people of the city often formed bands and played loud, raucous, fun music that you could dance to. Last autumn, he and his father had dressed in simple old clothes and gone down to a pub in the lower circles, where such music was played. They had eaten simple fare and sang along, even danced a bit, and Eldarion hoped that they would go again soon. Did Seraphine not know about the music of the city?

“Someday I will show you my instruments,” the princess continued. “But for now, I think that it is perhaps time for you to take your sister home. It approaches the rest hours of the afternoon.”

When Eldarion and Miriel returned to the palace a short time later, barefoot and with Miriel’s skirts kilted up to keep them from swiping the henna on her feet, the servants looked at them in askance, but did not speak. Miriel went off to finish her nap, and Eldarion left his shoes in the family parlor and went to find his father. He banged on the study door and entered when Aragorn called out.

“Hello, Ada,” he said. “Look!”

Eldarion stuck his feet out for inspection. Aragorn grinned, leaning his arms on his desk.

“I take it Lady Seraphine has showed you another aspect of her culture,” he said.

“Yes, and she fed us. She said that when you get married in Harad, you get to ride on an oliphaunt! Can you believe it? They’re not all vicious, like the ones in the war.”

Aragorn nodded. “Aye, riding an oliphaunt is in fact quite an adventure. Lots of fun.”

“You rode on an oliphaunt?” Eldarion gaped at his father. “I want to! And I would like to write to Mr. Gamgee and tell him all about what Lady Seraphine told Miriel and me. May I?”

Aragorn nodded. “Of course! I am sure that Sam would love to hear all about it.”

He handed Eldarion a sheet of paper and some ink, and Eldarion set to writing the letter. He made sure to detail all of what the princess had told him, and drew the tattoo designs in the corners of the paper. Last of all, he added the recipe for the curry, which the housekeeper had been more than willing to give to him. Eldarion was merely returning a favor, for the Gamgees always included recipes for things in their letters. Aragorn said it was because they were hobbits, and that a letter from a hobbit that did not mention food was certainly not finished or normal.

“Ada?” Eldarion asked as he folded the letter up and sealed it with wax. “Have you selected a new tutor for me yet?”

Aragorn looked up from his papers. “We thought we would give you the summer away from your books, Elda. It will give you the chance to get some sunshine and to learn more about what life is like outside of the library.”

Eldarion grinned, delighted. “Good! I want to keep going to Lady Seraphine’s house. She is fun!”

He left to seek his mother out then, and did not see Aragorn laughing silently into his papers.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Five points to the person who guesses which artist I am referencing.

Chapter Five: In Which the Prince Learns about Painting

One warm day a week after the henna episode, Eldarion walked down to Seraphine’s house with a basket of fresh strawberry tarts from the kitchens slung over his arm.

He had managed to wheedle the tarts out of the head pastry cook, pointing out that they ought to share their culture with the Haradric princess, as she was sharing hers with Eldarion. When that had not quite worked, Eldarion had resorted to the tricks that Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took had taught him on their last visit: big eyes, pouty lips, and woeful sighs. The cook had put a basket together and all but flung him out of the kitchen. But it had worked.

Seraphine answered the door herself when he pulled the bell. She was dressed more formally than before, he noticed, in a red and gold dress with an embroidered belt, ornate jewelry adorning her neck and ears. Eldarion wondered if she was going out.

“Ah, Eldarion, excellent,” the princess said, smiling at him.

“I brought you tarts from our kitchens,” Eldarion replied, holding the basket out. “I didn’t know you were going out.”

Seraphine stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “I was expecting you. Come along, bring the tarts, and thank your cook for me.”

She started off down the street, and Eldarion hurried to follow her.

“Where are we going?” he asked, walking alongside the princess.

“I thought to look into some of the shops today,” Seraphine replied. “Not the dress shops,” she added quickly, seeing the look on his face. “Art shops. I believe the word for them in your language is ‘gallery’.”

“Oh,” Eldarion said. “Like paintings?”

“Yes, exactly so. You can learn much about a society by what its artists produce.”

Eldarion thought about this. His mother’s people had a focus on the past, always looking back to the Elder days. The Rohirrim wove tapestries of their history, and decorated their cities in their traditional styles. The Gondorians were the sort to hearken back to yesteryear, but since his father had become King and defeated Sauron, they looked towards the future. The result, his parents had once explained to him, was that they were looking forward and creating new forms to reflect that view. Eldarion related this to Lady Seraphine, who smiled and nodded.

“Yes, Gondor has been rather shaken up, culturally,” she said. “Some view this as beneficial, others as a lamentable tragedy.”

Eldarion laughed. He had heard courtiers muttering about their culture becoming less Numenorean, although his parents did not seem to think so, and overturned old traditions without difficulty. He knew that at his own birth, his parents had refused to allow the court in to watch, and had declared the old tradition of sequestering the King’s Heir alone, away from his mother, until the court approved him, to be inhuman and illegal. He rather appreciated that.

“How do you know so much about Gondor?” he asked.

