Chapter Text
The air is thinner here.
I don’t remember it being so suffocating before. Or it’s the lack of wind or the spray of sea-salt curling my hair. Or, perhaps, it’s just the absence of freedom.
A summer to the coast after my mother died turned to ten years at Dol Amroth with her kin there. Ten years on the coast of Belfalas, with the salt spray and the endless horizon carved a different woman than the girl who left Minas Tirith.
It was lovely. Days spent on an amount of water I’ve never known being landlocked for sixteen years prior. I spent days sailing in the sun, reading, riding and learning everything I could get my hands on in the stronghold, all while blossoming into a court moulded woman. My uncle’s post as advisor to the Prince of Dol Amroth brought me into the other court of Gondor – one gilded with sunlight and laughter, so unlike the cold stone walls I had left.
I was happy in Dol Amroth. I had friends, I had suitors I never took seriously. In truth, I was scared to return home. Scared of duties I knew I would need to face, of pasts I would not be able to cling to. I could cling to them in Dol Amroth. I could cling to those letters. I could cling to them with all the strength I had.
My father would visit every summer but there was never any pressure to return to Minas Tirith. I think he rather enjoyed being able to do his work without needing to raise a teenage daughter. Being High Advisor to the Steward is stressful enough without the moods of a sixteen-year-old girl.
I come from a long line of counselors; my lineage steeped in service to Gondor. If I were a son, my future would be set. But I’m not… and yet it’s already written.
Hence the summons home after ten years, to a future planned well before I knew of it.
To duty.
To the life that was chosen for me.
I had dreamed often of Minas Tirith in the years I had been gone, but dreams had dulled its edges. Now the real city feels vast, and overwhelming, and much too bright; brighter than the other white city I had left. Rising above the plains, grand and immense before me, my breath catches in my chest at the sight of it. Whether it’s the inherit dread that I’m actually being pulled back to a life I haven’t known in a decade or the beauty of the white walls catching the last rays of gold from the afternoon sun, I’m not sure. But it’s beautiful, and a stark contrast of the beauty of the white shores I had just left.
The gates open, the sound rolling through stones like thunder. Within, the streets are narrower than I remember and the air changed. The scent of fresh bread, and horses and wet stone mingle about me – no trace of sea salt and sand left. And there’s laughter, a different kind of laughter from the freedom of diving into the sea. It’s reserved, quieter, like the stones steal a part of innocence from the joy. Regardless, children dart between the wheels of my small convoy, laughing and jostling until I see mothers pulling them back, casting careful looks at the seal of the Steward on the guards escorting me.
We climb level by level, the archways and courtyards pass slowly as we climb. Memories from each level, of each garden or passageway flood back to me. I remember my ears popping from elevation changes when we would scale walls too quickly or when I accidentally slid down the streets on a crate like I now know men ride the waves. I remember my laughter then; I remember the boys trying it and one falling face down, his nose busted, leaving a deep scar. Much like the laughter of the children, my memories seem to be pulled into the white walls, my innocence long gone with age. My ears don’t pop now, our procession too slow dragging me back to the upper levels.
At last, the carriages stop before the White Tower, the seventh gate groaning open. Stepping out, the sun is blinding off the white stones when my boots touch the coolness. Stone is colder than sand. My father and his aide are my only fanfare of welcome, but the sounds of life in the High Court rush around me, even from here.
“Eirian,” my father says, his deep voice warm and measured. My father, after years of practice, chooses his words carefully and he pauses for a moment as I smooth my dress of the dust from the road. “Welcome home,” he smiles, the hint of paternal affection squeaking through. “The city has missed you.”
Notably, he says not that he has missed me, but I know he has. I hear it in the pause, the hesitation before his smile. My father’s affection lives in what he doesn’t speak, in the small things like the books he brings me with flowers pressed in them. I see one with a beautiful sapphire binding in his aide’s hands right now.
