In all the days since Galieth had been living amidst the House of Telcontar, never had she seen Gondor's royal family so unsettled. There had been a brief moment of joyful relief when, earlier, Aragorn had returned from the Sages' Tier with both Almárëa and Eldarion safely at his side. Everyone's happiness was short-lived though when they heard of the impending attack on Minas Ithil. Ever since, the whole of Minas Tirith had been akin to an overturned anthill. Although there were always soldiers on guard throughout each level of the city, calling up the whole of Gondor's army was no small task. Between the rapidly building sense of urgency and the lingering terror of the previous night, the mood in the Citadel was decidedly tense.

To make matters worse, there was something wrong with Eldarion. Ever since his return from the Sages' Tier, he walked about like one in a daze. Aragorn, Ohtar, and Malbeth were all of the sudden curiously protective of his every move, and either the king or one of his lieutenants were within eye-shot of Eldarion at all times. Eldarion, although apparently determined to fulfill his role as Captain of Gondor, still allowed Ohtar and Malbeth to suggest nearly as many orders as he himself gave. Galieth had also noticed how he kept anxiously pulling down the cuffs of his sleeves beneath his bracers. Having personally cleaned and wrapped the nasty welts on Almárëa's wrists, Galieth could only imagine that Eldarion was trying to hide similar marks.

There was no time to tend to him though. Aragorn had prevented Arwen from asking Eldarion for details of what had happened; a gentle touch on the shoulder and a shake of the head stemming the inevitable flow of questions from a concerned mother. "Dartha," Aragorn had murmured in Sindarin, of which Galieth knew enough to hear "Wait". The look of understanding mingled with soul-deep pain on Arwen's face still troubled Galieth even hours later.

Arwen was a queen of both great strength and endurance though. She went about with just as much urgency as her husband, making arrangements for the city to be prepared in case the Easterling army forced the country folk to seek safety in Minas Tirith. Food stores would need to be readied, temporary housing found, and order maintained. Also, in the event Faramir did not arrive from Ithilien in time before the army marched at sundown, Arwen would be required to assume the rule of the city. It was entirely likely that she would have to do so anyways; Galieth could hardly imagine that the Prince of Ithilien would willingly remain behind while his only son was in such obvious peril. And if - even more likely - the famed Lady Éowyn rode to Minas Ithil alongside her husband...so much the worse for the Easterlings.

Túrien and Sufyan were likewise in turmoil. Sufyan and the handful of Haradrim that had accompanied them from Harmindon were doing everything they could to transform the decorative howdah in which Gïdjls carried them into a proper 'war seat' or kursiyaşer, as Sufyan called it. The tiered perch did not look very fiercesome or protective yet, with its embroidered canopy and flimsy rope rails. The Haradrim were doing their best to wrap the howdah in thick canvas though, to repel arrows and other attacks from the ground.

"We don't have any ochre to paint Gïdjls with," moaned Túrien when they stood at the edge of the Citadel, overlooking where the young Mûmak was being prepared on the field below. This struck Galieth as a rather odd thing to be worrying about at such a time, and the expression on her face must have said as much. Túrien shifted a squirming Myriam from one hip to the other and scowled disapprovingly. "It's not for show. The war paint obscures the Mûmakil's features, making it harder for enemies on the ground to shoot at their eyes."

"Forgive me, Your Highness," said Galieth, chastened.

"No...don't apologize. You did not know." Túrien chewed her lip; not for the first time today if the anxious bite-marks marring her bottom lip were any proof. "Sufyan will not let me ride with him to Minas Ithil."

Having already make one error where the Haradrim were concerned, Galieth spoke carefully. "I thought that, as the future Ramyah of Harmindon among a people where women rule, could you not insist upon it?"

Túrien's smile was sardonic even as she gazed down upon where Sufyan and the other men were working to fasten protective chains around Gïdjls's tusks. At this distance, they appeared little more than tiny figures clambering over and around the much-larger Mûmak. Myriam whined, and Túrien began absentmindedly bouncing the child on her hip.

"The women rule within the bounds of home, whether that be a single household for the everyday woman or a city for a ramyah. Beyond the threshold though, the chieftains are master. Sufyan has gone above and beyond and granted me domain in not one but two cities; both Harmindon and Minas Tirith. Once I set foot beyond the Great Gate though..." Túrien turned away from the Fields of Pelennor. "He is adamant, and as he honors me, I must honor him...however much I am loathe to."

