Myriam was fussy...again. This morning though, Túrien could hardly blame her little girl. She herself had been on the brink of tears ever since Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith the night before. 

Gïdjls, dead. Sufyan, very near death, if he had not died already since Faramir left Minas Ithil. Of the seven Haradrim who had accompanied them from Harmindon - longtime friends and trusted servants all - only one survived. The Vale of the Moon had been retaken, Elboron and Eruthiawen were safe, but the price had been high enough to break Túrien's heart nearly in two. Still, she was a princess of Gondor, a ramyahani of Harmindon, and a mother. Túrien could not afford to weep any more than she already had. Her tears had been shed in the privacy of The House of the Kings, alone in the bed she and Sufyan had shared only days ago. How dearly she wished they were home, surrounded by the trickling waters, lush gardens, and sandstone walls of Harmindon. Come the dawning though, Túrien had nursed and dressed Myriam, clothed herself in her shawls and silks, and gone down into the city. News of Minas Ithil would surely have spread throughout the night, and the Haradrim in the Craftsmen's Tier would be needing the reassurance of their future ramyah. 

With only a few hours until departing for Minas Ithil with Arwen, Almárëa, and Galieth, Túrien knew she would have little time to linger. A part of her wanted to run straight to the stables of Minas Tirith now, with nothing but Myriam on her back, and ride all the way to Minas Ithil at full gallop. Sufyan's fate was in the hands of her father, the Valar, and the Golden Serpent now though. Until she could go to his side, she would tend to their people. 

Sure enough, the moment Túrien set foot inside the gate to the Third Circle, her presence was noticed. A group of children who had been quietly playing knuckle-bones at the side of the street looked up, and the lone Haradrim boy in their midst jumped to his feet. 

"Ramyahani!" he cried, and further down the street the shawls and head-wraps of several Haradrim shopkeepers could be seen turning her way. 

"Your Highness," the Gondorian crafts-folk murmured respectfully, bowing as she passed, and by the veiled sympathy in their eyes Túrien knew that word of the events at Minas Ithil had indeed spread. 

'I am not a widow yet,' she insisted firmly, even as she accepted the bows and honorifics with a wordless nod. 'Do not look at me as if I were one.'

Myriam squirmed in her wicker harness, and Túrien took a moment to reach back over one shoulder and ensure her daughter had her bracelet. Made from the wooden beads which old Yetka had given Eldarion, the bracelet was helping greatly with Myriam's teething at the moment. When Túrien looked back to where she was, a familiar face and market stall greeted her at the bend in the street. 

"Ezserê sibehê dixwazim (I wish you a good morning), ramyahani." Jeddah, the seamstress, lifted her hand - first palm inward toward her face and then outward - in the formal Haradrim greeting. 

"Rojbaş (Good morning), Jeddah," answered Túrien, using more casual phrasing for her greeting. Having repaired her own accidentally-torn wedding shawl, as well as making Eruthiawen's wedding veil on commission, Jeddah had been known to Túrien for over four years now. It was perhaps for this reason that Túrien had gone directly to her market stall without consciously realizing it. She longed for Na'Man and Sawda as well; writing to them this morning had been one of the most difficult letters she'd ever sent. 

Her dark eyes watchful, Jeddah stepped out from around the frames upon which she had been hanging her latest creations. Only a few years older than Almárëa the young seamstress may have been, but the painstaking detail of her embroidery already reflected a patience far beyond Jeddah's years. 

"Lady Túrien," she spoke slowly, still in the Haradrim tongue so as to keep their conversation somewhat private. "Is it true, what they've been saying? Is the chieftain's son dead?" 

That explained the many sympathetic looks her arrival had garnered. Túrien shook her head emphatically, even as her throat tightened and worked to betray her. 

"No, it is not true. Sufyan lives, but his wounds are grave. I go to join him in Minas Ithil with my mother and sister before midday." 

"And his Mûmak...?"

Túrien shook her head. "Gïdjls was lost. I have sent for a Bone Mother...hopefully one can be found in Harondor who will be willing to make the journey here." 

Jeddah looked crestfallen, but not surprised. "I weep for your loss, ramyahani. Gïdjls was so young, what a fine bull he would have become. The drivers, they were lost too?" 

"They were, all save one. Qufar I'm told survived, and remains by Sufyan's side." 

