Chapter Text
"‚No, Ranír, I don't want to eat anything! No! Will you just leave me alone for five minutes? Do you have to do this right now? No, I still don't need anything. Why are you still here?' Unbelievable! Why is it always me?"
Shamelessly ranting away, Ranír entered the kitchen in the Houses of Healing, probably to blow off some more steam. But then she froze, as she spotted Aragorn who welcomed her with a half-amused, half surprised frown.
"Your Majesty … By all the stars, I …" The young handmaiden turned ashen-faced, very obviously wishing for the ground to open and swallow her.
Not every attendant seemed to have heard yet that Aragorn had started occasionally having his lunch here a few weeks ago, to enjoy at least a few minutes of silence between endless meetings with his advisors or audiences. Which was just as well; after all, one of the reasons he came here was to talk with Ioreth about Arwen's condition. That was not only inevitable given the continuous threat by one of his enemies in the walls of his own city.
A temperamental maiden was really his smallest problem right now, especially since, just like Arwen, he liked the girl very much, in spite or maybe just because of her sometimes being a little cheeky. At least Ranír's big mouth sometimes helped him learn the kind of things that others didn't dare to say to his face.
The necessary reprimand became accordingly gentle. "Next time, better enter the room before you open your mouth."
"Of course, Your Majesty … I mean, no, of course not, Your Majesty … I mean, I didn't want …" The dark-haired girl blushed only deeper; completely distraught, she stood still in the doorway.
"Will you please sit down?" More lenient than annoyed herself, Ioreth pushed a big mug of water over to Ranír. "Drink. And then tell us what has upset you so much, but a little more polite. I'm sure the King will be able to understand it then."
"I really meant no disrespect. Please forgive me." Visibly unhappy about her slip, Ranír dropped onto a chair nearby the door, so that she would be ready anytime if someone called her, and reached for a bowl with potatoes to peel, for the meal for the patients, probably to try and patch things up.
"It's just … She's never been like this. I just want to help! The Queen is just sitting around all day, hardly even talking. Isn't it really dangerous for elves to become depressed? I read about that! They can even die from it! I'm just worried, that's why I just wanted to tell Ioreth about this. But when we try to cheer the Queen up, she either ignores us completely or becomes angry immediately. I can hardly watch how she keeps on staring away so dully, with her hand on her …"
"Not here," Ioreth hissed even before Aragorn could. Even an empty room often heard more than you cared for.
"How would you feel if you were forced to just sit around in your own room for your own safety? And she's being alone no less, because the King, naturally, is busy with his duties, and her best friend is several days worth a journey away from her. She's afraid and for good reason. And then this unspeakable summer. I've been working here for forty years, and we've never had so many hot weeks. The Queen collapsed from that before not too long ago as you know." Her warning tone would hopefully remind Ranír right again that she was carrying an important secret.
She had been given a great honor by Aragorn entrusting her with knowing that Arwen was having a child, mostly so that Ranír could provide her with the best supplies. The very resolute healer, surprisingly agile and forceful for her slightly sturdy figure, was fortunately quite discreet when it really counted – and whoever said the opposite, was shamelessly lying as she liked to say. But Aragorn and she were both sometimes not entirely sure if Ranír really understood how much confidence Aragorn was putting in her here.
"I know!" Ranír eyed her friend across the skimmer in offense. "She needs a lot of rest and protection right now. That's exactly what this is about! I can't even make her eat more as His Majesty asked me to so that she finally puts on some weight. If I bring her something particularly tasty or her favorite candy, she'll give them to one of the other servants, to take them to the children on the lower levels."
Her dark doe eyes apologetically turned to Aragorn before she quickly lowered them again. "And if I push her too much, she sends me away as she did earlier. I'm at a loss here, Your Majesty, I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, Ranír," Aragorn calmed her again; his smile did look a little forced now though.
So the situation was getting worse, far worse than Arwen let it show in his presence. Now at the latest that her mental condition started to affect her physical one, he needed to stop ignoring that. This was not only about his wife's health.
