Chapter 14

Fortunate Meetings

April 21

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Bartho was as weary of the Houses of Healing as it was possible to be. Several days rest, together with the Numenorean blood in him, had sped his healing; but unfortunately it was determined that he should be held prisoner the prescribed number of weeks, regardless. And the keeper of the Houses would brook no argument. Only in the matter of bed rest was Bartho able to bend the restrictions; there were too many men still in need of care for the healer to prevent him leaving his room.

Scowling darkly, the tall man stalked out into the open air of the gardens. His mind, in a naturally negative inclination, was grimly turning over the possibilities of survival for Faramir, Erynbenn, and the rest of the troops. His conclusions, matching his mood, were not good. The report he had received of the recent assassination attempt there at the palace and the following chaos brought on an expression even grimmer than usual.

In the back of his mind he methodically considered the risks involved in stealing his weapons back from the healers and slipping out of the city under cover of darkness… It sounded like something his king and Legolas would do; or rather, had done.

A side door opened behind him and a familiar looking woman hurried out into the gardens. Stacked precariously in her arms were several tightly packed linen bundles (perhaps of herbs), a few glass bottles of ointments, and a dozen other oddments. She was trying to fit them into a basket on her arm as she walked, but the basket was too small and her pace was such that her foot caught on the paving stones of the pathway and she stumbled, dropping almost everything.

The woman recovered her balance and pushed her long hair aside, her face contracting into an odd expression of distress, as if the accident were merely the latest in a litany of troubles. Seeing this, Bartho moved towards her, stooping to help her collect her load.

"Here," he said, handing her the bottles, "they've fallen on the grass. I don't think any are broken."

"Oh," she exhaled, her brown eyes softening with relief, "many thanks, sir."

He nodded briefly, handing her the last bundle of herbs, "You are welcome, Lady Arien."

The lady paused, searching his face. "Why… 'tis Sir Rabbit," she said, then stopped short, perhaps at having spoken aloud when she had meant to keep the odd thought to herself.

"Aye," he agreed gravely. "At your service, Lady Mule. I see you're carrying too much again."

Arien laughed a little, as if surprised to find in him a sense of humor — if only a dry one. She returned to stowing everything in her basket. "You have a knack for rescuing me from such accidents. But this is not heavy, only bulky. I would not have you trouble yourself."

"I would." Unsure of what was possessing him, Bartho firmly took the basket and bundles from her and rose to his feet. She did not object, and they left the gardens and turned towards the palace together. "You attend the queen?" he asked.

Arien gave a nod that was sluggish with weariness.

Though he was not the sort to notice women in general — they all appeared patently alike to him — Bartho thought she looked a good deal more worn than when he had seen her last. He fancied the energetic woman who had found him lost outside the kitchen would not have allowed him to carry her burdens without any polite objection as this paler version had done.

"I am sole Lady-in-Waiting to her highness, yes," she answered his question. "And you? I am afraid to say I know little about you; the other maidens had never seen you before."

"You asked?"

"You've never had anyone ask about you? You think yourself so unmemorable?"

"Perhaps not unmemorable, but more of the sort people wish to forget."

"Nonsense," she said. "Come now, sir, why so dismal?"

Bartho held a heavy door wide for her and frowned as she passed him, "I don't understand."

The woman paused, turning to look at him as he stood in the doorway. Her eyes were examining him closely. "I am sorry for that," she said at last.

Though he was not entirely sure, he thought perhaps he could divine her meaning. "It's no fault of yours. Erynbenn would say it is my nature. Your nature, I'd imagine, is a brighter and friendlier sort."

"That I don't know. Captain Erynbenn is a friend of yours, then? He is a brave and kind man, and speaks often of his friends; maybe I have heard of you after all. And that is gratifying, for I guessed you were the sort to have more friends than you let on."

"With the exception of the king, Erynbenn is the man who has tolerated me the longest. You are good at guessing the histories of strangers."

"It was not a guess. Kind-hearted people cannot help but have friends."

"Kind heart? A leap in logic if I ever heard one," he grunted, beginning to wonder a little desperately how he had become embroiled in such a conversation.

"It was personal experience," Arien retorted easily. "Your heart must be kind, or else you would not so readily offer your help to overburdened women. It's only logical, my lord."

"I don't think I'm your lord. You're a daughter of the Northern Dúnedain, aren't you?" He was pleased to find her expression one of astonished agreement.

"My father and mother were of that kindred and thus am I, though I had little chance to know them, for they had many duties and died when I turned sixteen. But if you were also of the Dúnedain — and I guess it was so from your face — then that makes you doubly my lord, not less." She turned to glance at him and stumbled a little on the stone steps.

Catching her elbow, Bartho nodded, "I was. But I must now contradict you. Shared kindred makes us equal. I don't like obeisance."