Closing her eyes, Jeddah nodded. From her harness on Túrien's back, Myriam began to babble softly to herself. She had not yet begun to speak in words, but her voice was young and sweet and reassuring. Jeddah leaned around Túrien and smiled at Myriam in her harness, even though there were unshed tears behind the seamstress's eyes. 

"Young Myriam grows quickly, and bright."

"She has Sufyan's eyes." 

"She does," agreed Jeddah.

"Jeddah, can you do something for me?" 

"Of course." 

"Can you put a stop to the rumors about Minas Ithil, which seem to be traveling far faster than the truth?" Raising her voice loudly enough that all nearby could hear, and speaking in the Common Tongue, Túrien announced "The chieftain's son is not dead, although his Mûmak and all but one of the drivers are. The threat of Rhûn is ended, Minas Ithil has been retaken, and the queen and I go to be with King Aragorn and the rest of our family in the Vale. If fate allows, we shall all return together to Minas Tirith very soon." 

The small crowd - Gondorian and Haradrim craftspeople both -  which had subtly begun to gather while Túrien and Jeddah spoke received this announcement with murmurs of relief. 

"And what of Princess Almárëa?" called out a woman from the crowd. "And Prince Eldarion? I heard they were kidnapped by Easterling?!" 

A man was quick to answer her even before Túrien could. "No, you heard wrong! I heard that the princess was kidnapped, but the prince rescued her by fighting off twenty Easterlings at once!" 

"Twenty?! Don't be a fool man, I was told it was twenty-five, no less!" 

Túrien could have screamed at all of them. A sideways glance at Jeddah and the genuine, bewildered concern written across the faces of all gathered forestalled her frustration. She drew a deep, calming breath before calling out once more 

"There was a plot, but it has been thwarted. Prince Eldarion and Princess Almárëa are both alive and well, as you will see for yourselves when we all return from Minas Ithil. In our absence, Lord Faramir will see to the governing of the White City." 

A sudden shout from the guard standing watch on the city wall above brought every head snapping upward. 

"Riders approaching!" 

Túrien was about to call back to ask what banner the riders flew when the sound of a horn, strong and proud, rose from the Fields of Pelennor on the wind. The horns of Rohan were unmistakable, no matter the distance. 

"Riders of Rohan, with the king's banner before them!" came the call from the guards. 

"Elfwine?" wondered Túrien aloud. Gathering up her silks, she turned briefly back to Jeddah. "You will spread the truth about Minas Ithil to the other Haradrim in the White City?" 

Jeddah bowed her head. "I will." 

OoOoO

Túrien made it down to the Great Gate of Minas Tirith just as the enormous, dwarf-made bolts were being drawn back. When the doors swung inward, a company of thirty Riders spilled into the courtyard, banners of white and green fluttering overhead. The foremost banner was trimmed in gold; the banner of the king, and sure enough Elfwine rode in just behind it. Baldor tossed his black mane as Túrien approached, pawing at the stone street with one hoof and snorting. Citizens of Gondor were gathering in on all sides of the courtyard, exclaiming with open gladness to see the King of Rohan in Minas Tirith. 

"Elfwine!" Túrien called out to him, drawing his attention in the crowd. 

Reining Baldor about, Elfwine made straight for where Túrien was approaching and dismounted. Up close, he looked disheveled and tired, like one who had traveled a long distance in a short time. There was an intensity in his hazel-green eyes though, unfamiliar enough to take Túrien aback.

"What has happened? As welcome as you are, we did not look to see you here before the Harvest Festival." 

"Túrien." Elfwine's chin dipped quickly, reminding her that she had hardly greeted him as befitting a royal welcome either. Neither of them seemed to be of any mind to observe the niceties at the moment though. "Where are the others? Is everyone alright?"

'No', thought Túrien. What she said though was "Everyone is alive, but...how did you know of our troubles? There was no time to send word all the way to Rohan, with so much happening all at once." 

Elfwine's already worn expression darkened. "Much has happened in Rohan too. I was told of a threat to Eldarion's life, as well as Elboron and Eruthiawen. Was it true?" 

"Yes, but the worst of the danger is past. Eldarion, Elboron, and Eruthiawen are all safe, as is Almárëa." 

"Almárëa??" Elfwine jerked in surprise. Then his brow knitted in a thunderous look which only Éomer himself could have rivaled. "Túrien, where is everyone?!"

