Epilogue – The World Ahead

Jamila picked up the polished bone brush and gently pulled the bristles through Arwen’s hair. All of her various duties - cooking, cleaning, attending to the Riders, doing the marketing, learning Rohirric - she enjoyed this part of her day the most. Arwen was a fair queen, in both beauty and manner, and Jamila enjoyed being able to employ her skills as the queen’s maid. She knew this task, could do it in her sleep and probably had on some occasions in her past seventeen years, especially after festivals and feasts when she was required to see her queen to her rest before finding her own bed. She thought she had fallen into a dream when the King Elessar told her she was to attend the queen in the mornings; if only she could be guaranteed such a position when she went to Rohan, but she knew it wouldn’t be so. She would likely never do this again after leaving Gondor.

“Is something wrong?” Arwen asked suddenly. She had spied in the mirror the maid’s small frown, and she had sensed a quiet unrest in the maid over the last two and-a-half weeks. Some mornings it could hardly be registered, other mornings, such as now, it all but vibrated through her being.

Jamila shook her head. “No, my queen,” she said, wiping her face of any apprehension with practiced ease. She began to hum, and started counting brushstrokes to keep her mind from wandering.

Arwen wasn’t about to be put off though. She had spoken to her husband, as well as Erkenbrand and Osric about the maid, and she could guess well enough what the trouble may be. “You have heard by now that one day my father will be sailing over the Seas with many of his household,” she said.

“I have, my queen,” Jamila said with curiosity. She wasn’t at all sure what to make of these rumors. There were few elves in Harad, and most Men believed that those who claimed to be elves were merely posing. She didn’t at all understand what all this sailing business was about, or why Arwen was mentioning it to her now.

“Do you know anything at all about my people, Jamila?” Arwen asked.

“No my queen, but they are a fine people,” the maid answered. This was not entirely true. Everyone in Harad knew exactly how the Black Númenóreans felt about the Elves, but she could hardly accept such hatred as truth, especially now that she was acquainted with so many of them.

“It is said that when the world was young and the Elves awoke and the Great Evil appeared, the Elves were ushered to the West by a host of the Valar. Do you know of the Valar? They are the deities that helped to form and shape our world and all things in it, and gave us the stars, moon and sun. One of the Vala became jealous. He felt that his creations should be honored above all others, rather than become just another note in the music. He was blinded by his pride, and a great hatred blackened his heart. He became the Great Evil, of whom your Eye was just a pupil once.

“The other Valar sought to save the Elves by urging us to move West. Some stayed here and did not go. Those that went were forbidden to ever return to what were then the Eastern lands. Most were happy to stay in the West, but there were some who returned despite the warning, and in their departure, a battle erupted and many Elves were killed. These Elves, and all their kin to follow, were banished from ever returning to the West. That banishment has now been lifted, with the defeat of Sauron. Now all Elves, whether they were banished or not, are free to go into the West,” Arwen said, giving the briefest explanation she possibly could to avoid confusing and overwhelming the maid.

“Do you know of Númenor? Yes, I thought you would. After Númenor was sunk into the Sea, Valinor was removed from the circles of the World, and now only Elves can find the Straight Road that leads to it. To get to the West, those who sail must pass through a veil and into the skies, and once past the veil, there is no coming back. All Elves have this right, to return to our home, including me. There we would live together forever, never to be parted or know death, whether ours or those of our friends and loved-ones. I have forsaken my passage.”

“Why?” Jamila asked, for she could not imagine any reason worth giving up such a paradise.

“Because Estel is a Man,” Arwen said. “I love him, and to be with him, I must give up that right and remain here, even as all my family sail away.”

“You love him that much?” Jamila asked with astonishment. She had noticed the bond between king and queen and had not determined it to be any greater than that of Farzana and Ashraf. Her former queen and king would have moved mountains for each other if they were capable of it, but this… “But you are still an Elf, still immortal. Elessar is not. You would give up living with your family forever, to be with him for but a few short years?”

“He is of Númenórean blood and will live longer than most Men, but yes, some day he will pass,” Arwen said, with a slight shudder. “I would rather spend what years he has left together than apart.”