“I read,” replied Seraphine. “And I watch, and listen. Also, when I was coming here, I spoke often with the Dol Amroth sailors. Once they got over the initial mistrust of me, they spoke quite freely.”

Eldarion dodged around a lamppost. “About art?”

“There were other people on the ship as well.”

“I did not know that you can sail from Harad to Dol Amroth,” Eldarion said, puzzled.

Seraphine reached out to grasp his sleeve as they hurried across a street. “You cannot. You must be a part of the long desert caravan to Umbar, where there are ships from Dol Amroth to bring paying passengers up the Great River to the White City. There are wagons at the docks to bring a passenger and her baggage to the White City, as well.”

“I knew about the wagons,” Eldarion muttered, embarrassed, and Seraphine smiled.

“Perhaps I will find a map and show you my journey. Here we are.”

They had arrived at the gallery, a small shop with flower boxes under its windows. The princess ushered him through the door. The warmth of the outside faded to pleasant coolness in the brightly lit room. A woman in a blue dress bustled over to them.

“Good morning, my lady and my little lord,” she greeted them. Eldarion scowled, resenting being referred to as little, but Seraphine merely smiled. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”

Seraphine bowed to the woman, hands together as usual. “We would like to tour your gallery, madam. I was told you are open most mornings.”

The woman smiled. “Ah, yes, of course. We have a new exhibit, by a promising young man from the Lebennin region. His name is Caradogan.”

“Wonderful,” Seraphine said, bowing again.

For a sum, the woman allowed them to wander the brightly lit rooms. The paintings by the young artist-who was, according to the proprietress, a loud and brash man-were a stunning mixture of light and dark. Eldarion found himself captivated by the images. Characters from legend and song, his mother’s people, paraded across the canvas, but he had never seen them painted like this before, depicted in moments of passion. Luthien danced, illuminated by the moon while everything else was in darkness, Beren a mere hint in the bushes. Maglor stood on a barren coastline, light from the dying sun hitting his face and nothing else. There were the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, were Beren and his elvish companions waited for their deaths. Eldarion stared. He had seen all of these tales illustrated before but never with such force. The contrast of light and dark was almost supernatural.

“This Caradogan is a fine artist, is he not?” Seraphine said. Her voice echoed off of the paneled walls. “What do you think of him?”

Eldarion frowned, contemplating the Luthien painting. Truth be told, he didn’t know quite what to make of this artist. “I…don’t know,” he said slowly, struggling to find the right words. “It seems like, well, like magic. Elves don’t really have magic, you know, it just seems that way to mortals, but this painter, he…he makes it all spooky. With the way the light is.”

“Supernatural,” Seraphine suggested. “The light and shadow play on the figures in such a way that it makes them seem life-sized. Glorious characters made simple and touchable, set in wild or dingy settings. The light pierces the darkness and makes us focus only on what is important.”

“Yes, that’s it, exactly,” said Eldarion, relieved. “How does he do it?”

Seraphine folded her arms across her chest and contemplated the Luthien painting.

“I have no idea,” she said at last. “Perhaps we can ask the proprietress to recommend some books for study.”

Eldarion nodded and bounded towards the front of the gallery. “As long as they’re interesting,” he called over his shoulder.

Seraphine smiled. “Of course,” she murmured.

*****

Later they ate lunch in a small teahouse near the gallery. Eldarion set out the strawberry tarts while Seraphine ordered lemonade and a plate of small sandwiches.

“I’ve never been down here,” Eldarion said, looking around at all of the people. They were in the fifth circle, where many merchants lived and worked.

Seraphine sniffed one of the tarts and took a dainty bite. “New experiences are always opportune times to learn. I rarely left the palace in Harad, and so this freedom of movement is a treat, for me.”

Eldarion nodded, took a small sandwich and ate it slowly, thinking. He wondered if he could ever draw something as powerful as the Lebennin artist. He knew that he could draw; he had a fine hand for detail.

“Do you think I could learn to paint like that?” he asked the princess.

“I think you could try,” she replied. “Draw something, then come to my house and show me whenever you finish.”

That night, Eldarion sat on the floor in the family parlor, surrounded by supplies from his art box: paper, drawing pencils, watercolors and brushes, and pastel crayons. He had thought long and hard about what to draw, and had finally settled on the tale of Earendil. He knew the story well-it was one of his favorites-and had decided that Elwing approaching the ship as a gull would be the best thing he could do. And so Eldarion concentrated, hard, on making the correct lines and shading.

“Tell me about this artist,” his mother said, from where she was rocking his littlest sister.

Eldarion needed no further encouragement and proceeded to spill out the day’s adventures to his parents. Arwen got a funny look on her face when he mentioned the subject matter.

“Did you like the paintings, Elda?” she asked.

“Most of them,” replied Eldarion. “I would like to see them again, though.”

He fell silent, concentrating on his drawing, making the water and sky very dark, while illuminating Elwing and the Silmaril, as well as Earendil standing on the deck of his ship, waiting for his wife. He was not quite satisfied when he was finished, but on the whole, Eldarion thought he was on the right track.