"In the Citadel. At least, everyone who is here in Minas Tirith." 

Without waiting for any further answers or explanations, Elfwine turned and swung himself back up into the saddle. Reaching down, he offered Túrien his hand. 

"Ride with me. We will reach the Citadel all the faster on horseback." 

Mindful of Myriam - wide-eyed and anxious at the sudden presence of horses - Túrien took Elfwine's hand and pulled herself up behind him on Baldor's back. Those gathered around were wise enough to hurry out of the street before Elfwine and his Riders rode onward and upward through the city.

The Tower Guard had alerted Arwen to their coming; she, Almárëa, and Faramir were awaiting them in the Court of the Fountain. Galieth was there also, hanging back amongst the lords and ladies of Gondor. When the Riders of Rohan reached the entrance to the Citadel, they dismounted, and Elfwine lingered only long enough to help Túrien and Myriam down before rushing to meet the others. 

"Elfwine, you're here!" As she had once always done as a child, Almárëa broke away from the front of the group to rush head-long into Elfwine's embrace. Wrapping her slender arms around his neck, she squeezed tight and was nearly lifted straight off her feet. "Don't ask me how, but somehow I knew you'd come!" 

Setting Almárëa down, Elfwine was about to answer when the bandages around her wrists caught his eye. Seizing hold of both her hands - so small and white in his weathered fingers - he stared at the linen wrappings with mounting wrath. 

"Who did this?" he asked through gritted teeth. 

"Elfwine," Placing herself between him and Almárëa, Arwen took Elfwine by the arm and turned him. Faced with the timeless grey eyes of the Evenstar, Elfwine had little choice but to rein in his anger...for now. "Your arrival is timely. It seems we have much to discuss." 

Remembering himself, Elfwine bowed to Arwen as the Queen of Gondor. Faramir and Túrien exchanged a look. Very little of the past three days would be a happy story to retell, for any of them. Looking around at the royal family - conspicuously absent Aragorn and Eldarion - Elfwine nodded.

"Aye, it seems we do." 

 OoOoO

An hour later, gathered in a parlor in the House of the Kings, dismay hung heavy in the air, mingled with grief. The revelation of Éomer's death by poisoning, coupled with Elfwine's own near-miss, stung them all keenly. For his part, Elfwine had sat in barely-contained rage as he heard the story of Almárëa's kidnapping, Eldarion's capture, the siege of Minas Ithil, and Eruthiawen and Sufyan's grave misfortunes. The news that Eruthiawen and Elboron now had a son brought some small measure of happiness, but it was sadly overshadowed by all else that had occurred. 

When at last Elfwine let out a long, low breath, they all watched the King of Rohan for his reaction. At length Elfwine spoke to Arwen. 

"My Riders and I will of course accompany you to Minas Ithil, when you depart today. I have heard enough of the ill fortune which has befallen my family...now I must see them all with my own eyes." 

Faramir alone tried to reason with Elfwine. "You and your men have made the journey from Edoras to Minas Tirith in scarcely more than two days; a feat which even Eorl on the Mearas Felaróf would have been hard-pressed to match. None of you have eaten or slept in that time, I imagine, and are liable to fall from your saddles at this rate. You must rest before you set out again. Stay here, for one night at least. You and your Riders can follow the queen's party to Minas Ithil come the morn." 

Elfwine was shaking his head before Faramir even finished speaking. "I can sleep in the saddle, as can any other Rider of Rohan. Though I will not press my men to follow until they have eaten and slept, I will not linger in Minas Tirith. No, Uncle, I leave with Arwen and her party, and will take what rest I can on the way to the Vale of the Moon." 

Faramir sighed. "You are as stubborn as Éowyn. Shall I send your Riders along the road to Minas Ithil then, as soon as they are able?" 

"Yes. In fact, I do not think I shall tell them I intend to leave now, else-wise Fulthain and Fasthelm at least will surely try to come with me. Let them recover, and beg them not to be too angry with their rash and mule-headed king." 

"You most certainly are those, and more besides," remarked Túrien dryly. 

"And you, Galieth? Will you come with us?" asked Arwen, looking to where the lady-in-waiting had been putting a last bundle of herbs into the queen's satchel; intended for Eruthiawen had childbirth come upon her but a week later, but still useful even now. 