Galieth tried to bring a little levity to Túrien's dark mood. "Princess Almárëa tells me that you have some skill with a blade yourself? That you once bested your husband in a duel?"

"Hadhafang grows dusty in its sheath, I fear," replied Túrien sourly. She gazed then upon the huge, guileless brown eyes of her daughter, and sighed. "It makes little sense, my complaints about a tool of war going unused. My mother is right; even if Sufyan would allow it, I cannot go, not even for Eruthia's sake. Myriam needs me just as much as Minas Tirith needs my mother."

"Your father and the others will ride swiftly to Princess Eruthiawen and Lord Elboron's aid. Do not doubt that they will do everything in their power to make sure the both of them emerge unharmed."

"It is not only the army of Rhûn that I fear. Eruthia has never faced childbirth before. We were supposed to be at her side, Naneth and I, when her time came. What if something happens? She has no one with her at Minas Ithil, save Elboron - who will be precious little help in such an event - and a handful of women and girls with only everyday knowledge of the healing arts."

"You would be surprised, Your Highness" said Galieth. "Women in every corner of Middle-Earth give birth with only the help of their local midwife and their own strength. There is much wisdom even in the everyday. Besides, Princess Eruthiawen is not yet due for another week. She may be safely here in Minas Tirith by the time childbirth comes upon her."

"I very much hope you're right, Galieth. Eruthia was never as unyielding as me though, or as stubborn as Almárëa. She does not fight things; she flows around them, like a river. Mothers must be fierce though, and I fear for her."

The two of them stood only a minute longer, watching the men make the final preparations for Gïdjls' first true ride into battle. Then Túrien turned away.

"I must go and try to be of what help I may. The Haradrim among the civilians will surely be anxious and looking for reassurance in all this chaos."

Galieth opened her arms to young Myriam. "May I take her back to The King's House? Perhaps it is time for Myriam to go down for a nap."

Túrien, who had yet to part with Myriam since before sunup, hesitated. As if on cue, Myriam pouted out her bottom lip and rubbed teary eyes with small fists. When she whimpered yet again, it could hardly be heard as anything but tired.

"Alright. Almárëa is resting in our parents' room...perhaps she would be willing to let Myriam lie down with her for a little while."

"I'll take her straight there, Your Highness."

Myriam changed hands with only a little fuss, and her head was already drooping on Galieth's shoulder as they crossed the Citadel courtyard. The King's House was under full watch, and Galieth had to pass between several sets of Citadel Guards on her way inside and up to the royal apartments. She found Almárëa dozing lightly in the king and queen's chambers, having been sent there by Arwen for much-needed rest after her ordeal. Almárëa was only too happy to shift over and make room for her yawning niece, and Galieth left the two of them settling down to sleep in what seemed a precious oasis of peace.

Galieth had intended to return to the White Tower of Ecthelion, there like Túrien to make herself useful in whatever way she could. As she passed along the empty corridor though, she noticed the door to Almárëa's room sitting ajar. Aragorn had ordered the violated apartment left unused, until such time as the broken door could be repaired and the balcony secured. Galieth's intuition prickled, drawing her to carefully open the splintered door and peer inside.

To her utter surprise, she found Eldarion, sitting alone at the foot of Almárëa's bed with his head in his hands. The room was all in shadow, the grey, rain-cast sun kept out by the curtains. Sensing he was no longer alone, Eldarion immediately sat up straight and cleared his throat.

"Oh!" Galieth exclaimed, the ever-familiar nerves driving her voice into a high, startled stammer. "I-I apologize, I did not know anyone was in here!"

"It's alright."

Eldarion spoke calmly, but now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Galieth could see for herself how awful he truly looked. He was positively grey, an ashen pallor beneath his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his brow. The sleeves of his shirt had hitched up, allowing Galieth to finally see the raw, nasty welts on both wrists. Most upsetting though were Eldarion's eyes. They were always so bright and open and inviting, like the blue-grey waters of Lake Evendim at the lake's deepest point. Now though, there was something hollow about Eldarion's gaze as he looked at her, like someone had carved out the light from behind it.

At first, Galieth thought perhaps she ought to go. Clearly the prince had come here seeking solitude, and she was intruding. She took a step back out into the hall, and Eldarion watched her go. Those eyes continued to trouble Galieth though. She stopped, one hand on the sagging door handle.