Now he was even more in a hurry to finish the simple but very cleverly spiced stew meal so that he could at least stop by Arwen’s chambers for a moment before the next gathering of his advisors. Some things should never be postponed. He had had to witness that mistake more than once with his old war companion, with whom he was being in such a bad fight right now, and with his partner.
Arwen's well-being and the well-being of the child were worth more than dealing with another disgruntled glance because of being late.
"All of that is just her condition, lassie. She'll become ravenous all by herself soon enough, and then she'll have her strength back, too." Ioreth who had supervised enough pregnancies could only smirk at such natural moods.
She tried to let the King know as well, with a short headshake, that he shouldn't start letting people drive him crazy again.
"When you get married yourself one day, you'll understand."
"Maybe." Ranír scrunched her nose a little but at least stopped whining.
You could never keep such a hardworking girl quiet though, especially when she'd only just found all that energy back. After losing her family and friends in the War of the Ring, Ranír had almost died of depression herself. It was only thanks to the Steward speaking to the King on her behalf that the King had hired Ranír; one of the few things, this boy in South Ithilien had done right for a change. After Ioreth had properly nursed the little one back to health, Ranír had thrust herself into her duty with all she had. All the more frustrated was she now.
"It's also the ongoing silence up there in her chambers that's hard to bear. Spending so much time doing almost nothing can't be good for her either, can it?"
"Would you rather dress up as Her Majesty again and let the Stewardaides chase you? She's just doing what's right. It's bad enough for my taste that His Majesty has been out there so often already, in the middle of the wilderness, where these villains could strike again anytime."
Ioreth regarded their leader a few apart with a distinctive glance who was already looking far too crestfallen again but wasn't surprised to not even get an answer for politeness reasons. She knew the King's stubbornness well enough by now.
"It would be a catastrophe if anything happened to you or the Queen, Your Majesty. Not only because of everything you did for the people. Then Gondor would also have to deal with a Steward again. May the Valar save us from that."
"Showing restraint in the presence of third parties goes for you, too, by the way," the King answered sharply. "I will not allow our own people being slandered within my walls."
"Well, I like Prince Faramir," Ranír immediately chimed in. The thought of the good-looking, strawberry-blond Steward lit up her eyes. "When we were kids, we always played outside the gate together. He's not like his father was in the end at all, is he?"
"You're too young to understand that." Ioreth started to chop the potatoes herself now, so fiercely as if they were responsible for the all but pleasant memories of her former employer. At least you could say these kinds of things now without getting fired immediately. She could deal with a little royal reprimand in return for this unexpected chance to say the truth for once. Denethor's constant rudeness had been something she had only managed to take revenge for by not being in an awful hurry when bringing him his medicine for one or two afflictions of age.
"No offense, Your Majesty, but this old hothead has only harmed this country in his last years. You just weren't around to witness it yet. He would have sacrificed us all to appease the Dark Lord, just to save his own skin. And don't get me started on the sons! You shouldn't talk poorly about the dead, but this uncouth warlord, terrible! That man has already stolen fresh bread from the kitchen when he was a kid. And the other isn't much better. Petting animals, writing poems, and carrying a wizard's staff. Nothing but crazy ideas in his head. In Emyn Arnen, they say, he's not even trying to do anything against the enemies in his land anymore. No, no, with you, there's the right man sitting on the throne now. We all appreciate very much how you're dealing with these damn Stewardaides. They get just what they deserve."
"That bread you speak of? It was for families who didn't have enough to eat that winter," Ranír explained, a seriously angry sparkle suddenly in her eyes, and for a change, it was Ioreth who was blushing.
"Thank you, Ranír. Anything else would have seriously surprised me. I don't want to have to repeat myself." His jaw grinding, the King put his plate that was only half-empty into the leftovers corner and threw his government cloak back across his shoulders.
"Such thoughtless words are exactly what is causing this ill mood in the city. Please, you two at least: Be a little more rational than the rebels in the streets. Right now, the situation is under control, but I'd rather have the last of my enemies taken prisoner than worry about them multiplying even further. I don't exactly like having to lock up my own people."