The man before me now is not just my father. His first face, the one worn to council and in great halls, has sharpened his dark hair into streaks of silver. It has dug the lines around his eyes deeper. His first face is for Gondor and the phrasing of my welcome reeks of a duty we both hold; one I am to be reminded of even the moment I step back into it.
“You’ll find much has changed since you’ve been gone,” he adds, motioning Meldon forward. Seamlessly, another moment where words aren’t needed, his aide hands him the book he carried. My father turns it over lightly, a practice honed from scrolling through endless amounts of delicate parchments. “But much hasn’t.” The lines around his eyes crinkle with a small smile. “Do you still collect them?” He asks, extending the velvet wrapped book to the space between us.
“I do, thank you,” I tell him softly, smiling. My smile wants to be genuine, but years at court have masked some of that emotion. My father catches it instantly, nodding politely. His gaze of me shifts for a moment, looking at the two faces I have formed for myself: the daughter and the diplomat.
The book is gorgeous, and I do cherish these gifts from him. This one is soft in my hands as my fingers flip through the pages briefly. Patches of pinks, greens and whites melt into the pages, long stems and vines pressed into the cream parchment. It is beauty caged. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him, my smile reaching my eyes this time.
“Much like the new owner,” my father glints. His smile widens, his demeanor less advisor now and more the father who stayed at my bedside when fever took me as a child, telling me silly stories of the old kings to pass the time. But just then, a clatter of pewter erupts from somewhere nearby closely followed by the hushed tones of servants scrambling. It cuts through the peace between us and the first face of my father flashes back to place instantly.
“The kitchens are in chaos,” he tells me, clearing his throat. Stepping forward, he extends his arm, an invitation for me to take. My arm loops into his easily as we step in time, his feet leading us toward the gardens that line the Citadel and back toward where my home now resides. “The Steward has ordered a feast in honor of your return.”
My feet would halt if not for my father continuing his stride. “I would rather have something quieter,” I tell him softly, willing the preparations to stop. Could I have one moment, just one moment to prepare myself further – the week journey from the coast did nothing of that. “The road was long,” I say instead.
My father nods as he pats my arm as tender as he can, the face of the advisor cracking slightly. “I know,” he sighs. “But appearances, my dear, are their own kind of duty. Tomorrow you may rest. Tonight, we must be seen.”
In the words not chosen, I know his meaning as clear as if he wrote it officially – it most certainly is already in writing, and not even by his hand. The official decree of Lady Eirian’s return would have been written by Meldon and known to the court. Tonight, I must be presented formally and publicly for everyone’s benefit but my own.
Just as we round the final corner of the Citadel, my eyes pull south toward the coast and toward the sanctuary I’ve left behind. It’s only fitting that my view is blocked by the barren White Tree. Service even before reflection.
Corridors wind down in slow spirals to the lower levels, white and unyielding, and the world of the busy court dissolves away to quieter stone. The halls of my youth, the walls filled with tapestries and portraits of old, blur as we pass. Not much has changed, perhaps a layer of dust that was likely there before but I didn’t have the eye to catch then. Meldon’s steps echo behind us as he follows a step behind my father like he always is.
“The archives have expanded since you were last here,” my father says after a time. “And there is a new catalog system. You’ll find the archives better tended, I believe.”
“They were well kept before, if my memory is correct,” I comment as casual as any afternoon stroll. “Does Mithrandir still consult the archives?”
My father’s laugh echos off the stone. “He is precisely the reason the catalog system was required.”
I can almost smell the comforting scent of pipe weed that clings to Mithrandir as he huddles over tables and scrolls, his long grey hair constantly needing to be swept back for him to see in low light. He would always refuse the cord Faramir would bring him to tie it back. We were always trying to help him; whether it was securing a cord, bringing ale or roaming the catalogs. Hours and days were spent in that dusty corner of the archives, the three of us.
My skin flushes with the memories. A well-timed light cough helps to keep my second face of courtly grace composed. “I look forward to studying the improvements.”
“I thought you would.” He beams over at me, his eyes lighter than before, the wrinkles around his eyes less noticeable.