"Are you alright, Eldarion?"

It was just a simple question, but Galieth's voice was gentle. Eldarion swallowed hard. For just a moment, the mask of calm wavered, and beneath it was such raw pain that it took Galieth's breath away.

"...No."

Eldarion's voice and guard broke both at the same time, his face crumpling into a tight, silent sob. Before Galieth even knew what she was doing, she was across the room and reaching out to enfold Eldarion in a hug. It was the most basic comfort that one person could possibly give to another. Eldarion did not even hesitate. He melted into Galieth's arms almost the instant she touched him, even parting his knees so as to draw her closer to him where he sat. Galieth wound her arms around his head and shoulders, letting him bury his face in her stomach and cry.

"I couldn't...I was so afraid. I thought I was a dead man. When I saw the Morgul blade...and I couldn't do anything to stop it...!"

Eldarion's arms around her waist nearly squeezed all the air from Galieth. His own breath came in deep, gasping sobs. She had heard only what little Almárëa had been able and what little Aragorn had been willing to tell of the events in The Black House. Now, she was beginning to grasp a small measure of last night's horrors. The way in which the king and his lieutenants seemed to guard Eldarion...the clear signs of struggle on his wrists...and now the mention of a Morgul blade. Something dark and terrible had happened, or come very close to happening, and Eldarion was in shock.

There were no words that Galieth - unskilled as she was in the art of pretty speech - could say to take away such a shadow. Was there anything that anyone could say, really? She should have been mortified, standing alone in a bedchamber with Eldarion of all people in her arms. Had she not entertained vain fantasies of such a scene in her private dreams for the past two years? Never had her imaginings played out like this though, and to think of such things now was to do a dishonor to the suffering of the man before her. Instead of answering with useless reassurances and platitudes, Galieth threaded her fingers through Eldarion's sweat-soaked hair and bowed her head to his.

They remained like that for what seemed hours. Gradually, Eldarion's desperate gasps began to even out and return to a more normal rhythm. His tight hold on Galieth lessened only somewhat, and Galieth wondered if he could hear her heartbeat beginning to race. The silence in the room pressed around them like a physical presence, thwarted only by their breathing. Galieth longed to break the silence, but fought with all her restraint to hold back the words gathering at the tip of her tongue. There would be no going back, if she were to speak the truth which she could no longer ignore. Besides, now was not the time for such things. Eldarion did not need any more weighing on him than what burdens he already carried.

Galieth couldn't help it. Pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Eldarion's head, she whispered the words that both freed and doomed her.

"I love you."

Galieth froze, unable to comprehend what she had just said to the heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor. Surely now Eldarion must be able to hear her heart, all but hammering its way through her chest? O by the Valar, what had she done?

Eldarion at first did not move. Galieth began to wonder - to her mingled sadness and relief - if he had even heard her at all. Then Eldarion looked up. 

His eyes were reddened, his cheeks unshaven and hair disheveled. The shadows which had previously hollowed his gaze were gone though, and this alone made Eldarion appear more like himself than he had all day. Galieth could not read his expression though; the way he was looking at her was a mixture of altogether too many emotions. She was equally at a loss, and they were both saved when the voice of Ohtar came calling from outside in the Citadel. 

"Captain Eldarion! Captain, where are you? The Prince of Ithilien has arrived, as has the White Lady and Lord Legolas!"

 Eldarion was rising to his feet before Ohtar could call again. Galieth fell away from him, scarcely able to look the prince in the eye anymore. O how foolish she felt...how utterly childish. She couldn't help but glance once more at Eldarion's damaged wrists as he tucked them away from view beneath his sleeves. 

"It will heal." Eldarion said to Galieth, and something about the way he said it told her that he wasn't just talking about broken skin. "Galieth, I-" 

"Captain!!"

Ohtar called again, urgently this time, and Eldarion could delay no longer. Galieth made herself look at him properly, and he held her gaze unblinking as he bowed. Then Eldarion strode from the room and was gone, leaving Galieth to despair as to what the future might bring. 

OoOoO

"Glawar-nin (my sunshine), will you please pass me that bow compass there?" 

Eruthiawen stood pointing to an instrument on the far side of the parchment laden table, a rueful smile on her face and a hand on the dome of her stomach. Once she would have easily been able to lean across the table and snatch the compass up, but the now-sizable obstacle presented by her pregnancy made such reaches difficult. Trying not to laugh (too obviously!) at his wife's dilemma, Elboron dug the item in question out of their quill pouch and handed it to Eruthiawen. 