"Under control? And what about the elves in North Ithilien?" Now even Ranír dared to voice an objection. "People are saying, they should have been asked to leave Gondor. Some of the Firstborn are really dangerous, aren't they? I'm really glad, our Queen is nothing like that. They didn't even want to talk to her when she went to see them, though she's a part of that folk herself! They say that the elves will soon attack us! Apparently, even the Steward himself said so."
"Who's telling you such things?" Ioreth lowered her knife. "You're taking gossip far too seriously. You heard His Majesty. Let's drop this. And talk no more to anyone else about this either, you hear me? What are you still doing here anyway? Shoo, or the other attendants will say, I'm keeping you from your work. Get the Queen a mug of juice. I'm sure she'll feel better then."
When the girl was gone and the King had said goodbye as well, Ioreth carried the potato bowl to the sideboard, almost dropping it from thinking so feverishly. So the mood in the city was still extremely bad, no matter what the King was saying … Maybe another job would have been safer for her life and health after all – maybe one in Mordor …
"Your Highness, you have a visitor."
"His Majesty Thranduil?" Full of hope, Tarisilya looked up from her book and chased her cat away from her belly. Conuiril was apparently so besotted with the unborn that she didn't accept any other place to sleep anymore. Even when the heat usually couldn't bother you much, when the sun was burning down on East Lórien as it did right now, Tarisilya was glad for the chance to get rid of the animal at least for a while.
"No." The healer shrugged apologetically. As the moods of a pregnant elf were admittedly not always easy to deal with, especially if they got worse by the day, the workers in the settlement were almost ready to personally search for the Elvenking by now just to get rid of their current long-term visitor. "But someone of noble blood as well if that's any consolation."
"Isn't that …?" Hearing the bright neigh of a horse very well known to her, down there outside her guest talan, Tarisilya ran past the brightly clad Galadhel to the door in delight. Finally a change to all this dreary waiting.
She had written to King Éomer immediately after arriving here not too long ago, to tell him that in spite of an attack of Dunlendings on the last stretch of the journey, she was doing well. She hadn't expected him to see that as a reason for a visit. If it hadn't been so bitter, she would have laughed. Right now, every single one of her friends was more worried about her than her own husband.
The chance to escape this loneliness for a few hours sounded truly perfect since she'd suddenly been cut off from said friends and her family so much. She couldn't go to Lórien itself as long as she needed to wait for a certain someone here. And Tarisilya still didn't think that she could have brought herself to do that, not even to see old acquaintances like Lady Galadriel again. Or Haldir who in the foreseeable future wouldn't be able to visit her on his part either, after receiving almost deadly wounds in the Battle of Helm's Deep and Dol Guldur.
"Princess, stop leaving the windows open!" the healer shouted after her. "Your lunch …"
"… is long cold anyway."
Tarisilya softly clicked her tongue whereupon the squirrel on her plate joined her with a few quick jumps, not without stealing another piece of fruit before. The little one just never failed to make her laugh since Conuiril had basically chosen it as her pet that lured mice in here for her and in return was allowed to come and leave as it pleased.
"Your Majesty." When Éomer came to meet her, Firefoot's reins in his hand, she embraced the impressive dark grey Mearh horse first and then him. His brief frown, she ignored as much as her usual reluctance regarding being touched by anyone except her closest family. "Don't worry. There's seldom any gossip here."
And even if there was ... Since Tarisilya had already got in hot water at Aragorn’s wedding in Minas Tirith with a similar greeting, each and every court lady and smith both in the realm of Men and the last big elven settlements were surely betting on the father of her child being either her husband, Erestor, Éomer or Aragorn himself as it was.
"Very calming. My soldiers weren't too enthusiastic about this little trip anyway," Éomer explained with a nod towards the edge of the settlement. "They weren't allowed to come with me. Elvish marchwardens are very strict. But after we've finally covered the whole area, I wanted to take the opportunity to let you know. There's no sign of intruders anymore. The soldiers of your father-in-law seem to have got them all. You're safe from the Dunlendings now."
"Then I have one more reason to thank you," Tarisilya answered in relief.
"Manyala and the foal?"
"Alive and well. Give the little one a few more months with her mother, then you can get Manyala back to you. But enough of our favorite subject."
Éomer pointed at her belly. "How are you feeling?"