“Then truly your love for him is great,” Jamila said in awe. With a start, she resumed her brushing, not having realized that she had stopped. She thought furiously, her own dilemma now paled by comparison. Osric was a good man, and he loved her. She found she loved him also and while she was still uncertain of how she would be received in Rohan, she did at least have friends among the Riders. Did she love him enough though for the loss of her home and family, such as they were, to be worth it? And did it really matter? She could not go back, only forward, and today at last she was to meet the King Éomer. He was to arrive this very morning, and tomorrow they would be leaving for Rohan and her new life there.

“Estel’s love for me is just as great,” Arwen said, breaking into the maid’s thoughts. “I would not have chosen so if he did not love me equally.”

“You are happy with your decision?” Jamila asked.

Arwen smiled wistfully. “I am. I would not change it for anything. Love can make you stronger than you ever thought possible, Jamila. Remember that.”  

Osric and Erkenbrand looked across the desk at Éomer.

After the Riders had greeted Éomer and his éored at the Gate, they had taken their breakfast at a tavern and only now returned to their home on the fourth circle. The éored would be bunking in the house tonight; the rooms would be cramped but tolerable. Once Erkenbrand had set everyone on the task of figuring out their sleeping arrangements, he went with Éomer into the study and brought him up-to-date on all the happenings since his departure to Rohan. Éomer was satisfied with all he heard, except on the point of the Haradrim slave girl. Hence Osric was requested to join them and give his own account of all that had transpired. Éomer couldn’t deny Erkenbrand’s assessment that having a former slave in Meduseld was foolish, and that marrying her to a farmer as far away from the capital as they could place her was the best solution. He was not so certain that allowing Osric to marry her was the right choice.

“You would have been an officer, perhaps a marshal yourself one day,” Éomer said to him, watching the young man closely. Only one-and-twenty he was, but he was a valiant soldier and his judgment was usually sound, swift and accurate. “You would have to resign for marrying a foreigner. If we should ever go to war with Harad, we cannot risk the compromise.”

“I would never betray Rohan, My Lord,” Osric said with conviction.

“I do not doubt that, only that you may find yourself suffering from compassion when only a swift blow will save your life,” Éomer said. “Could you kill someone, knowing they might be your wife’s kinsman? If you could, would she accept that?”

Family was one of the first things Osric had spoken about with Jamila. He had been saddened to hear that she had no immediate family that she knew about for certain. She had heard once that she had a sister somewhere, and she thought her parents were still alive, but the last gift she ever received from them was over six years ago. The other slaves of the palace had been her family, and she missed them terribly, though the pain was becoming more bearable with each day passed.

As far as war and death went, she was frighteningly pragmatic, more so than himself. One chose one’s master and mistress above all others; blood meant nothing to the engrained servitude of a good slave, and Jamila was a good slave or had been. He wondered if she would ever accept that she was her own mistress now. He had noticed that she accepted Erkenbrand’s word above all others, except perhaps Sador, Aragorn and Arwen. If it ever came to a debate between the four of them, Osric could guess that Jamila’s instinct would be to side with Arwen. Now that Éomer was here, Osric knew her loyalty would shift to her new king, wholly and blindly. It was a rather unnerving prospect.

“I could and without hesitation,” Osric answered. “And she would accept it, without question. However, I shall resign if you think it in the best interest of Rohan.” He swallowed reflexively and forced a smile. “Mother will be happy. She’ll get me back in one piece.”

“I do not think that will be necessary, at least not right away,” Éomer said. “The other Haradrim, the translator, is he still in the city? I should like to speak with him if he is.”

“He is, My Lord. He prepares to depart tomorrow as well,” Erkenbrand informed him. “He suspected you may want to speak with him and Jamila. They will be here shortly after the noon meal.”

“Very good,” Éomer said. “I cannot permit her to enter Rohan until I have interviewed her.”

“You will have to make the interview swift. The hobbits have invited us to dinner and she is to help cook,” Osric said with a grin. “Sam has insisted on giving her proper cooking lessons, and our stomachs have much to thank him for it.”

Éomer laughed and shook his head. He was still getting used to seeing Osric bald, and he was glad that he hadn’t been privy to seeing the symbols that had once been painting on his flesh. It must have been a sight though, from what everyone else has said, and Adda had promised to show him a drawing later. “Your month of sacrifice then is over,” he said.

“Yes, thankfully,” Osric said. “I have missed beer.”

Erkenbrand laughed and patted the soldier on the back. “That may be, and I don’t blame you, but I believe our King Éomer was thinking of the other part of your sacrifice. You’re not married yet, and won’t be until after we’ve arrived in Rohan. Don’t put the cart before the horse, hm?”

