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Chapter Two:
Sanctuary
Anwaiel was limp and still in her cloak, her heart beating slowly beneath her pale skin. Thus Faramir’s fear was not appeased, though the white city soon appeared before them, bright and beautiful across the Pelennor.
She was enveloped in a world of beautiful, ethereal white velvet, caressed on all sides by familiar warmth. She saw the folds billow out and reveal a platinum-haired, blue-eyed Silvan woman, a soft smile softening her exquisite features, the fabric revealed to be of her long dress. The woman bent and lifted the girl into her arms, holding her close – much like a mother would embrace her daughter.
“I love you, my little Ana…” the woman said, kissing her forehead gently, eyes bright and full of happy tears.
But then it began to fade, and instead of the face of Nimuiel, Anwaiel saw the face of a Gondorian man, one that she had only seen once before. She blinked, looking around as the white velvet disappeared, replaced by four white walls, and the unmistakable sounds of echoing stone. She was lying on a soft bed, and the Man was sitting in a chair beside her, saying her name softly as she regained full consciousness.
“Good to see you are awake, milady,” said the Man, smiling. “I forgot how fast Elves can heal. Had that arrow stayed in your arm much longer, you would not have been able to wield bow or sword for a long time. I am Faramir of Gondor, son of Denethor.”
Anwaiel looked up into his eyes, and was suddenly struck by how blue they were. Just like mother’s... she thought, remembering the images with more clarity than ever before.
She shook her head a little to clear it, then nodded. “Thank you for your help,” she said, inclining herself politely, then hesitating for a moment. “Did… Did any of the others survive?”
Faramir met her eyes for another moment, then lowered his gaze and shook his head sadly. “You were the only survivor we could find, Anwaiel,” he said.
Anwaiel closed her eyes against the pain of the news. “I have failed…” she said softly, feeling her eyes sting. She wrapped her arms around herself, head lowered in shame. “I have failed my lord and land… I have failed my father…”
Faramir reached out and patted her shoulder – but felt her recoil almost violently against it, curling into a ball on the other side of the bed. Faramir sat stunned, very worried and confused about her reaction to his simple touch.
Anwaiel, however, was anxious about something completely different. His touch had triggered long buried memories- that could destroy her if remembered in the heat of battle. They were gentle and beautiful, filling her heart with emotions she had not felt in Yéni. She had even forgotten what these feelings were called, much less, how they felt.
Anwaiel inhaled the cool air long and deep, gently tracing the water of the shallow cistern. Anor’s light glimmered and sparkled through the flowing crescent ripples dancing across the water’s surface. The stone beneath her side was firm and chilled, unlike the soft warmth of spring wafting around her. A settled heaviness weighed on her heart as she lay there, absorbing the whispering trees and tender blossoms nearby. The gardens of the Houses of Healing were open and lovely, unlike the dark cavernous halls in Mirkwood, and she found herself oddly grateful for the peace.
A young, timid voice broke the soft silence, calling to her a little louder than necessary for her sharp Elven ears. “Milady, Ioreth hath me fetch you. The Lord Faramir sent word of his visit at high noon.”
Disgruntled but calm, she rose to her feet and closed the fabric of her robe, meeting the awed eyes of a female orderly. She nodded in acknowledgement and willingly returned with Idhryn to the chamber she’d occupied since waking up several days earlier in Faramir’s presence. To her surprise, there was a mysterious folded bundle on her bed, which the woman revealed as a simple, tasteful dress and other essentials.
The Elf stared at it, disbelieving, showing no reaction until the intimidated Idhryn said sincerely, “I think they are nice, milady.”
Choking back her distaste, she nudged them into the woman’s arms. “I am grateful, but you may keep these. Where are my own clothes?”
Idhryn looked delighted. “Thank you, milady!” She dropped her arms, and dashed to the wardrobe to retrieve them. “Here they are.”
At noon, Ioreth returned to Anwaiel’s chambers to check on her recovery, under strict orders to meticulously care and provide for her in the Houses of Healing. Stunningly, she found her understudy at the patient’s side, helping to brush her hair since the elleth’s healed arm was still fairly weak. The old Healer entered the room, full of purpose, drawing their attention as she gestured erratically at the tunic, leggings, and boots Anwaiel wore. They were the clothes of Elven Mirkwood soldiers, perfectly tailored to fit under armor, and not usually seen on the female form. The fabric was colored in soft dark greens and browns, patterned in twisting leaves around the collar and cuffs.
“Idhryn, I leave you alone for two hours and – !”
“Dîn!” Anwaiel interrupted sharply. “I chose these over that accursed gown. I am a soldier, not a shrew to dress up.”
Ioreth shook her head weakly, and motioned to the door. “Lord Faramir awaits you in the entry.”
She nodded to the women and made her way to the main hall, halting as she saw the man standing beneath the door lintel. The entrance streamed with the bright sun behind him, turning his skin to gold and crowning his noble stature in a way that caught her breath. He smiled affably and cautiously walked toward her, almost expecting her to flee. Instead, she came forward, politely returning his greeting.
“You look well,” he said appreciatively, seeing her arm no longer was in its sling.