“Very good,” Arwen said, when he showed her.

Eldarion turned it back to face him and studied it critically. “It needs work. But I’ll take care of that later, I think. Ada, I have a question.”

“Yes?” Aragorn asked, noting his son’s speculative eyes.

“Where do you think I can find musicians?”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done.

Author’s Note: I’m terribly sorry for the long pause. It seemed that as soon as I posted the last chapter, finals were upon me, and then I had to find a place to stay for the summer, then move, then find a job, then go home for my birthday, then train for work…But finally I have a chance to update. Ironically, I’ve had this written for a while, but not typed up. Enjoy!

Chapter Six: In Which There Are Musicians

As Eldarion had thought, his father knew exactly where to find the musicians that he had hoped for. What was even better, Aragorn had been looking for an excuse to go incognito among the people for ages now, and so as Arwen turned a blind eye, the legendary King and his young son donned simple clothes and slipped off into the night.

The Haradric exiles lived in the Third Circle, in a district that had been granted to them by the Stewards years earlier. Since the end of the War, its numbers had doubled, and the district was a rambling but well-kept area. They were highly skilled people, keeping up a steady trade of fine swords, inlaid furniture, and jewelry. Their neighborhoods were kept in good repair, and the air smelled heavily of wood smoke and spices that reminded Eldarion of Seraphine’s house as they walked along the smooth road. This district was a bit different from how Seraphine had described Harad, but then, this was a different place.

Eldarion and Aragorn walked through the Haradric neighborhood, the hoods of their light spring cloaks pulled up despite the warmth of the night. Eldarion followed his father to a small café that spilled light and music out into the street. Inside, many denizens of Harad sat on embroidered cushions around low tables of dark wood, laughing and talking as a small band played on a small platform. Eldarion followed his father to an empty table that the proprietor pointed them to. Aragorn doffed his cloak, and though a flicker of surprise passed through the man’s eyes, he did not say anything. They sipped water flavored with cucumbers, watching the musicians.

“Is this traditional Haradric music, Father?” Eldarion asked quietly.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes. This is the sort of music that they would play in times of celebration.”

Eldarion nodded, listening intently. This music was bright, full of trumpets and drums. It made him want to jump up and dance. When the band, which consisted of five men who looked to be related, finished playing, Eldarion stood up and walked over to them. Aragorn watched as his son bowed to the musicians, hands clasped in front of him in a direct imitation of Lady Seraphine. They bowed back, and listened closely while Eldarion spoke. His earnestness was obvious in his very posture. At length, an agreement was reached, money changed hands, and a delighted-looking Elda wound his way back to the table.

“You have a fine son, majesty,” the proprietor said to Aragorn.

The King smiled. “Thank you.”

*****

The next evening, Seraphine lay on the soft couch in her parlor, a book in her hand and a pot of fragrant tea on the table next to her. Eldarion had not been by that day, enabling her to visit the bookseller and acquire several new volumes of literature. She had spent a lazy day reading, which had been both relaxing and quite stimulating. It was pleasant to lounge back on the soft blue velvet cushions, unbothered by any noises save the wind in the trees and the songs of the birds outside. And the books had kept many of her darker thoughts at bay.

As she lay there, close to the end of her chapter, the late-evening sun drenching the room in a golden glow, loud music began to play outside of Seraphine’s window. Haradric music. Puzzled, the princess got up and went to the window, her long skirts trailing gently across the floorboards behind her. She opened the window and laughed in sheer pleasure at what met her gaze.

Outside, dressed in the bright clothes of their country, stood a Haradric band, playing one of the celebratory songs of their-and her-homeland. Nearby stood Eldarion and, surprisingly, the King Elessar. Eldarion was grinning from ear to ear.

Seraphine stood rooted at the window as the band played. They played a set, and then bowed to her, all of them smiling. Seraphine laughed as she clapped, utterly delighted and touched at the gesture.

“Thank you, all of you!” she cried. “It has been too long since I heard the music of my people.”

The bandleader, who was in fact the father of the clan, bowed low to her. “It is an honor, princess. When the young master here told us how you missed the music, we could not help but come and play for you.”

Seraphine looked over at Eldarion. The boy was leaning against his father, who had an arm around his shoulders. There was a hopeful look on his face.

“Thank you, Eldarion,” Seraphine said. She was more touched by this child’s thoughtfulness than she had ever imagined she could be. “Thank you, truly.”

“You’re welcome,” Eldarion replied, grinning.

“You ought to come to our people’s district, majesty,” the leader said respectfully. “You would be welcome among us. We were all sorry to hear of your loss.”

Seraphine bowed to him again, wishing that he had not mentioned the past. There was no sense in bringing it up. But she could tell that these people meant nothing but kindness and sincerity in their words, and that warmed her heart. She had not thought it possible, and she found that she could barely speak around the lump in her throat. She inquired his name.

“Azra, majesty.”

“Master Azra, I do believe I will come.”