“Of course not, my lords,” Osric promised, blushing slightly. He had been daydreaming endlessly what it would be like to finally kiss Jamila, or at least take her hand to help her to sit at table. He imagined her skin would be smooth and creamy, and she still had about her that intoxicating scent of jasmine and frankincense.

Éomer cleared his throat pointedly. “She is in my charge until she is married, Osric.”

“Yes, right. No horse,” Osric repeated, shaking himself from his daydreaming. “No cart.”

“Good. Now, how much are we going to be expected to eat at this dinner?” Éomer asked, remembering only too well the hobbits’ insatiable appetites. “Should we forego our noon meal?”

Erkenbrand and Osric laughed and stood, sensing the interview was at its end. “They would be horrified to think you skipped a meal on their account,” Erkenbrand said. “Perhaps we should make it a light meal, however, to be safe.”  

Ioveta and her daughters were the first to arrive.

“Good evening!” Gerwinda greeted everyone when Legolas led them into the parlor. “We brought biscuits, and on the way here, we saw this man who was cowering in a garden saying that ugly hairless cat kept following him. Isn’t that funny?”

Jamila came out from the kitchen and set down the plate of appetizers on the tea table. She frowned at the mention of the hairless cat; so far she had been fortunate enough not to run into it, but she remembered Razeena’s description of finding the thing so unexpectedly in the city. She overcame her fear of the beast long enough to ask, “Who was this man? What was his business?”

Ogiva shrugged. “Just a merchant,” she said. “A fisherman from his clothes. I told him he probably smells like fish, at least enough for the cat to smell.”

“Were there other cats?” Jamila asked.

“No,” Gerwinda said, frowning. “We didn’t even see the ugly one.”

“Someone should keep an eye on that man,” Jamila said, looking at Pippin. “You should tell the king.”

“That cat isn’t a spy of the Enemy,” Pippin said, soothingly. “He’s just a cat.”

“Perhaps, but one cannot fight their nature,” Jamila said with a sage nod. “He will spy for his master, and your king is the Enemy of the Eye.”

“Jamila,” Sam said, interrupting the conversation before it could get too heated and ridiculous. “The tarts are likely burning.”

Jamila’s eyes went round and she dashed back into the kitchen.

“So much noise over a cat,” Frodo said with a shake of his head.

“But it’s an orc cat,” Merry said.

“What’s an orc cat?” Ioveta asked.

“Nothing,” Frodo said, giving his friends a stern look that said to drop the matter now while they were still intact. “How are things in your new home? Have you heard from Lady Bodil yet?”

“Not yet. She should be arriving in her homeland soon, within the next day or so if her travel went smoothly,” Ioveta said. “The mail delivery being what it is though, it may be another month or so before we get word from her. I’m sure she will be happy to be near her daughters and grandchildren again. As for us, the new house is suiting us quite well. I am able to share the shop with our new landlady and she has taught me so much already about the art of dress-making. We are kept busy, now that so many have returned to the City and are in need of new gowns. The house even has a lawn in the back for the girls to run around and get some sun and air. They have started their studies again at last. Their master tutor is a fine man, and they have learned much from him already. Gerdy is proving to have quite a head for poetry, better than her father’s thankfully.”

Gerwinda nodded. “I love rhyming.”

“And singing, and talking, and blathering, and dithering,” Ogiva teased.

“She keeps us up at night,” Leudreda complained, arms crossed. “I liked it better when she didn’t talk.”

Everyone laughed, and they nearly missed the knock on the door. Gimli went to answer it this time, and he brought back with him Éomer, Erkenbrand, Osric, Ceorl, Penda and Wulf. The other Riders were either guarding the tombs, preparing for the return trip to Rohan or showing the newcomers about the city. Introductions were made and everyone was seated again.

“Whatever you are preparing smells delicious,” Éomer complimented.

“Jamila did most of the cooking,” Merry said. “Sam’s a good teacher. He had to have been, to teach Frodo how to stop poisoning us with his concoctions.”

“I was never a bad cook,” Frodo said, sounding put upon. This was clearly a conversation they’ve had many times over the years.

“Not a bad one, perhaps,” Merry allowed. “Just an easily-distracted one.”

“I had better check and see that she’s not needing any help,” Sam said.

“I can help,” Osric offered.