Anwaiel unconsciously flexed her arm and rubbed it near the elbow, wincing slightly. “It is healed, but weak. The arrow struck harder than I have seen before.”
A shadow flitted across his face as they met eyes knowingly. Hastily he raised his hand, and shook his head once. “Let these things rest from your mind. It wearies the heart and you have been shuttered with the sick longer than good. I came to take you into the City.”
“Had I stayed here further, I might have guessed myself a prisoner,” she said, unserious.
“No Eldar could stay caged within mortal walls.” He led her out of the door without another word, and lovingly gazed on the gleaming white stone magnificence of his home around them. “I give you Minas Tirith.”
They trekked to the topmost circle of the city and past guards of a great arching gate into the Citadel. The sun glowed freely on the smooth open Court of the Fountain, and the lofty White Tower rose three hundred feet above them to its pinnacle, where a white banner of the Stewards floated, caught high in the wind. Servants and commoners rushing by paid no heed to them, busy and unable to see Anwaiel’s ears beneath her lengthy golden hair. Faramir’s soothing, authoritative voice entangled her mindlessly into the wonder, though he sought to educate her on the surroundings.
In the court’s center, a charming fountain rippled gently in the afternoon sun, encircled by a swath of green, and overhung by a drooping dead tree of sorrowful beauty. For a brief moment, her spirit leapt in marvel to see a strain of Galathilion, the fabled image of Telperion and the darkened glory of Valinor. It was lost from sight as they entered the doors of an impressive edifice beneath the glinting tower, and emerged from a long paved passage into a great hall. Light streamed down through deep aisled windows at either side beyond the tall rows of colossal black pillars. Gold winked dully from various inlays, and between the columns, grave images stood silently, etched in rock for eternity.
His words faded at last among the echoes and pillars, his focus and destination shifting to the far end of the hall. Set there upon a dais of many steps was an empty high throne, which at the broad low foot, held a gracious stone chair, black and unadorned. Appropriately, an aged man sat there, his skin like ivory above his proud bones, a long curved nose between the deep shadowy eyes. Thin wrinkled hands tightly clutched a white rod topped with a golden knob while he keenly chattered to a man beside him. The other was a somewhat similar, but taller man with a handsome and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance.
The Men looked up at the pair, allowing Anwaiel to instantly see a familial resemblance between the three of them. Enthusiasm sparked in Faramir’s eyes, and he clapped the younger man of the two on the shoulder.
“Brother,” he said. “I have sought you the entire day. What occupied you so?”
His brother passed him a resigned glance, avoiding the face of the older Man. “I apologize for the unexpectedness. I had urgent meetings with Counselor Herion and Captain Eärnil concerning the Causeway reparations and Ithilien raid.”
Aggravation flickered in Faramir’s face as he turned toward the old man, but still addressing his brother. “I remember speaking of it several days ago; it seemed that it was my duty to fulfill.”
The older Man finally spoke, impatience in his voice. “I gave it to your brother instead. Recent circumstances call for promptness and responsibility in such a matter. I only trust your brother to correctly carry out and fully listen to my orders.”
“Indeed.” Clenching his teeth slightly, he firmly met his father’s eyes and pushed the matter aside. Rather, he urged the elleth to his side and noted her amicably. “Father, brother, this is the only survivor of the Elven Ithilien Raid: Captain Anwaiel of Mirkwood. Anwaiel, this is my father and Steward, Denethor, and my brother, Boromir, the Captain-General.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Denethor, Lord Boromir,” she said politely, nodding with a slight smile.
“I as well, milady,” Boromir replied, a smile of his own brightening his expression.
Denethor raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement and studied her strangely, not fully knowing what to think of her or say.
She promptly outstretched her hand to clasp Boromir’s in soldier fashion, but instead he grasped her palm, kissing the backside gently. Shocked and flushing with fluttery uneasiness, she withdrew her arm, practically yanking it from his hold. He lurched forward, but maintained his balance, enabling him to stand straight once more. For a moment he stared at her, until the misunderstanding dawned on him.
Clearly as embarrassed, Faramir glanced worriedly between the two, hoping that it would not end up a complete disaster. “Anwaiel, I can tell that many adventures have crossed your path. Perhaps you may share them with us one day.”
Discomposed, she uncomfortably nodded. “Yes, I shall.”
An awkward silence threatening to ensue, Boromir abruptly acted. “Milady, have you seen Minas Tirith yet?” She responded with a quiet “no”, and he smiled encouragingly. “We cannot have that, let us start now.”
Before she could answer, Faramir interrupted enthusiastically. “Intelligent idea. I can go with; I know several places with excellent views.”
The two brothers shuffled off with the surprised elleth between them, talking rapidly and excitedly as they went exited the hall, Denethor looking after them with displeasure.
In her mind, Anwaiel allowed herself a chuckle. These two are most certainly brothers.
Not much to say here, except we are writing like crazy andwe hope you all stay tuned for chapter three! It will be worth the wait, we promise.
Story Notes:
-Yéni: 144 years, a unit of time the Elves used.
-Anor: Elvish term for the sun
Sindarin translations:
Dîn: “Silence!”
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