Arien did not speak for a while, though he thought he felt her gaze from time to time. At last she said in a low voice, "I have several times misjudged you, sir. Even now the opinion I hold of you may be wrong. Would it be rude to ask you what— who are you really? You have kindly allowed me to see you without armor." She gestured briefly to the navy tunic and dark trousers and boots he was wearing. "Might you introduce yourself fully?"

She had cornered him.

Bartho had sworn to himself years and years previous that he would never again sell his trust cheaply. Only Halbarad, Aragorn and Erynbenn had been allowed far into his mind and heart after his vow. No women had even dared to converse with him since then.

Through hard, nearly fatal experience, he had learned the hazards of placing his heart in the hands of vapid and careless females. Even to touch the memories was as painful as drawing blood.

Except that the eyes watching him were not the empty blue shade of those old eyes that had betrayed him. And Arien had already guessed so much about him in only a few minutes conversation…

No. He would not do it. Not again.

"Only a rabbit," he said quietly.

"I see." If there was disappointment in her face, it was hidden by the dark shadows already under her eyes.

Searching for a impersonal topic, he asked her, "What took you so far from your queen? Is there no extra help to be had?"

"Lady Eowyn watches the young ones, and I sent a maid to the Houses first, but she misunderstood my instructions and brought me the wrong materials. I had then to go myself." Her shoulders were sagging now; Bartho wondered how much she had slept recently.

"Ah. You should find a maid from the Houses who might help you; she would understand such orders. You already have enough to do." It was a flat statement. "How fares Queen Arwen?"

Beside him, Arien's face went a shade paler. "She fights hard, but she is fading slowly. It is like watching a stone on the beach fighting the pull of the tide. The sands shift, soon the water will rise…" her voice choked. They were in a narrow hall and Arien stopped, turning to look at him in a desperate way. "I fear for her. To serve her is to love her, for she is light and kindness itself. What will we do if the king returns too late? How shall I tell him, should all efforts prove vain in his absence? What of her children? There is too much fear for even a Maiar to bear for long…"

To Bartho's utter horror, she began suddenly to weep; not gentle tears, but wrenching sobs. It was the breaking down of emotions too long held in check, and there was no stopping the flood now it had begun.

For a moment Bartho stood, utterly helpless, all his ability to reason suddenly deserting him. What in Aule's name did one do with a crying woman?! To his torment and rescue came again the golden haired Lindamar, stepping ghost-like from an age of hopeless love long gone. What would he have done for her? It had to be the same principle for all women.

Setting aside the basket of herbs, he stepped forward and awkwardly pulled her to him, stroking her hair and letting her soak his tunic with her tears. He could think of no comfort to offer, so he did not speak. For once in his life, as she leaned against him, he was glad he was not wearing chain mail or weapons; it would have made him too painful a cushion.

When at last the flood abated, she leaned back away from him and began to wipe her eyes on her cranberry colored sleeve; her dark hair was now tumbled wildly about her flushed face. "I… am so sorry," she whispered, horror-struck.

"Don't," he said, his voice suddenly more gentle than he would have believed of it. "Come. There's nothing else anyone will let me do; I'll fetch someone to sit with the queen and have her medicines mixed, and you will rest before you collapse."

"You have already done so much," she said doubtfully, her own natural habit of taking on the duties of others rising against his proffered aid.

"No," he shook his head, lifting the basket and guiding her up the last flight of steps. "I forgot to tell you that I'm not only cheerless, I am also stubborn."

She said no more.

Bartho unpacked the basket while Arien checked to see that Arwen was sleeping, and then he gestured her towards the bed she had set up for herself on the floor nearby. Before her eyelids had fully closed, he turned suddenly towards her. He could not break his own resolve and he did not understand his reasons, but he sensed a debt due to this woman. "My name is Bartho."

For a moment a full smile crossed her face, and then she drifted off to sleep.

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Pippin flapped his hands against his sides, trying to warm them as he ascended the stairs at the center of the upper courtyard. The days were getting warmer, but the last of winter's chill still clung to the nighttime and this high up in the citadel the winds blew ice through the clothing of anyone still awake at midnight. The white tree rose before him, its slender branches seeming to glow faintly.

"Here I am, up at all hours for no reason other than to stand outside and stare at the scenery — which even Legolas couldn't see on a night like this, stars or no stars," the short soldier mumbled. "A strange sort of hobbit I've become, certain as trolls and bacon."

A soft sound caught his keen ears and he paused, his hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword. His expression transformed from disgruntlement to watchfulness in an instant. "Who's there?" he whispered. No answer came, only a soft, haunting sound like drops of water falling into a shallow basin. Someone nearby was singing. Though he could not make out the words, the wind bore to his keen ears the ghostly remnants of an elvish tune. The high notes matched the cool air and held him temporarily rooted to the spot until he recalled his duty as Guard of the Citadel and went to investigate.