*****

Later, after the musicians had played more for Seraphine inside her house, and after the housekeeper had stuffed them all full of good food, and after the King had carried his extremely full and sleepy son back up to the palace, Seraphine took herself to bed. She lay under the quilts for a long time, pushing her thoughts around, trying not to think about the one thing that kept surfacing. But Azra’s words kept echoing in her mind.

We were all sorry to hear of your loss.

‘Tears are cleansing to the soul,’ Seraphine thought, and let the tears flow down her face until, at last, she slept.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: All of the stories Seraphine tells are based off ones already known. Can you guess what they are?

Chapter Seven: In Which Stories Are Told

“Father? What did Azra mean when he told Lady Seraphine that everyone is sorry about her loss? What did she lose?”

Aragorn set his knife down and sighed. He had wondered how long it would take Eldarion to ask this question. The boy was watching him closely from across the breakfast table, green eyes clear, ignoring the sounds that his sisters made as they ate.

“Harad was embroiled in disputes for years after the fall of Sauron,” Aragorn said at last. “Lady Seraphine’s family were rulers, and they were deposed. I suppose that that is what Azra meant.”

Eldarion nodded slowly, thinking about it. Aragorn, recognizing the look on his face, hurried to cut his son off before his next thought got him into trouble.

“I would not talk to Lady Seraphine about it now, Elda. She is building a new life for herself. It is kindest not to bring up the past. All right?”

Eldarion nodded. When Aragorn wore that face, it was best to comply with his wishes.

When Eldarion next saw Seraphine, she swooped down on him and kissed his cheeks, which was quite a departure from her normal serene movements.

“You are a dear, kind boy,” she exclaimed, making Arwen smile and Eldarion blush. Seraphine saw the queen then, and quickly bowed. “Good morning, Queen Arwen.”

“Good morning, Lady Seraphine,” Arwen replied, smiling. “I have come with my son to extend an invitation. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has invited us down to visit him at his castle by the sea, and I thought that perhaps you would be interested in coming with us.

Seraphine bowed deeply. It was not an offer to refuse.

*****

A fortnight later, the royal party arrived in Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil raised the royal banners at the gates of his castle by the sea, the ebony pennants gleaming against the azure sky.

Eldarion, sitting comfortably astride his small horse, breathed in deeply, sucking the ocean air into his longs. His mother rode with his sisters in a simple carriage nearby, but the lady Seraphine rode next to him, gazing off into the sea.

If he was honest with himself, Eldarion had to wonder about the two of them. He knew for a fact that seeing the sea pained his mother, and yet she brought them all here every summer. At least, Eldarion thought, she was not like Prince Legolas. As much as he loved his elvish uncle, he had to wonder if all elves were as mad as he was around the sea. At least mama did not wander off, entranced, walking the seashore until some sailor took pity on the poor lost elf and brought him back to the palace. The last time that had happened, Father had dosed Legolas and had him forcibly taken back to Ithilien. And then he’d made Eldarion promise not to tell anyone.

“What are you smiling at?” Seraphine asked, glancing over at him.

“Oh, nothing. Father made me promise not to tell,” Eldarion said, and snickered. “But it’s nothing bad.”

“I should hope not,” murmured Seraphine, already looking distracted.

Eldarion looked at her curiously. The closer they had come to the sea, the quieter she had become, until the princess had looked a little like an elf, herself. She looked splendid in her green and gold riding costume, her embroidered boots, and the thin veil of gold silk she wore over her face to protect from the sun. She wore trousers like Lady Eowyn, but she did not seem to notice that the guards were casting her surreptitious looks. Eldarion noticed, and didn’t know quite what to make of it.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yes, I am fine. Really, I am just thinking,” the princess replied. She made no move to keep speaking, a contrast from before, and Eldarion eventually rode ahead to ask Miriel if she wanted to ride with him.

The next day, the two oldest royal children followed Lady Seraphine out of Imrahil’s palace, and down towards the town. The day was bright and warm, and they were all grateful for the light clothes they wore, and for the breeze that ruffled their hair. Dol Amroth was a fascinating place, and as they walked the cobbled streets along the quays, Seraphine told them stories from her homeland, about daring princes who had set out to explore the wide oceans, having many adventures along the way.

“One man, on his way home from a distant war, was captured by a goddess of the sea, a great lady who loved him and refused to let him leave her. It was only after he plead for days to be allowed to return to his family that she let him go,” Seraphine said. “And even then, he did not have an easy time returning, for he had to pass the dreaded isles of the syrena, the singing women, whose music could lure a man to his death.”

“How did they do that?” asked Eldarion, skeptical.

“Their island was surrounded by dangerous rocks. When the ships came too close, they were destroyed. Or if a man were foolish enough to jump overboard and swim to shore, the syrena would come to embrace him, and drag him down to drowned under the waves.”

Eldarion considered this. Swimming in the ocean was difficult, and Imrahil had warned him about submerged rocks when they had gone sailing the summer before. It made sense.

“That’s a terrible story,” he told Seraphine appreciatively. “I like it. Do you know any more?”