The familiar corridor for our wing is to the right as we continue our walk. The garden that runs adjacent to my rooms is in full spring bloom. Birds chirp lively, the small fountain bubbles sweetly, the stone benches are perfectly shaded for reading. I want to escape there now instead of to the sounds I already hear of maids readying my room at the end of the hallway.
“Lord Caladir,” Meldon leans forward from his spot a step behind us to speak lowly to my father. “You are due to ready yourself before the evening council.”
“Yes, yes.” My father who never mumbles, mumbles now, nearly rolling his eyes at his trusty aide. “I will leave you now, Eirian. You’ll find your crates already here along with newer pieces.” His brow furrows. Then after a beat, he adds, “Some from your mother’s collection have been added as well. The rest are stored if you so desire them.”
Ten years does little to dull the ache of missing her. “Thank you, Father,” I gulp. “It is appreciated.”
He clears his throat roughly, the veil of advisor firmly back in place. “Ready,” he tells me. “I will escort you after I meet with the Steward.”
And promptly, I was alone. The cloaks of my father and Melton trail behind them as their heads huddle back into discussion when they round the far corner, disappearing from sight. Behind the oak door, the chatter of at least three maids seeps out and before I can turn to escape to the gardens, the door quickly opens.
“Lady Eirian,” a sweet voice singsongs my name in greeting. Thiriel lowers her head in a small curtsy, the top of her white hair just barely reaching my shoulder even without the bob. She had been my mother’s maid before mine for the last ten years. She departed from Dol Amroth a week before I did and I’ve missed her terribly. “I thought I heard Lord Caladir’s voice,” she comments, peeking her head out of the threshold with a quickness learned to avoid detection. “Come in,” she motions into my chambers like I need an invitation. “We’re just laying out your things.”
I can’t say if anything had changed within my rooms, except for longer gowns in the wardrobe or more jewelry. At least ten – soon to be eleven – new journals are on my bookcases that definitely need to be dusted. Thiriel takes the blue velvet from my hands to set it next to the others.
“Everything in order?” She asks me, noticing my stare of the space.
My throat suddenly goes dry, my eyes landing on the dress strewn across my bed. Presented proudly there is a silk gown as white as the walls around me, adorned with trails of silver woven delicately through the bodice. Along the hem, lines of blues and greens swirl up to fade into the folds of the skirts. It’s a delicate, gorgeous piece that I have no recollection of myself or my mother owning. It would be the perfect wedding gown. When I stay silent, Thiriel follows my gaze.
“Ah,” she sighs, her tone falling as she notices my apprehension. “A gift from the Steward… for your return. Your father – and the Steward – would like you to wear it tonight.”
Thiriel knows me better than most, so I don’t need to put a face of the court on with her; my current face loses the composure I’ve been trying to maintain. “Of course they would,” I grumble, rubbing my brow. Thiriel shoos the other two maids out quickly, bolting the door as they leave like it will keep the evening at bay for me.
“Sit,” she commands, a tone I know well. “There is plenty of time before the feast. I’ll draw a bath.” And before I comment, a rather full glass of wine is shoved into my face. I have half a mind to throw it on the dress, but I take a sip of it, slouching into the chair by the hearth.
This feast will be worse than I feared. It’s not merely a welcome or an introduction – it's a test to see if I’ll bend.
And I will not bend easily. I have been shaped by the sea. I can weather any storm.
Thiriel hums a shanty she became fond of as she draws the bath. The sound of the salts she’s pouring in bounce off the copper basin. Ting, tick, ting. My pulse jumps under my skin with each drop of salt, each drop another thundering beat that rattles through me and shakes the room until the only thing in my chambers are just me and the gown chosen for me. My fingers tap instinctively on the armchair, my nails clicking onto the hardened wood to match the sounds of the bath, tick, tick tick. The wine is too bitter on my tongue.