Galieth paused, biting her lip. It had not escaped Túrien's noticed that Galieth had been even quieter than usual as of late. She suspected that it had something to do with the awe-struck way the older girl always looked at Eldarion, a look which had been conspicuously absent when the men left to defend Minas Ithil. Túrien had other concerns at the moment though, and glanced down to adjust her shawl over Myriam as she nursed. 

"...If it is your wish that I accompany you, Your Grace," said Galieth.

"Certainly it is, Galieth," said Almárëa. "You are part of our household, and so of course you must come with us to Minas Ithil. I imagine there will be much need of you there." 

Something about the way Almárëa said the last part made Túrien look sideways at her younger sister. Ever since they were children, Túrien had always known Almárëa to use that tone of voice when she was plotting something. Almárëa sat utterly calm and straight-faced though, nothing but matter-of-fact honesty in her blue-grey gaze. 

Galieth dipped in a curtsy. "Very well then, Your Majesties. I will come to Minas Ithil at your side." 

Arwen rose from her seat. "That is settled, then. We had planned to leave at midday, and the sun is already risen high in the sky. Take at least a little food and drink, Elfwine, and then we shall begin final preparations to leave." 

Leaving Elfwine, Túrien, and Almárëa sitting in the parlor with Galieth gone to request a quick lunch from the kitchens, Arwen beckoned Faramir to one side by the balcony door. The two of them spoke in low voices, beyond the hearing of the young folk. 

"Who shall tell Éowyn the truth of her brother's death? Such news will surely be devastating to her, knowing how close the two of them were in life," Arwen lamented. 

"I think it best the news come from Elfwine. He and Lothíriel together discovered the truth, and it seems to me that justice has been served, for whatever that is worth to a grieving wife, son, and sister." 

"You are wise, Faramir, although I sorely wish that Elfwine did not have to bear any more of the burden of this treachery than he already does." Lifting the curtains, Arwen gazed out upon the Citadel where royal grooms were readying their horses. "I wish we were there now. My heart yearns to see my dear ones again, but most especially Eruthiawen and Eldarion. You are certain that she seemed out of danger when you left?" 

Faramir nodded. "Your Gra-...Arwen, a small part of me wishes that you could have been there to witness the moment that chamber door opened. Beautiful and mild though your eldest daughter may be, I assure you there dwells a truly fiercesome spirit within her. It was quite a shock to behold, if I am being honest." Faramir chuckled softly, and laid a comforting hand on Arwen's shoulder. "Eruthiawen will be awaiting you in Minas Ithil, with our new grandson in her arms." 

"Our grandson." Arwen smiled. "And so our bloodlines are joined, Faramir of Gondor. Yes, I am greatly looking forward to meeting young Barahir as well. Ai...poor Sufyan, and Túrien!" Chancing a glance back over one shoulder to where Túrien sat with Myriam in her arms, Arwen lowered her voice even further. "Every mother prays that her daughter need never know such heartbreak..."

"Sufyan is in the best of hands. Aragorn brought both Éowyn and I back to this world when by rights we should have died. He will do no less for Túrien's beloved, I am sure of it." 

Faramir's certainty warmed Arwen's heart. She reached out and took his hand in hers. 

"Aragorn never did so well as when he healed you and Éowyn of your wounds. The two of you have been among our truest and greatest friends these past years. I will never forget that, no matter how long the years of my life may grow." 

Together, Faramir and Arwen stood by the window, watching the others and savouring a scrap of peace before they set out for Minas Ithil. Myriam had fallen asleep, and Túrien rocked her little daughter gently in her arms and sang her a Haradrim lullaby. Almárëa and Elfwine sat slumped in silence, both their gazes a thousand miles away while Elfwine absently prodded at Almárëa's shoe with his travel-stained boot. Then Galieth returned with a tray of fruit, cheese, and water, and a brief lunch was had by all. 

Faramir saw them off when they set out for Minas Ithil, standing on the walls of Minas Tirith long after The Great Gate closed behind the queen and her party. Watching Arwen the others shrink into the distance across the Fields of Pelennor, with Elboron and Éowyn still in Minas Ithil, he was acutely aware of how alone he was in that moment. 

'Was this how you felt at times, Father?' he wondered. 

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Faramir preferred not to guess at the minds of the dead. Turning away from the plains below, the Steward of Gondor took up his duty to the White City once again. 

OoOoO