Miriel spoke up. She had reached out to take Seraphine’s hand, and was looking rather frightened. “I don’t want to hear anymore about people drowning. Let’s hear a nice story, please,” she said, and gave Seraphine a beseeching look.

Seraphine considered for a moment. “There is a tale in my land of a mermaid, a daughter of the sea, who fell in love with a mortal king and left her watery home to be with him. Have you heard of mermaids before?”

Miriel nodded; Eldarion shoved his hands in his pockets. Mermaids were for girls.

“They say that the sea queen and her mortal king were the strongest and most beautiful couple in their land, and that their children became great kings and queens. Some took to the seas, but there was one, a prince, who hated the sea, and had his eldest sister, who would have become queen, cast off her ship. She fell down into the water and became a mermaid, and was then on confined to the ocean. She would surface and ask sailors who ruled, and if the answer was satisfactory, she would not destroy the ship,” Seraphine said.

“That,” Miriel said, “Is still scary.”

“I liked it,” Eldarion said, and his sister scowled at him.

Seraphine laughed and launched into another tale, this one of a man who caught a seal woman on the beach and stole her coat, marrying her. Eldarion listened with one ear, watching the ships. One small sailing vessel was captained by an old man and his grandson, and they were watching Seraphine curiously.

“That’s the princess,” Eldarion heard the man say quietly to the boy. “Shame about her husband and child. No one deserves that.”

Eldarion glanced back at Seraphine, now walking ahead with Miriel. Making his mind up, he left them to their stories and hurried over to the fisherman.

“Excuse me, sir, but I heard you talking about Lady Seraphine,” he said.

The old fisherman looked at him with surprise; Eldarion flushed and bowed. “Pardon me, sir, I am Eldarion son of Aragorn. The princess is my friend.”

Grandfather and grandson traded a look. Then the old fisherman settled onto a barrel and busied himself lighting a pipe. “’Tis a sad story, lad, but if you swear not to repeat it, I will tell you. Settle yourself down, then. Ringan, bring the lad a barrel.”

The boy, Ringan, grinned at Eldarion as he slid a crate over. Eldarion grinned back, and then both boys turned their attention to the old man.

“Well,” he began, “It started a few years back, see, when Princess Seraphine was the daughter of the most powerful family in the land.”

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done.

Author’s Note: The song here is a Scottish folk song called ‘Flowers of the Forest’. Verses have been omitted and words changed to make it fit with this story.

Chapter Eight: In Which There Are Answers

As the old man told his story, Eldarion felt his heart begin to pound hard in his chest. It was a story that started happily, then swiftly turned bitter, then sad, then heartbreaking. He felt rather like crying as the fisherman proceeded.

“The ruling family of Harad was not directly involved in the War of the Ring, you know. They supplied weapons and supplies to the southern armies, but in essence preferred to keep out of the direct conflict.

“After the war, the king of that land, the princess’s grandfather, swore allegiance to the High King in Gondor, and all was peaceful for a time. The princess grew up a bit, and married a young man of her choosing, which is noticeable in that it shows how dear she was to her old granddad. The couple had a child, a boy, who grew into a fine child.

“Now, around the time that the child was six, troubles began for the ruling family, and the princess’s husband went up to fight in his lord’s army, against the rogues who wanted to overthrow him. But their company was caught in an ambush, far out in the desert. And while the prince was fighting, he disappeared. None of his company knew what had become of him, and their enemies never offered to parlay him for ransom. It was assumed he was dead.

“And while the princess was struck down in her grief, her little son fell ill. There is a fever in Harad, that when you get it, it is unlikely that you survive. And so she sat by and watched as her little lad passed, and when he was gone, there was nothing left for her. And so, as her family fell around her, sinking to the position of mere nobles, she sought exile in the northern lands. She wanted nothing more of her people, of her country. And now it is said that she has befriended the King’s family,” the fisherman said.

Eldarion did not quite register that the fisherman knew who he was, nor did he care. It had never occurred to him that Seraphine had come to Gondor because of tragedy. He had never thought that she might have had a family once. He had expected something to have sent her away from Harad-the loss of her kingdom, perhaps-but nothing like this. Slightly numb, he stood and thanked the man and his grandson, then ran back up to the palace. He did not stop until he reached the balcony where his mother sat, embroidering. Eldarion, who did not often cuddle anymore, climbed straight into her lap and stayed there, curled up, until it was time for tea.

*****

That evening, after swimming and sailing and having a fine but simple dinner of fish and vegetables, Eldarion summed up the courage to talk to the princess. He had wondered what he could possibly say to her all day, but he knew he could not stay quiet. And so, before bedtime, he walked down the corridor to her chambers and knocked on the door. When she called out, he opened it and slipped inside.

Lady Seraphine was sitting in a soft chair, reading. She had lowered the book and was watching him with a slight smile.

“Hello, Eldarion,” she said gently. “Have you come to tell me what upset you today?”

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that. “Er,” Eldarion said. “Yes. I think so. I mean, I heard a story today, about you, and it upset me, and I don’t know what to think.”