"You know, most women this close to their time might be relaxing in bed with a mug of tea and a good book," he remarked casually. 

Eruthiawen shot him a look that bore a strong resemblance to Túrien as she began measuring out distances on a schematic. "Indeed. Most women would not also have a city to plan, with all manner of carpenters, stonemasons, and bricklayers clamoring for the most recent drawings." 

Coming around the table, Elboron looked over Eruthiawen's shoulder and blew out a low whistle. "You have a keen eye for design. Did you have a tutor of architecture in Minas Tirith?" 

"We were each tutored as our interests and future duties dictated. Almárëa loves her natural sciences, Túrien her politics...and swordplay. I have always found a great deal of satisfaction in bringing thought and vision into physical form, whether that be through gardening, sewing, or architecture." 

Elboron pointed to the dark, domed roofs atop circular white buildings on the schematic. "These remind me very much of Annúminas. Did you take inspiration from there?" 

Eruthiawen smiled and nodded. "Yes, exactly. I could not get the way the dark and light contrast one another in the northern sunset out of my head, and thought to channel a little of that here in Minas Ithil. Do you like it?" 

"Very much! Where will we get the dark stone from though? In Annúminas, they have a wealth of slate and other such minerals that are not abundant here in the south." 

Eruthiawen's smile widened, and she tapped a map of Gondor were it lay nearby. "We have the Nindalf wetlands, and thus, we have clay. Ceramic tiles dyed dark blue will stand in for slate roofing very nicely, according to our potters." 

Grinning beneath his mustache, Elboron pointed up at the temporary thatch roof which covered their part of Minas Ithil's still-under-construction central tower. "Except of course the astronomy tower, which will be all in glass. From Lossarnach, or from Harondor?" 

"Harondor, as per the terms of the contracting system which Túrien presented to the Great Council. Minas Ithil is a new project, and Lord Findegil lost the bidding for it to Yusannah." 

"Ah yes." Elboron nodded, recognizing the name from Túrien's letters. "Harondor's first ramyah. Isn't she a cousin of Gulim's, or some manner of relation?"

There was a playful glint in Eruthiawen's eye as she nodded. "Yes, and just as beautiful. Poor Lord Findegil was not even angry when he lost the contract, so tongue-tied was he during the negotiations." 

"For shame man! The new ramyah is scarcely half his age!" Elboron laughed despite himself. 

"A fact which Yusannah seems quite happy to weaponize in her politics." 

Eruthiawen and Elboron shared a moment of mirth over the plight of the Lord of Lossarnach, their laughter echoing in the sparsely furnished, half-finished room. Minas Ithil was far from luxurious, with most of its structures having been so corrupted by the foul presence of the Witch King and his minions that they ended up having to be torn down. Those few buildings which had been preserved - including the central tower in which Elboron and Eruthiawen now made their home - still needed intensive reconstruction and restoration. It was an enormous amount of work, day-in and day-out spent working on designs, consulting with craftsmen, and trying to create a sense of structure and community for the people who had chosen to resettle Minas Ithil with them. The Lord and Lady of the Vale loved their new life though, most especially because they were able to build it together. 

Suddenly, Eruthiawen stopped short in mid-laugh. The bow compass fell from her hand, and she leaned forward abruptly over the cluttered table. Elboron was at her side in a heartbeat. 

"What is it, Eruthia?" he asked, voice urgent as he pressed a supportive hand to her back. "Is something happening?"

"I...do not know." Eruthiawen frowned, her smooth brow knitted together anxiously "The child is not supposed to come for another week, but something feels...strange." 

She flinched then, and suddenly the two of them found themselves standing in a small pool of water. They stared at one another, mouths opens, and a dawning sense of realization brought time to a standstill. 

"Oh my..." whispered Elboron. 

"We must call for my mother and the others," said Eruthiawen urgently. "And the midwife." 

"Right!" 

Elboron made as if to dash for the door. Then he decided that Eruthiawen must not be left alone, and spun back toward her. Then he once again remembered that they would need help. Torn between wanting to stay by Eruthiawen and needing to send word out to others, poor Elboron stood wavering on the spot, his face pure uncertainty. 

"Help me to our chambers first?" suggested Eruthiawen. 

"Ah! Right!" 