It was actually a good deal further away than he had thought. Walking slowly down the stone pathway, the palace at his back, he followed the song to the small observation alcove at the very tip of the high courtyard. In the daytime one could look over the short wall and see all of Minas Tirith laid out below, and Mordor off in the east. But just now all that was to be seen was the outline of a small figure, his arms folded atop the wall which came to chest-height on him. His chin was resting on his hands and in his clear voice he was singing into the wind a tune that was vaguely familiar to Pippin, now that he could discern the words.

"As Beren looked into her eyes

Within the shadows of her hair,

The trembling starlight of the skies

He saw there mirrored shimmering.

Tinúviel the elven-fair,

Immortal maiden elven-wise,

About him cast her shadowy hair

And arms like silver glimmering.

"Long was the way that fate them bore,

O'er stony mountains cold and gray,

Through halls of iron and darkling door,

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away..."* The boy's voice broke at last, the syllables crumbling into tears and behind him the hobbit padded down the short flight of steps to join him in the alcove.

"Eldarion?" Pippin said softly, reaching across and resting a comforting hand on the lad's shoulder.

The prince started, not having heard the silent tread of the hobbit's feet. His head came up and as he looked over his shoulder the moon came from behind the clouds and it caused the damp trails on his cheeks and the tears in his silver-blue eyes to glisten. "Sir Pippin?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Oh."

For a while they stood in silence, contrasting in all but their heights. Eldarion again rested his head on his arms, as though weary, the points on his ears poking softly through his wavy dark hair as it lay on his shoulders. Pippin could not help remembering a time, not so very long ago, when he too had leaned against a similar balcony in this city, looking out in the darkness upon the wide lands beyond, his mind tossing fitfully with worries for the lives of two who were dear to him.

He wished he had Gandalf's way of comforting — even if the old wizard had seemed gruff at times. Yes, he wished he were a wizard. Surely a wizard could fix this. Silently he sighed, disliking the feeling of being so small. And then realized that, at least there, he fully and completely understood what the boy was feeling.

At his side Eldarion wiped his eyes on his sleeve and Pippin fished in his pouch for a handkerchief. Handing over the dark blue square of cloth he patted the boy's back as Eldarion blew his nose.

"Don't worry. It's going to be alright."

"How do you know?" Eldarion asked, his slender fingers twisting the cuff of his pale night tunic.

Pippin grinned slyly and pretended to look indignant. "Eldarion Elessarion!" he scolded, mimicking Arwen's tone when she grew aggravated with her first born. "Your father is the great and terrible Strider of the North, King of Gondor, Lord of Arnor, and the most powerful ruler of men in all of Middle Earth. He led the Nine Companions of the Ring out of Moria, fought at Helm's Deep, rallied the Dead to his banner, and battled before the Black Gate itself. With only Legolas to help him he has slaughtered spiders, come face to face with the Black Riders, visited Harad, defeated fell beasts in the northlands, and hunted more orcs than you could count if you had a whole day to do it. Now then. What do you think?"

A tiny smile grew at the corner of Eldarion's mouth, the absolute trust shining from the depths of his eyes. As Pippin well knew, there was no one in Middle Earth who held as much of the lad's heart as did his father.

"Come on," the hobbit said gently, removing his cloak and wrapping it about the boy's shoulders. "If I let you stand out here singing in your nightclothes and catching pneumonia, Lady Arwen will have my head when she recovers."

"It's Ada's song," Eldarion explained candidly.

"I knew I'd heard it somewhere before. Perhaps I'll teach you a Shire song to add to your collection."

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Duurben, after waiting with uncharacteristic concern for Pippin to report in from his stand at guard finally went out into the courtyard to see if the hobbit had actually ever returned to the palace. It was with a great deal of astonishment that he was met with the boisterous sound of two familiar voices, one the pleasantly accented and warbling tone of Peregrin Took in high spirits, the other the clear treble notes of Prince Eldarion.

"Hey ho! To the bottle I go

To heal my heart and drown my woe.

Rain may fall and wind may blow,

And there'll still be-e-e many miles to go

Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

And the stream that falls from hill to plain,

But better than rain or rippling brook,

Is a mug of beer and save this Took!"**

The song started over from the beginning and Duurben shook his head. "If it were not Pippin I would say he had gone against orders and been at the bottle already during his watch," he muttered. But after another minute a smile crossed his face and he turned back inside, adding under his breath as he went, "The queen will have his head when she recovers."

* Taken from 'The Lay of Luthien' from The Fellowship of the Ring, chapter 11

** Taken from the film version of The Fellowship of the Ring