Seraphine raised an eyebrow, not archly, just curiously. She looked like she could guess what he was going to say. Hastily, he recounted the story that the fisherman had told him, stumbling over the words. As he spoke, Seraphine’s face grew more and more like marble, and she looked down at the floor.

“It is true, what he said to you, Elda,” she said at last, her voice sad. “I was married to my best friend and true love when I was fifteen-that is the marrying age, in Harad-and we had our child a few years later. When they were all gone, it took me nearly three years to be able to come here. I have heard no word from my love, and I do believe him to be dead.” She paused, looked up at Eldarion, smiled. “But that is in the past, and we have no cause to dwell on it. I am sorry you had to hear the story from someone else; I should have told you myself.”

“Are you angry at me?” Eldarion asked.

Seraphine shook her head, her eyes kind. “No, of course not. You heard a tale about me and you wanted to know if it was true. There is nothing to be angry about.”

Eldarion swallowed, and went to hug her. “It’s all right, really, you can be our family now,” he said. “Father has all sorts of family who isn’t ours by blood, like Uncle Eomer, and the Steward’s family. You’re our friend. Please don’t be sad.”

Seraphine smiled, and impulsively kissed the top of his head. “I’m all right, Elda, truly. Here, would you like to hear a song? My man often sang it; it was one of his favorites.” Without waiting for a reply, she began to sing softly,

I've seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling,
I've tasted her pleasures,
And felt her decay;
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing,
But now they are fled
And fled far away.

I've seen the morning,
With gold hills adorning,
And loud tempests storming,
Before parting day,
I've seen Harad’s silver streams,
Glittering in the sunny beams,
Grow drumlie and dark,
As they rolled on their way

O fickle fortune!
Why this cruel sporting?
Oh! Why thus perplex
Us poor sons of a day?
Thy frown cannot fear me,
Thy smile cannot cheer me,
Since the flowers o' the desert
Are all gone away.

It was a mournful sort of song, but there was a nice rhythm to it, and Eldarion thought that he quite liked it. It fitted rather nicely to the rest of the stories that Seraphine had told him. He wondered, now, if there were any happy stories in Harad, but he did not ask.

“And now, it is time for you to be in bed,” Seraphine said. “Don’t be sad, Eldarion. Life happens. And it goes on.”

Eldarion nodded and went to the door. “Good night, Lady Seraphine,” he said.

“Good night, Elda. Sleep well.”

That, Eldarion thought, was going to be highly unlikely.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Almost done now! We’re coming along at a fast pace, but bear with me. There are still a few chapters left. Bonus points go to the person who can guess the song title.

Chapter Nine: In Which There Are Oysters

Life, as Seraphine had told Eldarion, did go on. As the warm days passed in Dol Amroth, Eldarion and Miriel came to find that Seraphine knew much about the ocean. This knowledge, she told them, came from the time she was traveling to Gondor by sea. Accordingly, they spent much of their time with her, exploring the seashore.

There were tidal pools close to the cliffs, where the sea rushed in at high tide to pool among the rocks. They walked down to the pools at low tide one morning, Seraphine carrying a picnic basket over one arm, set on exploring them. For hours Eldarion and Miriel climbed through the rocks, peering at the starfish and mussels clinging to the rocks. Miriel shrieked as a crab scuttled over her foot.

“Don’t be frightened, it’s more afraid of you,” Seraphine said, gathering her pale lavender skirts up as she crouched down. She picked up the tiny crab, holding it gently in the palm of her hand. It stayed very still for a few moments, then began to delicately pick at her hand, claw flashing from her skin to its tiny mouth.

“What’s it doing?” Miriel asked.

“Eating,” replied Seraphine, and grinned at Miriel’s horrified look. “We all have dead skin on our hands, and the crab can see it, so he eats it. It doesn’t hurt at all. Would you like to hold him?”

Miriel shook her head and put her hands behind her back. Eldarion held out his hand. “I’m not afraid.”

Miriel opened her mouth to protest; Seraphine intervened. “None of that, please, Eldarion, it is not polite to tease your sister. Here you are now, be careful.”

Eldarion held the crab in the palm of his hand until he tired of it, then set it back down on the sand. It scuttled off, and he turned his attention to the mollusks on the rocks. There were interesting bits of shells, too, and the two of them set about collecting shells to make into a necklace for Arwen, while Seraphine set out the food on the blanket they had brought down. By the time they had a basketful of shells, the children were starving.

“There are oysters on this beach,” Seraphine said contemplatively, looking out at the place where the waves met the shore.

“How do you know?” Eldarion asked.

Seraphine grinned mischievously. “One of the servants told me at dinner last night.”

Eldarion laughed. “I thought you were being magic, like Legolas. He can look at the ocean and just know things. It’s very odd.”

Miriel nodded. “He got lost one day and a fisherman had to bring him home, and then Ada gave him lots of wine, and he fell asleep and Ada had him taken back to Ithilien. But I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“I didn’t know that you knew that, too!” yelped Eldarion, and laughed. “That’s funny, isn’t it? Poor Legolas.”