Without thinking, I’m out of the armchair, wine gripped hard in my hand, stomping over to my bed frame until I’m standing above the dress so carefully picked out by the Steward. I don’t pour the crimson wine over it, however much it tempts me. It really is gorgeous and in any other circumstance I would wear and cherish it instantly. However, this is no ordinary circumstance and it is the least likely thing I will wear tonight. With too much care, I shuffle the silk onto my arm so that it can be beautifully draped anywhere else in my chambers as long as its not on my bed or on me.
With Thiriel still occupied, my wardrobe hangs open, drawing me over to its depths. Taking a sip of the wine, my fingers flick through the other various silks and satins hanging within the cedar until I find the dress I had envisioned wearing in the first place. A satin of deep emerald, trimmed and boned in silver lines woven delicately like climbing vines. It is fitted enough to be noticeable, yet it drapes elegant and effortlessly. It reminds me of the shadowed greens of the forest – wild and untamed and free. As I set this gown on the bed, Thiriel steps back into the main chamber. Her feet halt abruptly.
“Eirian, that is not wise,” she shakes her head, lips parted slightly with wide eyes. “The Steward was clear.”
“They want me seen.” My voice is sharper than I intend, but it’s not directed at Thiriel. It’s a challenge instead to the city, the court, and the weight of expectation already upon me. Stepping past her to the desk, my fingers brush over a small, finely detailed box. A brooch waits within, a small silver leaf touched with veins of bronze. It’s delicate and defiant, an old memory. “They will not choose how I will be seen.”
Holding the brooch out to Thiriel, she takes it gingerly, sighing with a fond exasperation. “Will you defy them further by not washing?” Thiriel’s eyebrows cock up, amused.
I don’t answer at once. The thought is tempting, to walk into the hall full of salt and wind. Thiriel’s laugh rings out, low and real. “You are your mother. Einareth was the same whenever she came back from the coast – beautiful and stubborn.”
Pausing, her name feels like a tide pulling at me. At times, I can no longer hear her voice; I can only see her smile, feel her arms around me. “I remember she always did what was required of her.”
“Aye, she did,” Thiriel holds her hand out to me, guiding me to the bath. “But more so, she simply learned how to endure.”
For a moment as the steam wraps around me and the familiar weight of water leaves me slightly buoyant, I almost forget about the feast. I forget about the weight of eyes soon to be on me; the disappointing look my father will greet me with when my chamber doors open. Only the small sounds Thiriel makes for my preparations pull me back to reality. I sink lower into the tub until I’m fully submerged.
“Come on, little fish,” Thiriel calls to me. “You can not hide away forever.”
“I am not hiding,” I tell her, my fingers curling around the lip of the basin. “I am delaying.”
When I emerge and step back into my main room, Thiriel turns, her sharp eyes softening slightly. “Better,” she says nodding, a small smile on her pink lips. She holds out a simple linen shift. The fabric is cool on my heated skin.
When the gown comes next, the emerald sheen catches the lamplight, green as deep as forest shadow, the silver threads curling through it like climbing vines that trace my ribs and waist. It settles around me like a whisper, heavy but fluid, fitting close at the ribs before spilling into flowing pools at my feet. The fabric is heavy on my shoulders, but the weight is nearly a comfort, a shield. Thiriel’s hands are practiced and steady, folding and fastening the fabric and ties at my back as though she was assembling a suit of armor instead of a gown. She doesn’t hurry. I hear the bells toll a new hour, but no knocks come to summon me.
Running a comb of bone through my copper hair, Thiriel starts to hum again. It’s soothing as the knots fall away with each gentle pass. “Up or down?” She asks me.
“Half,” I answer, my fingers tracing the brooch I have yet to pin to my shoulder.
“A simple pin as to not distract from your… statement?” In the polished glass I can see her eyes flick down to my dress, her white eyebrows rising as she does so.
“No… I have a better idea.”
Thiriel sighs, predicting my next act of defiance. Leaning forward, I shift through another box on my desk, my fingers finding exactly the piece I want. I’ll give them just one piece of me tonight and only one. The White Tree of Gondor catches the firelight in my hand as I pass Thiriel the comb. She nods approvingly before securing it in my hair. When she shakes out the rest of my hair, it falls loosely between my shoulder blades, the silver tree gleaming just above its waves, secured at my crown.