"Like Lúthien Tinúviel in her tree." Tarisilya looked up towards her talan with a grimace. She'd soon have read every single book of the settlement's stash which was still quite small, thrice. "Too bad I've cut my hair a while back. And I don't know any hair spells either, so my chances for an escape are slim."
She remembered too late that she was talking about an old elvish tale that a man would probably hardly be interested in. "Lúthien was locked up by her father because he wanted to protect her from danger. There was a mortal, Beren …"
"Ilya, I know who Lúthien was." Éomer interrupted her with an impatient gesture and pushed the squirrel away with the same hand who had used his boot as a climbing aid to look for something edible on his belt. "You live in some weird company. You know exactly that's not what I meant. What about the child?"
"I don't think I like it how well you know me."
Sometimes, Tarisilya forgot how empathic Rohan's King, who was always appearing so coarse, so brawny, could be, at least towards her. As someone who had been with her in one of her darkest hours, he was one of the people that she couldn't just fool regarding her emotional state with a smile.
"Everything's alright, really, at least for now. Trust me, I've been asking the other healers at least three times a day." She pulled her wide, casual dress tighter so that Éomer could see that her belly was already bulging just the tiniest bit. The anticipation filling her heart whenever she touched this curve, had her beam again and again. It was nice, waking up in the morning and knowing about the presence of this new life inside of her. But the fear always remained, too, that she was getting her hopes up in vain.
"You are very much allowed to be happy, Ilya." Éomer placed his hand on hers for a moment. She could see a vague yearning in his big dark eyes. For him, it would also soon be time to start a family but he hadn't had much time yet for his relationship with the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth. "The Valar have obviously forgiven you, and this time, you're doing everything right. You even took upon yourself the journey here, just for a chance to give your child a happy future."
"It's starting to look like it was for nothing, though."
The King would at least be able to stay for a little while, so they brought Firefoot to the settlement's small temporary paddock that was depressingly empty. The proud battle steed that Lord Celeborn had already used in the war every now and then to ride out together with the marchwardens of Lórien, had also been gone for days.
"Your idea was good, but so far, I didn't have a chance to do anything. The Lord actually wanted to help me. By now he's so bored that he's actually started to help with construction."
"I wouldn't exactly call that boredom." Éomer let out his deep, infectious laughter that had a few elves nearby look up because someone dared to disturb the omnipresent silence. "He's the one who let me in. Allow me to note: A child with building bricks in their hands couldn't show more enthusiasm."
Tarisilya was still trying in vain to picture that when quick hoof beats announced the return of said Lord. When he came within sight, she had to bite back a grin herself.
"What's so funny?" Celeborn dismounted next to her with a frown. Only Tarisilya's glance at his once bright working tunics and his silver-grey hair not that was not looking that impeccable anymore, had him realize, the afternoon had left traces. "We had to straighten the stream a little, and it badly needed cleaning."
He sounded offended because Tarisilya and Éomer just couldn't stay serious and quickly tried to distract them from his appearance. "Have you come to see our progress, Your Majesty?" It was impossible to ignore the slight mistrust in Celeborn's voice. Meddling from the outside was not welcome in Lórien already, and crossing the borders of the elven realm was only possible with special permission. It wouldn't be any different in this new land, as even Éomer as a high noble had had to learn today.
"Not at all." Éomer raised his hands defensively. "The elven realms may border on my land, but this is something I'm handling the same way my uncle used to: That's none of my business." Only for a moment, the grief for the former King who had fallen in the battle of the Pelennor Fields, that was not yet completely progressed, choked his usually so firm voice.
"No one knows better than Firstborn how to take care of a country and the life in it. I'm sure, East Lórien will soon shine in the same splendor as the other settlements."
"That's how it should be, yes." A deep wrinkle of annoyance formed between Celeborn's eyebrows that Tarisilya had often seen recently when it had been about North Ithilien. "Right now, regrettably, a few of us think, maintaining neighborly relations means attacking the owner of the borrowed ground from behind. Do you bring news from your sister in Gondor?"
"Nothing not written in the letters of Her Majesty Arwen to Ilya." Éomer finally was nice enough to give Celeborn a clean cloth from his belt, discreetly pointing at his jaw so the elf could wipe the dirt off his face.