“Mother says that oysters have interesting side effects on grown-ups, but she won’t say what,” Miriel said.

Seraphine choked on the water she had just poured for herself, recovered, and hid her smile behind her hand. Eldarion made a mental note to ask his father to clarify that statement, when he got home.

“Anyway,” Seraphine said, obviously pulling the conversation back to its original topic, “I was thinking that perhaps it would be amusing to come down here at low tide to harvest the oysters. We could not do it today, for we do not have the proper equipment, but perhaps Imrahil would be willing to provide later this week.”

This was enthusiastically agreed to by the children, and it was decided that at dinner, they would ask Imrahil for buckets and small shovels.

“And we can invite mother and the little girls, and it would be a lovely party,” Miriel said.

Accordingly, they asked Imrahil’s permission at dinner that night. It was duly given, and the date for the oyster expedition was set for the end of the week.

“It will be a clam bake,” the old Prince said with a smile, and the children hooted their delight.

*****

The next morning, Eldarion was walking alone on the beach. He was under strict orders from Arwen to not go into the sea, and so he was running along a good hundred yards from the waves, singing to himself.

“There was a lady lived by the north sea shore/Lay the bent to the bonny room/Two daughters were the babes she bore/Fa la la la la la la la la la,” he sang.

It was nice to be out this early, when only the fishermen were up and about, and there weren’t any sisters to tag along. Perhaps he would go down to the town and find that boy he’d met last week, Ringan, and see if he would like to explore the cliffs. If he did not have to work, of course. Or maybe Eldarion would get him to show him all the fishing tricks. That would be entertaining.

“As one grew bright as in the sun/Lay the bent to the bonny broom/So coal black grew the elder one/Fa la la la…” Eldarion warbled. It was one of Eowyn’s northern songs, although why the Horse lords would sing about the sea was really beyond him. He just knew that he liked it. “A knight came riding to the lady’s door/Lay the bent to the bonny broom/He’d traveled far to be their wooer/Fa la la la la-la…”

He trailed off, his attention caught by a man with a long rake, standing at the end of the waves. A large wooden bucket sat at his feet.

“Hello, sir! What are you doing?” Eldarion asked as he neared the man.

“Oyster-catching,” the man replied briefly, and dug in the shallow water and sand with his long rake. “One must rake them from the sea.”

“Oh, I knew that. The princess told me,” Eldarion replied. He came to stand near the man, watching. When the bucket was full, the man turned from the sea and Eldarion saw his face for the first time. He started: the man was Haradric.

“Who are you?” the little prince asked, curious. There were many refugees from Harad and Umbar in Dol Amroth, but he had never met any, personally.

The oystercatcher flashed him a brief smile. “I could ask you the same question, lad.”

“I’m Eldarion son of Aragorn,” Eldarion replied.

The man raised an eyebrow. “And what is a king’s son doing alone on the beach at this hour?”

“I’m watching the sea. Mother can see me from the balcony,” Eldarion replied. He didn’t bother to ask how the man knew he was the Gondor’s prince. Everyone knew who Ada was. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.”

The man laughed, a rich, full-bellied sound. “You are astute, young man. I am Jacoby the once noble, now humble, oystercatcher.”

“Those are birds,” Eldarion said, and Jacoby laughed again.

“Yes, but they can also be men, those who work the oyster beds.”

Eldarion made up his mind then, and grinned at the man. “Perhaps you should come to help us catch oysters, then. Prince Imrahil said it would be a, a something bake. If you know how to do it properly, you could show us. And you could bring your family.”

A shadow passed over the man’s face. “I have no family, lad, but I will come.”

Eldarion told him the day and time, then, as Jacoby shouldered his bucket and made to walk off. “I’m glad you’re coming,” the boy said as he turned back towards the castle. “Wait until I tell Lady Seraphine that someone from Harad is coming; she will be delighted.”

And he ran off, up the beach. If Eldarion had paused to look back, he would have seen the oystercatcher standing rooted to the spot, as still as one struck down.

TBC

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: It’s really hard writing a chapter like this in the POV of a child. Who wants to see an alternate, in our heroine’s POV?

Chapter Ten: In Which There is a Reunion

By the time Eldarion had returned to the palace, the lone oystercatcher had completely slipped his mind. It was not until late in the evening that he remembered to mention him to his mother, and to Seraphine.

“An oystercatcher? But those are birds, Elda,” Arwen said patiently.

Eldarion shook his head. “No, I mean a man, a man who catches oysters. With a rake and a bucket. Anyway, I invited him to the party. Father says we must associate with all walks of life,” he added as an afterthought.

“I’m sure he will be a great help to us, poor royals that we are,” Arwen replied with a grin. “Although he will likely be trying to hide his smile when he sees our bumbling efforts.”

*****

The day of the party, Imrahil and his guests walked down to the beach late in the afternoon. Besides the royal family, there were several of Imrahil’s own children and grandchildren present, and so it was a loud and joyful group that walked to the sea. There were already servants setting up a pavilion, large pots, and barrels for the oysters. Imrahil himself took a part in the preparation, rolling back his sleeves and directing people.