“Your mother would be proud.” Thiriel steps back, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle at my shoulder.
The reflection staring back at me is one that Minas Tirith has not seen yet. I am not the wind-tossed girl that arrived this morning. I am not the girl that left at sixteen to mourn at the coast. I am not what they remembered. I am not what they will expect.
“Shall I send for your father?” Thiriel asks me, running her fingers once more through my hair.
“Yes.” Another set of bells ring somewhere in the city. “I believe we’ve delayed enough to give the court the entrance they want from me.”
The latch clicks softly as she leaves, the silence settling like dust in her wake. Only then, do I turn the small leaf brooch in my hands and fumble to unhook the spring. The fire has burned low, the space too warm now, but the light coming off of it catches the silver of the brooch perfectly to shine as bright as any star in the night sky. My fingers shake slightly when I brush my hair from my shoulder, exposing the delicate line near the crook of my neck where the dress drapes effortlessly across my collarbone. I pin it there, hidden if I want it to be by my waves or exposed for the world to see. The leaf of Ithilien, despite the warmth of the room, is cool under my touch.
Rising, the dress falls perfectly around me and the green catches the shadows of the fire as I cross to the open window. The air outside carries the faint scent of rain and sounds of the lower city – the whisper of carts, the clangs of the blacksmiths, the faint songs of the night birds. From this height, the streets shimmer line veins of silver. My eyes can’t help but trace the path I would take out of the city, or the hidden paths to hide. Before my thoughts turn to reality, the soft voice of Thiriel reaches from behind the closed door of my rooms and then the faint knocking that accompanies a beat later.
For a moment longer, I stand still, watching the city move as it has always moved. Another knock raps on the door, my pulse skipping just a beat. I’ve done this a hundred times, I need to remind myself. Minas Tirith is but another court and this but another feast. Drawing a deep breath, my spine straightens and my heartbeat steadies as the door creaks open.
Thiriel steps aside to allow my father to fill the threshold. For a moment, neither of us speaks as his eyes move over me. I see him take in the silver tree gleaming in my hair to the deep green folds that gather at my feet. I see the flicker of surprise he tries to hide.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers, squeezing my arm in his when I take it. “A picture of your mother.”
The corridors are quieter than I expected. Only the soft echo of our steps follow us, steady and measured. The sound is swallowed by stone. We don’t speak at first, the silence comfortable. His stride slows to match mine, deliberate and protective, the kind of unspoken care that needs no words.
“You do not have to be brave in every moment, Eirian,” he says at last, not quite turning his head. “Just stand as you’ve been taught at Dol Amroth, the rest will follow.”
I glance up at him softly, my voice light. “I believe you have taught me something similar.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Then perhaps you’ll remember standing firm is not the same as standing alone.” The words settle deep, somewhere beneath my ribs. It’s the closest thing he’ll come to saying he worries for me. It’s the words he doesn’t say that I know his meaning.
Finally reaching the great doors, the guards move to pull them open, but my father lifts his hand. The motion is subtle, commanding and it halts them instantly. He turns to me fully then as if to memorize my face in the dim light. For a moment, the first face of advisor slips and he looks simply like my father again.
“The first moment should be yours,” he says, lowering himself slightly so that we’re eye level. He moves the hair from my shoulders back, elongating my neck. His eyes catch briefly on the pin at my chest. “They’ll be watching. Let them see the woman you’ve become.”
When I nod, he steps back leaving me flanked by the two guards waiting for his signal. Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath my fingers smooth the satin at my waist, running over the delicate lines of silver holding me firm.
The doors open, light rushing toward me to set the edges of my dress in a muted fire and makes my hair come alive in the light. Music swells like a wave rising to meet me as well as every eye below me. As I step forward into the waiting hall, I whisper to no one but me, “Endure.”