"Since the royal wedding, the elves entirely refuse to talk to his Majesty and his wife again. And the group's work in Ithilien is almost completely abandoned. That unsettles the citizens. The argument of the period of mourning for their murdered friends is on the side of your husband and his people, Ilya, of course. I get that. I'm sure Firstborn do handle losses completely differently than Men. If it came to it, they could probably explain every of their actions somewhat plausibly."
Éomer sighed, seeming just as clueless as Tarisilya felt. He wasn't a man of many words; diplomacy was among the duties of his office that he hated most. "Unfortunately, with that, they show the very behavior that they're criticizing the Stewardaides for so much. These people, too, do always have an excuse. As long as Cair Andros doesn't take action, in any case, I wouldn't advise Aragorn to do it either. That could cause more confusion and unrest among the folk than the fear going around right now."
"Waiting any longer is not going to help either though." Unlike the King, Tarisilya couldn't look at this thing from the outside. In fact, it was hardly even possible for her to talk about what the father of her baby of all people was about to cause in Gondor. It didn't make it better that she couldn't even discuss any of this with him because every correspondence had come to a complete standstill. And after their wedding, they had never had any time to build a proper mental marriage bond between them.
Éomer nodded gloomily. "The situation is becoming more difficult every day. I'm glad that Aragorn is able to keep his calm. Excuse me for a moment. It was a long ride. Firefoot deserves an extra big helping of oats."
After an approving gesture from Celeborn, the King hurried towards a small shed where the elves stored fodder.
Absent-mindedly, Celeborn caressed the grey fur of Tarisilya's squirrel that had got comfortable on his shoulder. Many elves of Lórien had a special friendship with these animals. "Unfortunately, not every member of the elven realms shares the opinion of King Éomer and Elessar. There's resistance even among our own people as I learned in conversations in the last few weeks and days. And what's even worse is that without my knowledge, a few weapons of our forge have found their way to Cair Andros, allegedly for training and defense purposes only. This has been worrying me for some time already. If there won't be any negotiations soon, I will have to go to North Ithilien with a delegation of the Galadhrim. I can't allow anyone to raise swords from our woods against Men."
"There will be blood then." Tarisilya instinctively crossed her arms. She had come here to talk to King Thranduil about his stubborn son because she couldn't get to him anymore herself. No one knew better than her how Legolas – and his father in further consequence – would react to Lórien meddling with this matter. So much for the still-fresh reconciliation between Galadriel and Eryn Lasgalen.
"Not if I can help it. But this isn't something we should keep talking about here in the open." Celeborn's suddenly very tense tone had her look in the same direction as he was. "Especially not without the people it concerns. Well, about high time."
Indeed, Thranduil had finally passed the provisionally defined borders of the settlement. When he approached the paddock though, he stopped abruptly in his determined stride. First, his eyes rested on Éomer in the distance; a raised brow revealed what he thought about unannounced visits from realms of Men. Tarisilya was not included in that annoyed scan, instead, Celeborn was being regarded with a glance all the icier. The squirrel on the shoulder of his far-removed relative was obviously the last straw.
Thranduil turned on his heel. "Let me know once you can have a conversation here without the government representatives of half of Middle-earth giving their inept input."
The worker that he had addressed without even deigning to make eye contact, just nodded, taken by surprise, though Thranduil was actually the last person authorized to give any kind of orders around here. Even in simple green and brown camouflage, the King managed to radiate his natural dominance.
"Oh no, you don't." Tarisilya angrily yanked the paddock gate open. "Milord, would you …?"
"Take care of yourself." Celeborn reluctantly offered her his arm so that she could get on Tercelborne's back.
"I'll be back soon, don't worry, and not alone. I haven't ridden through half of Middle-earth to let my father-in-law treat me like an unimportant item on his agenda."
She deliberately ignored Celeborn murmuring something sounding suspiciously like "Good luck" and followed the King.
Tarisilya had been listening patiently to this doom-mongering from Galadriel's husband in the last few weeks. Now she would find out for herself how difficult or not a crisis conversation with this elf was.