The food was not only oysters, but all manner of fish, including a rich fish stew that had a name so difficult to pronounce that Eldarion rather thought it sounded like a sneeze. There was hot bread to dip in it, and fresh fruit tartes, and lots of lemonade. The children ran about shrieking and playing and stuffing themselves, while the adults traded tales and gossip amongst themselves. And, of course, there were many trips into the sea, to drag at the sand with long handled rakes. The tide was up, so it was not easy, and Eldarion got rather wet as he attempted to help Prince Imrahil.

“Ah, well,” the old prince laughed as he hauled Eldarion out of the sea. “We did try. And now I could do with something to eat.”

It was as he was watching Imrahil’s son, Elphir, have a go at catching oysters, that Eldarion saw the man he’d met earlier in the week, Jacoby, approaching. He had wondered if the man would come, and so Eldarion was delighted, and ran on down the beach to him.

“You picked a bad time for catching oysters, lad,” the man said as Eldarion neared him. He was smiling, not unkindly. “But it appears you are having fun, any road.”

“Yes,” Eldarion said. “I’m glad you came. Come on, you can meet my family.”

Up close, Jacoby looked quite nervous, apprehensive for some reason. He had put on nicer clothes for the occasion, and he had the bearing of a nobleman. A hat shielded most of his face from the sun. Eldarion remembered how Jacoby had called himself ‘once noble, now humble’. Perhaps he came from the same war-torn area that Lady Seraphine did.

As if he had read Eldarion’s thoughts, Jacoby cleared his throat. “Lad, you said the other day that you knew a lady named Seraphine. Who is she?”

Eldarion looked up at him. “My friend, from Harad. She was a princess there, but she left because of a war and came to live in Gondor. Her family died. Are you all right?”

Jacoby had gone white to the lips. “Is she tall, with dark hair and beautiful eyes?” he asked in an oddly choked voice.

Eldarion shielded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun as he looked up at the man. “Yes, and she has a nice voice. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, lad. Will you take me to her?” Jacoby asked. “Quickly. Please. I must know-” He broke off, passed a hand over his face. “Where is she?”

Eldarion grabbed the man’s hand. He had no idea what was going on, just that the man looked as though he needed to speak with Seraphine, and then sit down. Something was happening. “This way; come on.”

He led the way up to the white pavilion, all lit up in the darkening sky. There were people milling around, but he did not see Seraphine. But she was here somewhere; he had just seen her a few minutes before, drinking wine and talking to the Prince. There was Miriel; he could ask her.

“Miriel, run and find Lady Seraphine!” Eldarion called. “Quick, hurry!”

Miriel gave a wordless shout as she ran by, and dashed into the pavilion. Jacoby stopped at the tide line, seeming hesitant to go into the pavilion with all of the royals. Eldarion stood beside him as he twisted his hands together. He wanted desperately to ask Jacoby what was going on, but he felt rather that he should wait and see. A few minutes went by, and then Eldarion saw Lady Seraphine walk out of the pavilion. She was dressed all in shimmering blue and had a goblet of wine in one hand, her feet bare. She gazed at the man curiously, as though trying to remember where she had seen him before. It was hard to tell; they were standing with their backs to the setting sun.

“Eldarion, what is it? Miriel said you needed to see me?” she called as she approached.

“Well, this man knows you-”

Eldarion never got farther than that, for Jacoby suddenly stepped forward, took off his hat, and said in that same strange, choked voice, “Seraphine? My Seraphine?” And Seraphine screamed aloud and dropped her goblet in the sand as she flew forward into his arms. Jacoby caught her and swung her around to keep from falling, and they were both crying, but laughing too, and he kissed her then, hard.

“I thought you were dead,” Eldarion heard Jacoby whisper as he held Seraphine close.

She was touching his face, wiping the tears away, which was pointless. “They told me you were dead,” she replied. “Lost, in battle.”

“No,” Jacoby said. “No.”

Eldarion looked back at the pavilion, where a small crowd had gathered when they heard Seraphine’s scream. Arwen was there; Eldarion ran up to her.

“I think he’s her husband!” he whispered to her excitedly. “The one who was dead.”

Arwen nodded and turned to the crowd. “Go on now, everything is all right. It’s a reunion, that’s all. Give them some privacy.”

The crowd dispersed, and Arwen walked down to the Haradric couple, who were still wrapped in each other’s arms, the sea lapping around their feet, utterly oblivious.

“Seraphine,” she said, smiling. “Take your man back to the palace. I will make your excuses.”

Seraphine managed to pull herself away from Jacoby long enough to smile a smile of devastating joy at Arwen. “Yes, my queen. Thank you.”

Eldarion and Miriel stood with their mother and watched as Seraphine and Jacoby walked away up the beach, arms tight around each other’s waists, heads together. And when they were out of sight, Arwen put her arms around the shoulders of her two oldest children and led them back into the pavilion.

TBC