Elboron made as if to pick Eruthiawen up entirely off her feet, but she stopped him, promising that she could be trusted to walk at least the short distance between the study and their room. They were halfway down the hall - one anxious step at a time - when Bergil came rushing up the tower stairs. He approached with such urgency, Elboron wondered at how he could possibly know of Eruthiawen's condition already. 

"Bergil, call for a messenger! We must-"

"My lord! A messenger from Minas Tirith has arrived!" 

"...Pardon?" 

Bergil cleared his throat, but the sheen of nervous sweat on his brow did nothing to calm the already agitated couple. "A rider just came in from Minas Tirith, sent by your mother, Queen Arwen, Your Highness. She warns of trouble in the capital; apparently there has been an incident involving Princess Almárëa and Prince Eldarion. Princess Almárëa is safe, but your brother has reportedly been taken hostage by Rhûnic agents in the White City." 

"Taken hostage?!" Eruthiawen cried, her already tight grip on Elboron's hand squeezing nearly all the blood from his fingers. "How can that be?! How could Easterlings ever get within the city gates, much less in a position to pose a threat??" 

"I do not know, Your Highness, but the queen beseeches you to be on your guard, and remain where you are until the danger is past. King Aragorn has sealed the White City, and none are to leave until Prince Eldarion is safely recovered." 

Elboron was aghast. "Eldarion taken hostage?! And you say that Aragorn has sealed the city?! But we were just about to send word summoning the House of Telcontar to come to us here in Minas Ithil! Eruthiawen's time is upon her, and we need them!" 

Poor Bergil, older and wiser but with precious little knowledge of childbirth, tried his best to reassure Elboron and Eruthiawen. "Fear not, I am sure that the king and queen are bringing every resource the White City has to bear in ensuring Prince Eldarion's safety. We must heed Queen Arwen's advice and ensure the two of you are well protected as well. I will escort you to your chambers, and then call for more guards as well as the midwife." 

"Eidith never learned healing from the likes of Lord Elrond," lamented Elboron as they helped a grimacing Eruthiwen down the hallway. 

Eruthiawen squeezed Elboron's hand. "Take heart, glawar-nin. We must trust to the skills of Mistress Eidith and her apprentice, as well as to the Valar. They are watching over us all now."

They got Eruthiawen to their bedchambers in one piece, where she was only too happy to change into a more comfortable dressing gown and slippers. Elboron and Bergil stepped outside and give her privacy, and Bergil promptly rushed off in search of additional guards and the midwife. That left Elboron to pace anxiously by the window. So caught up was he in the myriad of worries weighing upon his mind, he at first did not hear the shouting of the watchmen in the city below. Then something amiss caught his eye. 

Leaving off his pacing, Elboron stopped and stared. Normally, the Morgai Mountains filled most of the view, with the narrow strip of foothills between the mountains and the Anduin River stretching all the way north to the Plains of Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes. Now though, a dark stain filled the space between the mountains and the river. The stain was moving, growing larger and nearer as it spread south toward Minas Ithil. Elboron saw red banners, heard the cry of a war horn as it echoed off the mountains, and felt the Tower of the Moon tremble ever-so-slightly as a thousand Easterlings approached. 

OoOoO

In Edoras, Elfwine was sitting down to an early dinner with his mother. It had been a long day, filled with much talk of trade, taxation, and plans for the coming harvest. Elfwine far preferred honest work to the multi-layered issues of politics and economy, and found such a day to be more tiring than long hours spent in the saddle. Tomorrow he had plans to oversee the building of a new mill in the nearby town of Aldburn, plans which involved riding out at dawn and perhaps even doing some heavy lifting himself. The thought of the wind in Baldor's mane and earning a few new calluses had Elfwine in high spirits, and he told jokes to make Lothíriel laugh while they broke bread. 

When a pretty serving girl set Elfwine's wine goblet in front of him, he indulged himself in a quick grin and a wink. Little did the young King of Rohan know that, mingled in the wine, a tincture of Wolf's-Bane - also known as aconite - lay in wait. One of the more potent poisons known to Men, aconite would bring death swiftly in the guise of a sudden heart malady. Elfwine could not know that, far away in Minas Tirith, Rhoss had just that morning revealed to Eldarion the role of just such a poison in Éomer's end. Now, unwed and without heirs of his own, Elfwine sat within arm's reach of death, cheerfully talking with Lothíriel about the harvest's oncoming reaping. 

OoOoO