“Speaking of distractions,” Sam said, dryly. “Nay, Master Osric, I think it’ll go over smoother if she only has the food to pay attention to, begging your pardon.”

“Besides, the kitchen’s hot enough,” Wulf added, with a wink to his friend. “No need to go setting it on fire.”

Sam frowned and shot a look at Osric that permanently banished the Rider from the kitchen while Jamila was in it. Only Osric noticed it though, as the others were too busy laughing at his expense.

A half-hour later, they were filing outside in the courtyard to eat. The hobbits had borrowed a few small tables and some chairs from the neighbors, and everyone sat wherever they pleased. Éomer and Erkenbrand made sure to sit so that Jamila and Osric were across from each other, rather than side by side, and Jamila was sufficiently timid of Éomer to prevent her from swooning. Éomer, for his part, kept the conversation light. He had already interviewed the maid that afternoon and found her surprisingly mature, serious, and forthcoming. As she relaxed through the meal, he was glad to see she also displayed a sense of humor and a sharp wit. Perhaps she was a good match for Osric after all. She would certainly keep him on his toes.

By the end of the meal and subsequent entertainment, which was provided by Pippin, Merry, Wulf, Gerwinda and Leudreda, the sun was set below mountaintops and the moon was rising over the East. Everyone filed back inside, and Sam and Frodo served afters.

“Is it true you have a horn from Prince Faramir?” Ogiva asked Pippin halfway through a cream tart.

Pippin nodded and swallowed. “It’s a fine instrument, made from the husk of an oliphaunt. Want to see it?”

The girls nodded eagerly, and Pippin abandoned his plate to dash upstairs. A few minutes later, he was lugging the case down the stairs and with the help of Gimli placed it on the table. Ogiva and Merry grinned at each other over Pippin’s head. Gandalf saw this and lifted an eyebrow. What was that about?

He found out a second later when Pippin opened the case and nearly jumped out of his skin, an almighty shriek escaping his lips. He did jump backward into Gimli, nearly knocking over the surprised dwarf.

“What in the Shire?!” Pippin exclaimed, hand over heart. He took a tentative step towards the case and narrowed his eyes, peeking at the lump of brown mass that was poking out of the bell of the horn. “Is that—?”

Merry and Ogiva burst into giggles. “Thank you, lass,” Merry said, slipping her a butterfly hairclip. “Who knew when he might have found that otherwise, and I wanted to be sure to enjoy it.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, as everyone gathered around the case to peer inside.

Pippin pulled the slipper-rat from the horn’s bell and threw it at Merry, who ducked just in time to avoid being hit in the face. “What was that about?” he demanded.

“I owed you one,” Merry said. “I promised to end things with Frodo, and I made an oath to Sam years ago to not play pranks on him, so that left you by default. Never conspire against me, Peregrin Took.”

Laughter floated out the windows into the courtyard, where Osric and Jamila stood in the shade of the portico, having escaped during the commotion. “Sounds like they’re having fun,” Osric said, his heart racing in his chest. All this time waiting. The month was over and the paint was gone at last. Was this finally the moment.

“They are odd things,” Jamila said. “These… pranks…” She said the word carefully. “We do not do such things in Harad.”

“No? Never?” Osric asked.

Jamila shook her head. “There are deviants, oafs, who like to cause trouble, but they get trouble in turn. Most of us are smarter than that.”

“The hobbits do not do it to cause trouble,” Osric said, wondering why they were dithering about hobbits all of a sudden. He took a decisive step forward and was pleased that Jamila did not back away. “Can I—?”

“You can,” Jamila said and took his hand in hers, suddenly shy. “If you want.”

“I want.” He took another step and with a deep breath, lifted her chin with his free hand. “Do you want?”

She nodded. “I have wanted since first I saw you,” she said, surprising him. “You do not have to be so careful with me, Osie.”

He grinned. “I like it when you call me that.” Her accent lent the word with an interesting twist that his ear was still trying to decipher.

“Osie,” she repeated.

They kissed then under the stars and moonlight, the pale blue shadows concealing them from view of house and lane. Jamila knew then why the royals feared love as they did, why a man would abandon his queen for his family, why a princess would deny her birthright and why Sador was so convinced that love was mightier than any force in Arda, even the Eye. In that moment, she knew where her home would be forever after and her heart sang.
 

The End!

GF 11/20/09
Published 11/24/09

  
 
Author's Notes to follow...